Think not of pleasure, short and vain.Wherewith, 'mid days of toil and pain,With sick and sinking hearts ye striveTo cheat yourselves that ye may liveWith cold death ever close at hand;Think rather of a peaceful land,The changeless land where ye may beRoofed over by the changeful sea.
Think not of pleasure, short and vain.Wherewith, 'mid days of toil and pain,With sick and sinking hearts ye striveTo cheat yourselves that ye may liveWith cold death ever close at hand;Think rather of a peaceful land,The changeless land where ye may beRoofed over by the changeful sea.
And is the fair town nothing then,The coming of the wandering menWith that long talked of thing and strange,And news of how the kingdoms change;The pointed hands, and wonderingAt doers of a desperate thing?Push on, for surely this shall beAcross a narrow strip of sea.
And is the fair town nothing then,The coming of the wandering menWith that long talked of thing and strange,And news of how the kingdoms change;The pointed hands, and wonderingAt doers of a desperate thing?Push on, for surely this shall beAcross a narrow strip of sea.
Alas! poor souls and timorous,Will ye draw nigh to gaze at usAnd see if we are fair indeed,For such as we shall be your meed,There, where our hearts would have you go.And where can the earth-dwellers showIn any land such lovelinessAs that wherewith your eyes we bless,O wanderers of the Minyæ,Worn toilers over land and sea?
Alas! poor souls and timorous,Will ye draw nigh to gaze at usAnd see if we are fair indeed,For such as we shall be your meed,There, where our hearts would have you go.And where can the earth-dwellers showIn any land such lovelinessAs that wherewith your eyes we bless,O wanderers of the Minyæ,Worn toilers over land and sea?
Fair as the lightning thwart the sky,As sun-dyed snow upon the highUntrodden heaps of threatening stoneThe eagle looks upon alone,O fair as the doomed victim's wreath,O fair as deadly sleep and death,What will ye with them, earthly men,To mate your three-score years and ten?Toil rather, suffer and be free,Betwixt the green earth and the sea.
Fair as the lightning thwart the sky,As sun-dyed snow upon the highUntrodden heaps of threatening stoneThe eagle looks upon alone,O fair as the doomed victim's wreath,O fair as deadly sleep and death,What will ye with them, earthly men,To mate your three-score years and ten?Toil rather, suffer and be free,Betwixt the green earth and the sea.
If ye be bold with us to go,Things such as happy dreams may showShall your once heavy eyes beholdAbout our palaces of gold;Where waters 'neath the waters run,And from o'erhead a harmless sunGleams through the woods of chrysolite.There gardens fairer to the sightThan those of the Phæacian kingShall ye behold; and, wondering,Gaze on the sea-born fruit and flowers,And thornless and unchanging bowers,Whereof the May-time knoweth nought.So to the pillared house being brought,Poor souls, ye shall not be alone,For o'er the floors of pale blue stoneAll day such feet as ours shall pass,And, 'twixt the glimmering walls of glass,Such bodies garlanded with gold,So faint, so fair, shall ye behold,And clean forget the treacheryOf changing earth and tumbling sea.
If ye be bold with us to go,Things such as happy dreams may showShall your once heavy eyes beholdAbout our palaces of gold;Where waters 'neath the waters run,And from o'erhead a harmless sunGleams through the woods of chrysolite.There gardens fairer to the sightThan those of the Phæacian kingShall ye behold; and, wondering,Gaze on the sea-born fruit and flowers,And thornless and unchanging bowers,Whereof the May-time knoweth nought.So to the pillared house being brought,Poor souls, ye shall not be alone,For o'er the floors of pale blue stoneAll day such feet as ours shall pass,And, 'twixt the glimmering walls of glass,Such bodies garlanded with gold,So faint, so fair, shall ye behold,And clean forget the treacheryOf changing earth and tumbling sea.
O the sweet valley of deep grass,Where-through the summer stream doth pass,In chain of shallow, and still pool,From misty morn to evening cool;Where the black ivy creeps and twinesO'er the dark-armed, red-trunkèd pines,Whence clattering the pigeon flits,Or, brooding o'er her thin eggs, sits,And every hollow of the hillsWith echoing song the mavis fills.There by the stream, all unafraid,Shall stand the happy shepherd maid,Alone in first of sunlit hours;Behind her, on the dewy flowers,Her homespun woollen raiment lies,And her white limbs and sweet grey eyesShine from the calm green pool and deep,While round about the swallows sweep,Not silent; and would God that we,Like them, were landed from the sea.
O the sweet valley of deep grass,Where-through the summer stream doth pass,In chain of shallow, and still pool,From misty morn to evening cool;Where the black ivy creeps and twinesO'er the dark-armed, red-trunkèd pines,Whence clattering the pigeon flits,Or, brooding o'er her thin eggs, sits,And every hollow of the hillsWith echoing song the mavis fills.There by the stream, all unafraid,Shall stand the happy shepherd maid,Alone in first of sunlit hours;Behind her, on the dewy flowers,Her homespun woollen raiment lies,And her white limbs and sweet grey eyesShine from the calm green pool and deep,While round about the swallows sweep,Not silent; and would God that we,Like them, were landed from the sea.
Shall we not rise with you at night,Up through the shimmering green twilight,That maketh there our changeless day,Then going through the moonlight grey,Shall we not sit upon these sands,To think upon the troublous landsLong left behind, where once ye were,When every day brought change and fear?There, with white arms about you twined,And shuddering somewhat at the windThat ye rejoiced erewhile to meet,Be happy, while old stories sweet,Half understood, float round your ears,And fill your eyes with happy tears.Ah! while we sing unto you there,As now we sing, with yellow hairBlown round about these pearly limbs,While underneath the grey sky swimsThe light shell-sailor of the waves,And to our song, from sea-filled cavesBooms out an echoing harmony,Shall ye not love the peaceful sea?
Shall we not rise with you at night,Up through the shimmering green twilight,That maketh there our changeless day,Then going through the moonlight grey,Shall we not sit upon these sands,To think upon the troublous landsLong left behind, where once ye were,When every day brought change and fear?There, with white arms about you twined,And shuddering somewhat at the windThat ye rejoiced erewhile to meet,Be happy, while old stories sweet,Half understood, float round your ears,And fill your eyes with happy tears.Ah! while we sing unto you there,As now we sing, with yellow hairBlown round about these pearly limbs,While underneath the grey sky swimsThe light shell-sailor of the waves,And to our song, from sea-filled cavesBooms out an echoing harmony,Shall ye not love the peaceful sea?
Nigh the vine-covered hillocks green,In days agone, have I not seenThe brown-clad maidens amorous,Below the long rose-trellised house,Dance to the querulous pipe and shrill,When the grey shadow of the hillWas lengthening at the end of day?Not shadowy nor pale were they,But limbed like those who 'twixt the trees,Follow the swift of Goddesses.Sunburnt they are somewhat, indeed,To where the rough brown woollen weedIs drawn across their bosoms sweet,Or cast from off their dancing feet;But yet the stars, the moonlight grey,The water wan, the dawn of day,Can see their bodies fair and whiteAs Hers, who once, for man's delight,Before the world grew hard and old,Came o'er the bitter sea and cold;And surely those that met me there,Her handmaidens and subjects were;And shame-faced, half-repressed desireHad lit their glorious eyes with fire,That maddens eager hearts of men.O would that I were with them whenThe new-risen moon is gathering light,And yellow from the homestead whiteThe windows gleam; but verilyThis waits us o'er a little sea.
Nigh the vine-covered hillocks green,In days agone, have I not seenThe brown-clad maidens amorous,Below the long rose-trellised house,Dance to the querulous pipe and shrill,When the grey shadow of the hillWas lengthening at the end of day?Not shadowy nor pale were they,But limbed like those who 'twixt the trees,Follow the swift of Goddesses.Sunburnt they are somewhat, indeed,To where the rough brown woollen weedIs drawn across their bosoms sweet,Or cast from off their dancing feet;But yet the stars, the moonlight grey,The water wan, the dawn of day,Can see their bodies fair and whiteAs Hers, who once, for man's delight,Before the world grew hard and old,Came o'er the bitter sea and cold;And surely those that met me there,Her handmaidens and subjects were;And shame-faced, half-repressed desireHad lit their glorious eyes with fire,That maddens eager hearts of men.O would that I were with them whenThe new-risen moon is gathering light,And yellow from the homestead whiteThe windows gleam; but verilyThis waits us o'er a little sea.
Come to the land where none grows old,And none is rash or over-bold,Nor any noise there is nor war,Nor rumour from wild lands afar,Nor plagues, nor birth and death of kings;No vain desire of unknown thingsShall vex you there, no hope or fearOf that which never draweth near;But in that lovely land and stillYe may remember what ye will,And what ye will, forget for aye.So while the kingdoms pass away,Ye sea-beat hardened toilers erst,Unresting, for vain fame athirst,Shall be at peace for evermore,With hearts fulfilled of Godlike lore,And calm, unwavering Godlike love,No lapse of time can turn or move.There, ages after your fair FleeceIs clean forgotten, yea, and GreeceIs no more counted glorious,Alone with us, alone with us,Alone with us, dwell happily,Beneath our trembling roof of sea.
Come to the land where none grows old,And none is rash or over-bold,Nor any noise there is nor war,Nor rumour from wild lands afar,Nor plagues, nor birth and death of kings;No vain desire of unknown thingsShall vex you there, no hope or fearOf that which never draweth near;But in that lovely land and stillYe may remember what ye will,And what ye will, forget for aye.So while the kingdoms pass away,Ye sea-beat hardened toilers erst,Unresting, for vain fame athirst,Shall be at peace for evermore,With hearts fulfilled of Godlike lore,And calm, unwavering Godlike love,No lapse of time can turn or move.There, ages after your fair FleeceIs clean forgotten, yea, and GreeceIs no more counted glorious,Alone with us, alone with us,Alone with us, dwell happily,Beneath our trembling roof of sea.
Ah! do ye weary of the strifeAnd long to change this eager lifeFor shadowy and dull hopelessness,Thinking indeed to gain no lessThan far from this grey light to lie,And there to die and not to die,To be as if ye ne'er had been,Yet keep your memory fresh and green,To have no thought of good or ill,Yet feed your fill or pleasure still?O idle dream! Ah, verilyIf it shall happen unto meThat I have thought of anything,When o'er my bones the sea-fowl sing,And I lie dead, how shall I pineFor those fresh joys that once were mine,On this green fount of joy and mirth,The ever young and glorious earth;Then, helpless, shall I call to mindThoughts of the sweet flower-scented wind,The dew, the gentle rain at night,The wonder-working snow and white.The song of birds, the water's fall,The sun that maketh bliss of all;Yea, this our toil and victory,The tyrannous and conquered sea.
Ah! do ye weary of the strifeAnd long to change this eager lifeFor shadowy and dull hopelessness,Thinking indeed to gain no lessThan far from this grey light to lie,And there to die and not to die,To be as if ye ne'er had been,Yet keep your memory fresh and green,To have no thought of good or ill,Yet feed your fill or pleasure still?O idle dream! Ah, verilyIf it shall happen unto meThat I have thought of anything,When o'er my bones the sea-fowl sing,And I lie dead, how shall I pineFor those fresh joys that once were mine,On this green fount of joy and mirth,The ever young and glorious earth;Then, helpless, shall I call to mindThoughts of the sweet flower-scented wind,The dew, the gentle rain at night,The wonder-working snow and white.The song of birds, the water's fall,The sun that maketh bliss of all;Yea, this our toil and victory,The tyrannous and conquered sea.
Ah, will ye go, and whither thenWill ye go from us, soon to die,To fill your three-score years and ten,With many an unnamed misery?And this the wretchedest of all,That when upon your lonely eyesThe last faint heaviness shall fallYe shall bethink you of our cries.Come back, nor grown old, seek in vainTo hear us sing across the sea.Come back, come back, come back again,Come back, O fearful Minyæ!
Ah, will ye go, and whither thenWill ye go from us, soon to die,To fill your three-score years and ten,With many an unnamed misery?And this the wretchedest of all,That when upon your lonely eyesThe last faint heaviness shall fallYe shall bethink you of our cries.Come back, nor grown old, seek in vainTo hear us sing across the sea.Come back, come back, come back again,Come back, O fearful Minyæ!
Ah, once again, ah, once again,The black prow plunges through the sea,Nor yet shall all your toil be vain,Nor yet forgot, O Minyæ.In such wise sang the Thracian, in such wiseOut gushed the Sirens' deadly melodies;But long before the mingled song was done,Back to the oars the Minyæ, one by one,Slunk silently; though many an one sighed sore,As his strong fingers met the wood once more,And from his breast the toilsome breathing came.But as they laboured, some for very shameHung down their heads, and yet amongst them someGazed at the place whence that sweet song had come;But round the oars and Argo's shielded sideThe sea grew white, and she began to glideSwift through the waters of that deadly bay;But when a long wake now behind her lay,And still the whistle of the wind increased,Past shroud and mast, and all the song had ceased,Butes rose up, the fair Athenian man,And with wild eyes betwixt the rowers ranUnto the poop and leapt into the sea;Then all men rested on their oars, but heRose to the top, and towards the shore swam fast;While all eyes watched him, who had well-nigh pastThe place where sand and water 'gan to meetIn wreaths and ripples round the ivory feet,When sun-burnt swimmer, snow-white glancing limb,And yellow sand unto their eyes grew dim,Nor did they see their fellow any more.But when they once again beheld the shoreThe wind sung o'er the empty beach and bare,And by the cliff uprose into the airA delicate and glittering little cloud,That seemed some many-coloured sun to shroud;But as the rugged cliff it drew aboveThe wondering Minyæ beheld it moveWestward, toward Lilybæum and the sun.Then once more was their seaward course begun,And soon those deadly sands were far astern,Nor ever after could the heroes learnIf Butes lived or died; but old tales tellThat while the tumbling waves he breasted well,Venus beheld him, as unseen she drewFrom sunny Cyprus to the headland blueOf Lilybæum, where her temple is;She, with a mind his sun-burnt brows to kiss,E'en as his feet were dropping nigh the beach,And ere his hand the deadly hands could reach,Stooped, as the merlin stoops upon the dove,And snatched him thence to be awhile her love,Betwixt the golden pillars of her shrine,That those who pass the Ægades see shineFrom high-raised Lilybæum o'er the sea.But far away the sea-beat MinyæCast forth the foam, as through the growing nightThey laboured ever, having small delightIn life all empty of that promised bliss,In love that scarce can give a dying kiss,In pleasure ending sweet songs with a wail,In fame that little can dead men avail,In vain toil struggling with the fateful stream,In hope, the promise of a morning dream.Yet as night died, and the cold sea and greySeemed running with them toward the dawn of day,Needs must they once again forget their death,Needs must they, being alive and drawing breath,As men who of no other life can knowIn their own minds again immortal grow.But toward the south a little now they bent,And for a while o'er landless sea they went,But on the third day made another landAt dawn of day, and thitherward did stand;And since the wind blew lightly from the shore,Somewhat abeam, they feared not with the oarTo push across the shallowing sea and green,That washed a land the fairest they had seen,Whose shell-strewn beach at highest of the tide'Twixt sea and flowery shore was nowise wide,And drawn a little backward from the seaThere stood a marble wall wrought cunningly,Rosy and white, set thick with images,And over-topped with heavy-fruited trees,Which by the shore ran, as the bay did bend,And to their eyes had neither gap nor end;Nor any gate: and looking over this,They saw a place not made for earthly bliss,Or eyes of dying men, for growing thereThe yellow apple and the painted pear,And well-filled golden cups of orangesHung amid groves of pointed cypress trees;On grassy slopes the twining vine-boughs grew,And hoary olives 'twixt far mountains blue,And many-coloured flowers, like as a cloudThe rugged southern cliffs did softly shroud;And many a green-necked bird sung to his mateWithin the slim-leaved, thorny pomegranate,That flung its unstrung rubies on the grass,And slowly o'er the place the wind did passHeavy with many odours that it boreFrom thymy hills down to the sea-beat shore,Because no flower there is, that all the year,From spring to autumn, beareth otherwhere,But there it flourished; nor the fruit aloneFrom 'twixt the green leaves and the boughs outshone,For there each tree was ever flowering.Nor was there lacking many a living thingChanged of its nature; for the roebuck thereWalked fearless with the tiger; and the bearRolled sleepily upon the fruit-strawn grass,Letting the conies o'er his rough hide pass,With blinking eyes, that meant no treachery.Careless the partridge passed the red fox by;Untouched the serpent left the thrushes brown,And as a picture was the lion's frown.But in the midst there was a grassy space,Raised somewhat over all the flowery place,On marble terrace-walls wrought like a dream;And round about it ran a clear blue stream,Bridged o'er with marble steps, and midmost thereGrew a green tree, whose smooth grey boughs did bearSuch fruit as never man elsewhere had seen,For 'twixt the sunlight and the shadow greenShone out fair apples of red gleaming gold.Moreover round the tree, in many a fold,Lay coiled a dragon, glittering little lessThan that which his eternal watchfulnessWas set to guard; nor yet was he alone,For from the daisied grass about him shoneGold raiment wrapping round two damsels fair,And one upon the steps combed out her hair,And with shut eyes sung low as in a dream;And one stood naked in the cold blue stream,While on the bank her golden raiment lay;But on that noontide of the quivering day,She only, hearing the seafarers' shout,Her lovely golden head had turned about,And seen their white sail flapping o'er the wall,And as she turned had let her tresses fall,Which the thin water rippling round her kneeBore outward from her toward the restless sea.Not long she stood, but looking seaward yet,From out the water made good haste to get,And catching up her raiment hastily,Ran up the marble stair, and 'gan to cry:"Wake, O my sisters, wake, for now are comeThe thieves of Æa to our peaceful home."Then at her voice they gat them to their feet,And when her raiment all her body sweetOnce more had hidden, joining hand to hand,About the sacred apples did they stand,While coiled the dragon closer to the tree,And raised his head above them threateningly.Meanwhile, from Argo many a sea-beat faceGazed longingly upon that lovely place,And some their eager hands already laidUpon the gangway. Then Medea said:—"Get back unto the oars, O Minyæ,Nor loiter here, for what have such as weTo do herein, where, 'mid undying trees,Undying watch the wise Hesperides,And where the while they watch, scarce can a GodSet foot upon the fruit-besprinkled sodThat no snow ever covers? therefore haste,Nor yet in wondering your fair lives waste;For these are as the Gods, nor think of us,Nor to their eyes can aught be gloriousThat son of man can do; would God that ICould see far off the misty headland lie,Where we the guilt of blood shall wash away,For I grow weary of the dashing spray,And ceaseless roll of interwoven seas,And fain were sitting 'neath the whispering treesIn homely places, where the children play,Who change like me, grow old, and die some day."She ceased, and little soothly did they grieve,For all its loveliness, that land to leave,For now some God had chilled their hardihead,And in their hearts had set a sacred dread,They knew not why; but on their oars they hung,A little longer as the sisters sung."O ye, who to this place have strayed,That never for man's eyes was made,Depart in haste, as ye have come,And bear back to your sea-beat homeThis memory of the age of gold,And for your eyes, grown over-bold,Your hearts shall pay in sorrowing,For want of many a half-seen thing."Lo, such as is this garden green,In days past, all the world has been,And what we know all people knew,Save this, that unto worse all grew."But since the golden age is gone,This little place is left alone,Unchanged, unchanging, watched of us,The daughters of wise Hesperus."Surely the heavenly MessengerFull oft is fain to enter here,And yet without must he abide;Nor longeth less the dark king's brideTo set red lips unto that fruitThat erst made nought her mother's suit.Here would Diana rest awhile,Forgetful of her woodland guile,Among these beasts that fear her nought.Nor is it less in Pallas' thought,Beneath our trees to ponder o'erThe wide, unfathomed sea of lore;And oft-kissed Citheræa, no lessWeary of love, full fain would pressThese flowers with soft unsandalled feet."But unto us our rest is sweet,Neither shall any man or GodOr lovely Goddess touch the sodWhere-under old times buried lie,Before the world knew misery.Nor will we have a slave or king,Nor yet will we learn anythingBut that we know, that makes us glad;While oft the very Gods are sadWith knowing what the Fates shall do."Neither from us shall wisdom goTo fill the hungering hearts of men,Lest to them threescore years and tenCome but to seem a little day,Once given, and taken soon away.Nay, rather let them find their lifeBitter and sweet, fulfilled of strife,Restless with hope, vain with regret,Trembling with fear, most strangely set'Twixt memory and forgetfulness;So more shall joy be, troubles less,And surely when all this is past,They shall not want their rest at last."Let earth and heaven go on their way,While still we watch from day to day,In this green place left all alone,A remnant of the days long gone."There in the wind they hung, as word by wordThe clear-voiced singers silently they heard;But when the air was barren of their song,Anigh the shore they durst not linger long,So northward turned forewearied Argo's head,And dipping oars, from that fair country sped,Fulfilled of new desires and pensive thought,Which that day's life unto their hearts had brought.Then hard they toiled upon the bitter sea,And in two days they did not fail to beIn sight of land, a headland high and blueWhich straight Milesian Erginus knewTo be the fateful place which now they sought,Stormy Malea, so thitherward they broughtThe groaning ship, and, casting anchor, layBeneath that headland's lee, within a bay,Wherefrom the more part landed, and their feetOnce more the happy soil of Greece did meet.Therewith they failèd not to bring ashoreRich robes of price and of fair arms good store,And gold and silver, that they there might buyWhat yet they lacked for their solemnity;Then, while upon the highest point of landSome built an altar, Jason, with a bandOf all the chiefest of the Minyæ,Turned inland from the murmur of the sea.Not far they went ere by a little streamDown in a valley they could see the gleamOf brazen pillars and fair-gilded vanes,And, dropping down by dank dark-wooded lanesFrom off the hill-side, reached a house at lastWhere in and out men-slaves and women passed,And guests were streaming fast into the hall,Where now the oaken boards were laid for all.With these the Minyæ went, and soon they wereWithin a pillared hall both great and fair,Where folk already sat beside the board,And on the dais was an ancient lord.But when these saw the fearless MinyæGlittering in arms, they sprang up hastily,And each man turned about unto the wallTo seize his spear or staff: then through the hallJason cried out: "Laconians, fear ye not,Nor leave the flesh-meat while it reeketh hotFor dread of us, for we are men as ye,And I am Jason of the Minyæ,And come from Æa to the land of Greece,And in my ship bear back the Golden Fleece,And a fair Colchian queen to fill my bed.And now we pray to share your wine and bread,And other things we need, and at our handsThat ye will take fair things of many lands.""Sirs," said the ancient lord, "be welcome here,Come up and sit by me, and make such cheerAs here ye can: glad am I that to meThe first of Grecian men from off the seaYe now are come."Therewith the great hall rangWith joyful shouts, and as, with clash and clangOf well-wrought arms, up to the dais they went,All eyes upon the Minyæ were bent,Nor could they have enough of wonderingAt this or that sea-tossed victorious king.So with the strangers there they held high feast,And afterwards the slaves drove many a beastDown to the shore, and carried back againGreat store of precious things in pack and wain;Wrought gold and silver, gems, full many a baleOf scarlet cloth, and fine silk, fit to veilThe perfect limbs of dreaded Goddesses;Spices fresh-gathered from the outland trees,And arms well-wrought, and precious scarce-known wine,And carven images well-nigh divine.So when all folk with these were satisfied,Back went the Minyæ to the water-side,And with them that old lord, fain to beholdVictorious Argo and the Fleece of Gold.And so aboard amid the oars he layThroughout the night, and at the dawn of dayDid all men land, nor spared that day to wearThe best of all they had of gold-wrought gear,And every one, being crowned with olive grey,Up to the headland did they take their way,Where now already stood the crownèd priestsAbout the altars by the gilt-horned beasts.There, as the fair sun rose, did Jason breakOver the altar the thin barley-cake,And cast the salt abroad, and there were slainThe milk-white bulls, and there red wine did rainOn to the fire from out the ancient jar,And high rose up the red flame, seen afarFrom many another headland of that shore:But over all its crackling and its roarUprose from time to time a joyous song,That on the summer morning lay for long,The mighty voices of the MinyæExulting o'er the tossing conquered sea,That far below thrust on by tide and windThe crumbling bases of the headland mined.
Ah, once again, ah, once again,The black prow plunges through the sea,Nor yet shall all your toil be vain,Nor yet forgot, O Minyæ.In such wise sang the Thracian, in such wiseOut gushed the Sirens' deadly melodies;But long before the mingled song was done,Back to the oars the Minyæ, one by one,Slunk silently; though many an one sighed sore,As his strong fingers met the wood once more,And from his breast the toilsome breathing came.But as they laboured, some for very shameHung down their heads, and yet amongst them someGazed at the place whence that sweet song had come;But round the oars and Argo's shielded sideThe sea grew white, and she began to glideSwift through the waters of that deadly bay;But when a long wake now behind her lay,And still the whistle of the wind increased,Past shroud and mast, and all the song had ceased,Butes rose up, the fair Athenian man,And with wild eyes betwixt the rowers ranUnto the poop and leapt into the sea;Then all men rested on their oars, but heRose to the top, and towards the shore swam fast;While all eyes watched him, who had well-nigh pastThe place where sand and water 'gan to meetIn wreaths and ripples round the ivory feet,When sun-burnt swimmer, snow-white glancing limb,And yellow sand unto their eyes grew dim,Nor did they see their fellow any more.But when they once again beheld the shoreThe wind sung o'er the empty beach and bare,And by the cliff uprose into the airA delicate and glittering little cloud,That seemed some many-coloured sun to shroud;But as the rugged cliff it drew aboveThe wondering Minyæ beheld it moveWestward, toward Lilybæum and the sun.Then once more was their seaward course begun,And soon those deadly sands were far astern,Nor ever after could the heroes learnIf Butes lived or died; but old tales tellThat while the tumbling waves he breasted well,Venus beheld him, as unseen she drewFrom sunny Cyprus to the headland blueOf Lilybæum, where her temple is;She, with a mind his sun-burnt brows to kiss,E'en as his feet were dropping nigh the beach,And ere his hand the deadly hands could reach,Stooped, as the merlin stoops upon the dove,And snatched him thence to be awhile her love,Betwixt the golden pillars of her shrine,That those who pass the Ægades see shineFrom high-raised Lilybæum o'er the sea.But far away the sea-beat MinyæCast forth the foam, as through the growing nightThey laboured ever, having small delightIn life all empty of that promised bliss,In love that scarce can give a dying kiss,In pleasure ending sweet songs with a wail,In fame that little can dead men avail,In vain toil struggling with the fateful stream,In hope, the promise of a morning dream.Yet as night died, and the cold sea and greySeemed running with them toward the dawn of day,Needs must they once again forget their death,Needs must they, being alive and drawing breath,As men who of no other life can knowIn their own minds again immortal grow.But toward the south a little now they bent,And for a while o'er landless sea they went,But on the third day made another landAt dawn of day, and thitherward did stand;And since the wind blew lightly from the shore,Somewhat abeam, they feared not with the oarTo push across the shallowing sea and green,That washed a land the fairest they had seen,Whose shell-strewn beach at highest of the tide'Twixt sea and flowery shore was nowise wide,And drawn a little backward from the seaThere stood a marble wall wrought cunningly,Rosy and white, set thick with images,And over-topped with heavy-fruited trees,Which by the shore ran, as the bay did bend,And to their eyes had neither gap nor end;Nor any gate: and looking over this,They saw a place not made for earthly bliss,Or eyes of dying men, for growing thereThe yellow apple and the painted pear,And well-filled golden cups of orangesHung amid groves of pointed cypress trees;On grassy slopes the twining vine-boughs grew,And hoary olives 'twixt far mountains blue,And many-coloured flowers, like as a cloudThe rugged southern cliffs did softly shroud;And many a green-necked bird sung to his mateWithin the slim-leaved, thorny pomegranate,That flung its unstrung rubies on the grass,And slowly o'er the place the wind did passHeavy with many odours that it boreFrom thymy hills down to the sea-beat shore,Because no flower there is, that all the year,From spring to autumn, beareth otherwhere,But there it flourished; nor the fruit aloneFrom 'twixt the green leaves and the boughs outshone,For there each tree was ever flowering.Nor was there lacking many a living thingChanged of its nature; for the roebuck thereWalked fearless with the tiger; and the bearRolled sleepily upon the fruit-strawn grass,Letting the conies o'er his rough hide pass,With blinking eyes, that meant no treachery.Careless the partridge passed the red fox by;Untouched the serpent left the thrushes brown,And as a picture was the lion's frown.But in the midst there was a grassy space,Raised somewhat over all the flowery place,On marble terrace-walls wrought like a dream;And round about it ran a clear blue stream,Bridged o'er with marble steps, and midmost thereGrew a green tree, whose smooth grey boughs did bearSuch fruit as never man elsewhere had seen,For 'twixt the sunlight and the shadow greenShone out fair apples of red gleaming gold.Moreover round the tree, in many a fold,Lay coiled a dragon, glittering little lessThan that which his eternal watchfulnessWas set to guard; nor yet was he alone,For from the daisied grass about him shoneGold raiment wrapping round two damsels fair,And one upon the steps combed out her hair,And with shut eyes sung low as in a dream;And one stood naked in the cold blue stream,While on the bank her golden raiment lay;But on that noontide of the quivering day,She only, hearing the seafarers' shout,Her lovely golden head had turned about,And seen their white sail flapping o'er the wall,And as she turned had let her tresses fall,Which the thin water rippling round her kneeBore outward from her toward the restless sea.Not long she stood, but looking seaward yet,From out the water made good haste to get,And catching up her raiment hastily,Ran up the marble stair, and 'gan to cry:"Wake, O my sisters, wake, for now are comeThe thieves of Æa to our peaceful home."Then at her voice they gat them to their feet,And when her raiment all her body sweetOnce more had hidden, joining hand to hand,About the sacred apples did they stand,While coiled the dragon closer to the tree,And raised his head above them threateningly.Meanwhile, from Argo many a sea-beat faceGazed longingly upon that lovely place,And some their eager hands already laidUpon the gangway. Then Medea said:—"Get back unto the oars, O Minyæ,Nor loiter here, for what have such as weTo do herein, where, 'mid undying trees,Undying watch the wise Hesperides,And where the while they watch, scarce can a GodSet foot upon the fruit-besprinkled sodThat no snow ever covers? therefore haste,Nor yet in wondering your fair lives waste;For these are as the Gods, nor think of us,Nor to their eyes can aught be gloriousThat son of man can do; would God that ICould see far off the misty headland lie,Where we the guilt of blood shall wash away,For I grow weary of the dashing spray,And ceaseless roll of interwoven seas,And fain were sitting 'neath the whispering treesIn homely places, where the children play,Who change like me, grow old, and die some day."She ceased, and little soothly did they grieve,For all its loveliness, that land to leave,For now some God had chilled their hardihead,And in their hearts had set a sacred dread,They knew not why; but on their oars they hung,A little longer as the sisters sung."O ye, who to this place have strayed,That never for man's eyes was made,Depart in haste, as ye have come,And bear back to your sea-beat homeThis memory of the age of gold,And for your eyes, grown over-bold,Your hearts shall pay in sorrowing,For want of many a half-seen thing."Lo, such as is this garden green,In days past, all the world has been,And what we know all people knew,Save this, that unto worse all grew."But since the golden age is gone,This little place is left alone,Unchanged, unchanging, watched of us,The daughters of wise Hesperus."Surely the heavenly MessengerFull oft is fain to enter here,And yet without must he abide;Nor longeth less the dark king's brideTo set red lips unto that fruitThat erst made nought her mother's suit.Here would Diana rest awhile,Forgetful of her woodland guile,Among these beasts that fear her nought.Nor is it less in Pallas' thought,Beneath our trees to ponder o'erThe wide, unfathomed sea of lore;And oft-kissed Citheræa, no lessWeary of love, full fain would pressThese flowers with soft unsandalled feet."But unto us our rest is sweet,Neither shall any man or GodOr lovely Goddess touch the sodWhere-under old times buried lie,Before the world knew misery.Nor will we have a slave or king,Nor yet will we learn anythingBut that we know, that makes us glad;While oft the very Gods are sadWith knowing what the Fates shall do."Neither from us shall wisdom goTo fill the hungering hearts of men,Lest to them threescore years and tenCome but to seem a little day,Once given, and taken soon away.Nay, rather let them find their lifeBitter and sweet, fulfilled of strife,Restless with hope, vain with regret,Trembling with fear, most strangely set'Twixt memory and forgetfulness;So more shall joy be, troubles less,And surely when all this is past,They shall not want their rest at last."Let earth and heaven go on their way,While still we watch from day to day,In this green place left all alone,A remnant of the days long gone."There in the wind they hung, as word by wordThe clear-voiced singers silently they heard;But when the air was barren of their song,Anigh the shore they durst not linger long,So northward turned forewearied Argo's head,And dipping oars, from that fair country sped,Fulfilled of new desires and pensive thought,Which that day's life unto their hearts had brought.Then hard they toiled upon the bitter sea,And in two days they did not fail to beIn sight of land, a headland high and blueWhich straight Milesian Erginus knewTo be the fateful place which now they sought,Stormy Malea, so thitherward they broughtThe groaning ship, and, casting anchor, layBeneath that headland's lee, within a bay,Wherefrom the more part landed, and their feetOnce more the happy soil of Greece did meet.Therewith they failèd not to bring ashoreRich robes of price and of fair arms good store,And gold and silver, that they there might buyWhat yet they lacked for their solemnity;Then, while upon the highest point of landSome built an altar, Jason, with a bandOf all the chiefest of the Minyæ,Turned inland from the murmur of the sea.Not far they went ere by a little streamDown in a valley they could see the gleamOf brazen pillars and fair-gilded vanes,And, dropping down by dank dark-wooded lanesFrom off the hill-side, reached a house at lastWhere in and out men-slaves and women passed,And guests were streaming fast into the hall,Where now the oaken boards were laid for all.With these the Minyæ went, and soon they wereWithin a pillared hall both great and fair,Where folk already sat beside the board,And on the dais was an ancient lord.But when these saw the fearless MinyæGlittering in arms, they sprang up hastily,And each man turned about unto the wallTo seize his spear or staff: then through the hallJason cried out: "Laconians, fear ye not,Nor leave the flesh-meat while it reeketh hotFor dread of us, for we are men as ye,And I am Jason of the Minyæ,And come from Æa to the land of Greece,And in my ship bear back the Golden Fleece,And a fair Colchian queen to fill my bed.And now we pray to share your wine and bread,And other things we need, and at our handsThat ye will take fair things of many lands.""Sirs," said the ancient lord, "be welcome here,Come up and sit by me, and make such cheerAs here ye can: glad am I that to meThe first of Grecian men from off the seaYe now are come."Therewith the great hall rangWith joyful shouts, and as, with clash and clangOf well-wrought arms, up to the dais they went,All eyes upon the Minyæ were bent,Nor could they have enough of wonderingAt this or that sea-tossed victorious king.So with the strangers there they held high feast,And afterwards the slaves drove many a beastDown to the shore, and carried back againGreat store of precious things in pack and wain;Wrought gold and silver, gems, full many a baleOf scarlet cloth, and fine silk, fit to veilThe perfect limbs of dreaded Goddesses;Spices fresh-gathered from the outland trees,And arms well-wrought, and precious scarce-known wine,And carven images well-nigh divine.So when all folk with these were satisfied,Back went the Minyæ to the water-side,And with them that old lord, fain to beholdVictorious Argo and the Fleece of Gold.And so aboard amid the oars he layThroughout the night, and at the dawn of dayDid all men land, nor spared that day to wearThe best of all they had of gold-wrought gear,And every one, being crowned with olive grey,Up to the headland did they take their way,Where now already stood the crownèd priestsAbout the altars by the gilt-horned beasts.There, as the fair sun rose, did Jason breakOver the altar the thin barley-cake,And cast the salt abroad, and there were slainThe milk-white bulls, and there red wine did rainOn to the fire from out the ancient jar,And high rose up the red flame, seen afarFrom many another headland of that shore:But over all its crackling and its roarUprose from time to time a joyous song,That on the summer morning lay for long,The mighty voices of the MinyæExulting o'er the tossing conquered sea,That far below thrust on by tide and windThe crumbling bases of the headland mined.
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,I cannot ease the burden of your fears,Or make quick-coming death a little thing,Or bring again the pleasure of past years,Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,Or hope again for aught that I can say,The idle singer of an empty day.But rather, when aweary of your mirth,From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,Grudge every minute as it passes by,Made the more mindful that the sweet days die——Remember me a little then I pray,The idle singer of an empty day.The heavy trouble, the bewildering careThat weighs us down who live and earn our bread,These idle verses have no power to bear;So let me sing of names remembered,Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead,Or long time take their memory quite awayFrom us poor singers of an empty day.Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhymeBeats with light wing against the ivory gate,Telling a tale not too importunateTo those who in the sleepy region stay,Lulled by the singer of an empty day.Folk say, a wizard to a northern kingAt Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,That through one window men beheld the spring,And through another saw the summer glow,And through a third the fruited vines a-row,While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,Piped the drear wind of that December day.So with this Earthly Paradise it is,If ye will read aright, and pardon me,Who strive to build a shadowy isle of blissMidmost the beating of the steely sea,Where tossed about all hearts of men must be:Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,Not the poor singer of an empty day.
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,I cannot ease the burden of your fears,Or make quick-coming death a little thing,Or bring again the pleasure of past years,Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,Or hope again for aught that I can say,The idle singer of an empty day.But rather, when aweary of your mirth,From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,Grudge every minute as it passes by,Made the more mindful that the sweet days die——Remember me a little then I pray,The idle singer of an empty day.The heavy trouble, the bewildering careThat weighs us down who live and earn our bread,These idle verses have no power to bear;So let me sing of names remembered,Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead,Or long time take their memory quite awayFrom us poor singers of an empty day.Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhymeBeats with light wing against the ivory gate,Telling a tale not too importunateTo those who in the sleepy region stay,Lulled by the singer of an empty day.Folk say, a wizard to a northern kingAt Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,That through one window men beheld the spring,And through another saw the summer glow,And through a third the fruited vines a-row,While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,Piped the drear wind of that December day.So with this Earthly Paradise it is,If ye will read aright, and pardon me,Who strive to build a shadowy isle of blissMidmost the beating of the steely sea,Where tossed about all hearts of men must be:Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,Not the poor singer of an empty day.
Certain gentlemen and mariners of Norway, having considered all that they had heard of the Earthly Paradise, set sail to find it, and after many troubles and the lapse of many years came old men to some Western land, of which they had never before heard: there they died, when they had dwelt there certain years, much honoured of the strange people.
Forget six counties overhung with smoke,Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke,Forget the spreading of the hideous town;Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,And dream of London, small, and white, and clean,The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green;Think, that below bridge the green lapping wavesSmite some few keels that bear Levantine staves,Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill,And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill,And treasured scanty spice from some far sea,Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery,And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne;While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's penMoves over bills of lading—mid such timesShall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.A nameless city in a distant sea,White as the changing walls of faërie,Thronged with much people clad in ancient guiseI now am fain to set before your eyes;There, leave the clear green water and the quays,And pass betwixt its marble palaces,Until ye come unto the chiefest square;A bubbling conduit is set midmost there,And round about it now the maidens throng,With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song,Making but light of labour new begunWhile in their vessels gleams the morning sun.On one side of the square a temple stands,Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient landsStill have their altars, a great market-placeUpon two other sides fills all the space,And thence the busy hum of men comes forth;But on the cold side looking toward the northA pillared council-house may you behold,Within whose porch are images of gold,Gods of the nations who dwelt ancientlyAbout the borders of the Grecian sea.Pass now between them, push the brazen door,And standing on the polished marble floorLeave all the noises of the square behind;Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find,Silent at first, but for the noise you madeWhen on the brazen door your hand you laidTo shut it after you—but now beholdThe city rulers on their thrones of gold,Clad in most fair attire, and in their handsLong carven silver-banded ebony wands;Then from the daïs drop your eyes and seeSoldiers and peasants standing reverentlyBefore those elders, round a little bandWho bear such arms as guard the English land,But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they,The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey;And as they lean with pain upon their spearsTheir brows seem furrowed deep with more than years;For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes,Bent are they less with time than miseries.Pondering on them the city grey-beards gazeThrough kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days,And pity for poor souls, and vague regretFor all the things that might have happened yet,Until, their wonder gathering to a head,The wisest man, who long that land has led,Breaks the deep silence, unto whom againA wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain,And with a hollow voice as from a tombAt first he tells the story of his doom,But as it grows and once more hopes and fears,Both measureless, are ringing round his ears,His eyes grow bright, his seeming days decrease,For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace.
Forget six counties overhung with smoke,Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke,Forget the spreading of the hideous town;Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,And dream of London, small, and white, and clean,The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green;Think, that below bridge the green lapping wavesSmite some few keels that bear Levantine staves,Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill,And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill,And treasured scanty spice from some far sea,Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery,And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne;While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's penMoves over bills of lading—mid such timesShall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.A nameless city in a distant sea,White as the changing walls of faërie,Thronged with much people clad in ancient guiseI now am fain to set before your eyes;There, leave the clear green water and the quays,And pass betwixt its marble palaces,Until ye come unto the chiefest square;A bubbling conduit is set midmost there,And round about it now the maidens throng,With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song,Making but light of labour new begunWhile in their vessels gleams the morning sun.On one side of the square a temple stands,Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient landsStill have their altars, a great market-placeUpon two other sides fills all the space,And thence the busy hum of men comes forth;But on the cold side looking toward the northA pillared council-house may you behold,Within whose porch are images of gold,Gods of the nations who dwelt ancientlyAbout the borders of the Grecian sea.Pass now between them, push the brazen door,And standing on the polished marble floorLeave all the noises of the square behind;Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find,Silent at first, but for the noise you madeWhen on the brazen door your hand you laidTo shut it after you—but now beholdThe city rulers on their thrones of gold,Clad in most fair attire, and in their handsLong carven silver-banded ebony wands;Then from the daïs drop your eyes and seeSoldiers and peasants standing reverentlyBefore those elders, round a little bandWho bear such arms as guard the English land,But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they,The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey;And as they lean with pain upon their spearsTheir brows seem furrowed deep with more than years;For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes,Bent are they less with time than miseries.Pondering on them the city grey-beards gazeThrough kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days,And pity for poor souls, and vague regretFor all the things that might have happened yet,Until, their wonder gathering to a head,The wisest man, who long that land has led,Breaks the deep silence, unto whom againA wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain,And with a hollow voice as from a tombAt first he tells the story of his doom,But as it grows and once more hopes and fears,Both measureless, are ringing round his ears,His eyes grow bright, his seeming days decrease,For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace.
From what unheard-of world, in what strange keel,Have ye come hither to our commonweal?No barbarous race, as these our peasants say,But learned in memories of a long-past day,Speaking, some few at least, the ancient tongueThat through the lapse of ages still has clungTo us, the seed of the Ionian race.Speak out and fear not; if ye need a placeWherein to pass the end of life away,That shall ye gain from us from this same day,Unless the enemies of God ye are;We fear not you and yours to bear us war,And scarce can think that ye will try againAcross the perils of the shifting plainTo seek your own land whereso that may be:For folk of ours bearing the memoryOf our old land, in days past oft have strivenTo reach it, unto none of whom was givenTo come again and tell us of the tale,Therefore our ships are now content to sail,About these happy islands that we know.
From what unheard-of world, in what strange keel,Have ye come hither to our commonweal?No barbarous race, as these our peasants say,But learned in memories of a long-past day,Speaking, some few at least, the ancient tongueThat through the lapse of ages still has clungTo us, the seed of the Ionian race.Speak out and fear not; if ye need a placeWherein to pass the end of life away,That shall ye gain from us from this same day,Unless the enemies of God ye are;We fear not you and yours to bear us war,And scarce can think that ye will try againAcross the perils of the shifting plainTo seek your own land whereso that may be:For folk of ours bearing the memoryOf our old land, in days past oft have strivenTo reach it, unto none of whom was givenTo come again and tell us of the tale,Therefore our ships are now content to sail,About these happy islands that we know.
Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe,A tale of folly and of wasted life,Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife,Ending, where all things end, in death at last:So if I tell the story of the past,Let it be worth some little rest, I pray,A little slumber ere the end of day.No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know,Since at Byzantium many a year agoMy father bore the twibil valiantly;There did he marry, and get me, and die,And I went back to Norway to my kin,Long ere this beard ye see did first beginTo shade my mouth, but nathless not beforeAmong the Greeks I gathered some small lore,And standing midst the Væringers, still heardFrom this or that man many a wondrous word;For ye shall know that though we worshipped God,And heard mass duly, still of SwithiodThe Greater, Odin and his house of gold,The noble stories ceased not to be told;These moved me more than words of mine can sayE'en while at Micklegarth my folks did stay;But when I reached one dying autumn-tideMy uncle's dwelling near the forest side,And saw the land so scanty and so bare,And all the hard things men contend with there,A little and unworthy land it seemed,And yet the more of Asagard I dreamed,And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise.But now, but now—when one of all those daysLike Lazarus' finger on my heart should beBreaking the fiery fixed eternity,But for one moment—could I see once moreThe grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the shore,Or note the brown boats standing in from sea,Or the great dromond swinging from the quay,Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jayShoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey—Yea, could I see the days before distressWhen very longing was but happiness.Within our house there was a Breton squireWell learned, who fail'd not to fan the fireThat evermore unholpen burned in meStrange lands and things beyond belief to see;Much lore of many lands this Breton knew;And for one tale I told, he told me two.He, counting Asagard a new-told thing,Yet spoke of gardens ever blossomingAcross the western sea where none grew old,E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told,And said moreover that an English knightHad had the Earthly Paradise in sight,And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein.But entered not, being hindered by his sin.Shortly, so much of this and that he saidThat in my heart the sharp barb entered,And like real life would empty stories seem,And life from day to day an empty dream.Another man there was, a Swabian priest,Who knew the maladies of man and beast,And what things helped them; he the stone still soughtWhereby base metal into gold is brought,And strove to gain the precious draught, wherebyMen live midst mortal men yet never die;Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tellWho neither went to Heaven nor yet to Hell,When from that fight upon the Asian plainHe vanished, but still lives to come againMen know not how or when; but I listeningUnto this tale thought it a certain thingThat in some hidden vale of SwithiodAcross the golden pavement still he trod.But while our longing for such things so grew,And ever more and more we deemed them true,Upon the land a pestilence there fellUnheard of yet in any chronicle,And, as the people died full fast of it,With these two men it chanced me once to sit,This learned squire whose name was Nicholas,And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was;For could we help it scarcely did we partFrom dawn to dusk: so heavy, sad at heart,We from the castle-yard beheld the bayUpon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,Little we said amidst that dreary mood,And certes nought that we could say was good.It was a bright September afternoon,The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soonThe yellow flowers grown deeper with the sunWere letting fall their petals one by one;No wind there was, a haze was gathering o'erThe furthest bound of the faint yellow shore;And in the oily waters of the bayScarce moving aught some fisher-cobles lay,And all seemed peace; and had been peace indeedBut that we young men of our life had need,And to our listening ears a sound was borneThat made the sunlight wretched and forlorn——The heavy tolling of the minster bell—And nigher yet a tinkling sound did tellThat through the streets they bore our Saviour ChristBy dying lips in anguish to be kissed.At last spoke Nicholas, "How long shall weAbide here, looking forth into the seaExpecting when our turn shall come to die?Fair fellows, will ye come with me and tryNow at our worst that long-desired quest,Now—when our worst is death, and life our best.""Nay, but thou know'st," I said, "that I but waitThe coming of some man, the turn of fate,To make this voyage—but I die meanwhile,For I am poor, though my blood be not vile,Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence holdWithin his crucibles aught like to gold;And what hast thou, whose father driven forthBy Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North?But little riches as I needs must deem.""Well," said he, "things are better than they seem,For 'neath my bed an iron chest I haveThat holdeth things I have made shift to saveE'en for this end; moreover, hark to this,In the next firth a fair long ship there isWell victualled, ready even now for sea,And I may say it 'longeth unto me;Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, liesDead at the end of many miseries,And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know,Would be content throughout the world to goIf I but took her hand, and now still moreHath heart to leave this poor death-stricken shore.Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swordsAnd Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards."What say ye, will ye go with me to-night,Setting your faces to undreamed delight,Turning your backs unto this troublous hell,Or is the time too short to say farewell?""Not so," I said, "rather would I departNow while thou speakest, never has my heartBeen set on anything within this land."Then said the Swabian, "Let us now take handAnd swear to follow evermore this questTill death or life have set our hearts at rest."So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said,"To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelledTo leave this land, bring all the arms ye canAnd such men as ye trust, my own good manGuards the small postern looking towards St. Bride,And good it were ye should not be espied,Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence,Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilenceMakes all men hard and cruel, nor are theyWilling that folk should 'scape if they must stay:Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell,Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bellStrikes midnight, all will surely then be still,And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hillOutside the city gates."Each went his wayTherewith, and I the remnant of that dayGained for the quest three men that I deemed true,And did such other things as I must do,And still was ever listening for the chimeHalf maddened by the lazy lapse of time,Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should liveTill the great tower the joyful sound should giveThat set us free: and so the hours went past,Till startled by the echoing clang at lastThat told of midnight, armed from head to heelDown to the open postern did I steal,Bearing small wealth—this sword that yet hangs hereWorn thin and narrow with so many a year,My father's axe that from Byzantium,With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come,Nought else that shone with silver or with gold.But by the postern gate could I beholdLaurence the priest all armed as if for war,From off the town-wall, having some small storeOf arms and furs and raiment: then once moreI turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fallUpon the new-built bastions of the wall,Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light,And further off I saw the lead shine brightOn tower and turret-roof against the sky,And looking down I saw the old town lieBlack in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill,Stricken with death, and dreary, but all stillUntil it reached the water of the bay,That in the dead night smote against the quayNot all unheard, though there was little wind.But as I turned to leave the place behind,The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell,Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell,That in that stillness jarring on mine ears,With sudden jangle checked the rising tears,And now the freshness of the open seaSeemed ease and joy and very life to me.So greeting my new mates with little sound,We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound,And there the Breton Nicholas beheld,Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held,And round about them twenty men there stood,Of whom the more part on the holy roodWere sworn till death to follow up the quest,And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest.Again betwixt us was there little speech,But swiftly did we set on toward the beach,And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man,We boarded, and the long oars out we ran,And swept from out the firth, and sped so wellThat scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bellToll one, although the light wind blew from land;Then hoisting sail southward we 'gan to stand,And much I joyed beneath the moon to seeThe lessening land that might have been to meA kindly giver of wife, child, and friend,And happy life, or at the worser endA quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth.Night passed, day dawned, and we grew full of mirthAs with the ever-rising morning windStill further lay our threatened death behind,Or so we thought: some eighty men we were,Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear,The rest were uplanders; midst such of theseAs knew not of our quest, with promisesWent Nicholas dealing florins round about,With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt,Till all were fairly won or seemed to beTo that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea.
Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe,A tale of folly and of wasted life,Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife,Ending, where all things end, in death at last:So if I tell the story of the past,Let it be worth some little rest, I pray,A little slumber ere the end of day.No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know,Since at Byzantium many a year agoMy father bore the twibil valiantly;There did he marry, and get me, and die,And I went back to Norway to my kin,Long ere this beard ye see did first beginTo shade my mouth, but nathless not beforeAmong the Greeks I gathered some small lore,And standing midst the Væringers, still heardFrom this or that man many a wondrous word;For ye shall know that though we worshipped God,And heard mass duly, still of SwithiodThe Greater, Odin and his house of gold,The noble stories ceased not to be told;These moved me more than words of mine can sayE'en while at Micklegarth my folks did stay;But when I reached one dying autumn-tideMy uncle's dwelling near the forest side,And saw the land so scanty and so bare,And all the hard things men contend with there,A little and unworthy land it seemed,And yet the more of Asagard I dreamed,And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise.But now, but now—when one of all those daysLike Lazarus' finger on my heart should beBreaking the fiery fixed eternity,But for one moment—could I see once moreThe grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the shore,Or note the brown boats standing in from sea,Or the great dromond swinging from the quay,Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jayShoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey—Yea, could I see the days before distressWhen very longing was but happiness.Within our house there was a Breton squireWell learned, who fail'd not to fan the fireThat evermore unholpen burned in meStrange lands and things beyond belief to see;Much lore of many lands this Breton knew;And for one tale I told, he told me two.He, counting Asagard a new-told thing,Yet spoke of gardens ever blossomingAcross the western sea where none grew old,E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told,And said moreover that an English knightHad had the Earthly Paradise in sight,And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein.But entered not, being hindered by his sin.Shortly, so much of this and that he saidThat in my heart the sharp barb entered,And like real life would empty stories seem,And life from day to day an empty dream.Another man there was, a Swabian priest,Who knew the maladies of man and beast,And what things helped them; he the stone still soughtWhereby base metal into gold is brought,And strove to gain the precious draught, wherebyMen live midst mortal men yet never die;Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tellWho neither went to Heaven nor yet to Hell,When from that fight upon the Asian plainHe vanished, but still lives to come againMen know not how or when; but I listeningUnto this tale thought it a certain thingThat in some hidden vale of SwithiodAcross the golden pavement still he trod.But while our longing for such things so grew,And ever more and more we deemed them true,Upon the land a pestilence there fellUnheard of yet in any chronicle,And, as the people died full fast of it,With these two men it chanced me once to sit,This learned squire whose name was Nicholas,And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was;For could we help it scarcely did we partFrom dawn to dusk: so heavy, sad at heart,We from the castle-yard beheld the bayUpon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,Little we said amidst that dreary mood,And certes nought that we could say was good.It was a bright September afternoon,The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soonThe yellow flowers grown deeper with the sunWere letting fall their petals one by one;No wind there was, a haze was gathering o'erThe furthest bound of the faint yellow shore;And in the oily waters of the bayScarce moving aught some fisher-cobles lay,And all seemed peace; and had been peace indeedBut that we young men of our life had need,And to our listening ears a sound was borneThat made the sunlight wretched and forlorn——The heavy tolling of the minster bell—And nigher yet a tinkling sound did tellThat through the streets they bore our Saviour ChristBy dying lips in anguish to be kissed.At last spoke Nicholas, "How long shall weAbide here, looking forth into the seaExpecting when our turn shall come to die?Fair fellows, will ye come with me and tryNow at our worst that long-desired quest,Now—when our worst is death, and life our best.""Nay, but thou know'st," I said, "that I but waitThe coming of some man, the turn of fate,To make this voyage—but I die meanwhile,For I am poor, though my blood be not vile,Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence holdWithin his crucibles aught like to gold;And what hast thou, whose father driven forthBy Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North?But little riches as I needs must deem.""Well," said he, "things are better than they seem,For 'neath my bed an iron chest I haveThat holdeth things I have made shift to saveE'en for this end; moreover, hark to this,In the next firth a fair long ship there isWell victualled, ready even now for sea,And I may say it 'longeth unto me;Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, liesDead at the end of many miseries,And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know,Would be content throughout the world to goIf I but took her hand, and now still moreHath heart to leave this poor death-stricken shore.Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swordsAnd Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards."What say ye, will ye go with me to-night,Setting your faces to undreamed delight,Turning your backs unto this troublous hell,Or is the time too short to say farewell?""Not so," I said, "rather would I departNow while thou speakest, never has my heartBeen set on anything within this land."Then said the Swabian, "Let us now take handAnd swear to follow evermore this questTill death or life have set our hearts at rest."So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said,"To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelledTo leave this land, bring all the arms ye canAnd such men as ye trust, my own good manGuards the small postern looking towards St. Bride,And good it were ye should not be espied,Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence,Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilenceMakes all men hard and cruel, nor are theyWilling that folk should 'scape if they must stay:Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell,Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bellStrikes midnight, all will surely then be still,And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hillOutside the city gates."Each went his wayTherewith, and I the remnant of that dayGained for the quest three men that I deemed true,And did such other things as I must do,And still was ever listening for the chimeHalf maddened by the lazy lapse of time,Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should liveTill the great tower the joyful sound should giveThat set us free: and so the hours went past,Till startled by the echoing clang at lastThat told of midnight, armed from head to heelDown to the open postern did I steal,Bearing small wealth—this sword that yet hangs hereWorn thin and narrow with so many a year,My father's axe that from Byzantium,With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come,Nought else that shone with silver or with gold.But by the postern gate could I beholdLaurence the priest all armed as if for war,From off the town-wall, having some small storeOf arms and furs and raiment: then once moreI turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fallUpon the new-built bastions of the wall,Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light,And further off I saw the lead shine brightOn tower and turret-roof against the sky,And looking down I saw the old town lieBlack in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill,Stricken with death, and dreary, but all stillUntil it reached the water of the bay,That in the dead night smote against the quayNot all unheard, though there was little wind.But as I turned to leave the place behind,The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell,Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell,That in that stillness jarring on mine ears,With sudden jangle checked the rising tears,And now the freshness of the open seaSeemed ease and joy and very life to me.So greeting my new mates with little sound,We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound,And there the Breton Nicholas beheld,Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held,And round about them twenty men there stood,Of whom the more part on the holy roodWere sworn till death to follow up the quest,And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest.Again betwixt us was there little speech,But swiftly did we set on toward the beach,And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man,We boarded, and the long oars out we ran,And swept from out the firth, and sped so wellThat scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bellToll one, although the light wind blew from land;Then hoisting sail southward we 'gan to stand,And much I joyed beneath the moon to seeThe lessening land that might have been to meA kindly giver of wife, child, and friend,And happy life, or at the worser endA quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth.Night passed, day dawned, and we grew full of mirthAs with the ever-rising morning windStill further lay our threatened death behind,Or so we thought: some eighty men we were,Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear,The rest were uplanders; midst such of theseAs knew not of our quest, with promisesWent Nicholas dealing florins round about,With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt,Till all were fairly won or seemed to beTo that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea.