Song.

In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,Love, be merry for my sake;Twine the blossoms in my hair,Kiss me where I am most fair—Kiss me, love! for who knowethWhat thing cometh after death?

Nay, the garlanded gold hairHides thee where thou art most fair;Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow—Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!Kiss me, love! for who knowethWhat thing cometh after death?

Shall we weep for a dead day,Or set Sorrow in our way?Hidden by my golden hair,Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?Kiss me, love! for who knowethWhat thing cometh after death?

Weep, O Love, the days that flit,Now, while I can feel thy breath;Then may I remember itSad and old, and near my death.Kiss me, love! for who knowethWhat thing cometh after death?Soothed by the pleasure that the music broughtAnd sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thoughtOf happiness it seemed to promise him,He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim,And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creepTill in the growing light he lay asleep,Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blastHad summoned him all thought away to cast:Yet one more joy of love indeed he hadEre with the battle's noise he was made glad;For, as on that May morning forth they rodeAnd passed before the Queen's most fair abode,There at a window was she waiting themIn fair attire with gold in every hem,And as the ancient Knight beneath her passedA wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast,And looked farewell to him, and forth he setThinking of all the pleasure he should getFrom love and war, forgetting AvallonAnd all that lovely life so lightly won;Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpastEre on the loadstone rock his ship was castWas waxing dim, nor yet at all he learnedTo 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned.And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame,Forgat the letters of his ancient nameAs one waked fully shall forget a dream,That once to him a wondrous tale did seem.Now I, though writing here no chronicleE'en as I said, must nathless shortly tellThat, ere the army Rouen's gates could gainBy a broad arrow had the King been slain,And helpless now the wretched country layBeneath the yoke, until the glorious dayWhen Ogier fell at last upon the foe,And scattered them as helplessly as thoughThey had been beaten men without a name:So when to Paris town once more he cameFew folk the memory of the King did keepWithin their hearts, and if the folk did weepAt his returning, 'twas for joy indeedThat such a man had risen at their needTo work for them so great deliverance,And loud they called on him for King of France.But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flameFor all that she had heard of his great fame,I know not; rather with some hidden dreadOf coming fate, she heard her lord was dead,And her false dream seemed coming true at last,For the clear sky of love seemed overcastWith clouds of God's great judgments, and the fearOf hate and final parting drawing near.So now when he before her throne did standAmidst the throng as saviour of the land,And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise,And there before all her own love must praise;Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said,"See, how she sorrows for the newly dead!Amidst our joy she needs must think of him;Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dimAnd she shall wed again."So passed the year,While Ogier set himself the land to clearOf broken remnants of the heathen men,And at the last, when May-time came again,Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land,And at the altar take the fair Queen's handAnd wed her for his own. And now by thisHad he forgotten clean the woe and blissOf his old life, and still was he made gladAs other men; and hopes and fears he hadAs others, and bethought him not at allOf what strange days upon him yet should fallWhen he should live and these again be dead.Now drew the time round when he should be wed,And in his palace on his bed he layUpon the dawning of the very day:'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hearE'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear,The hammering of the folk who toiled to makeSome well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake,Though hardly yet the sparrows had begunTo twitter o'er the coming of the sun,Nor through the palace did a creature move.There in the sweet entanglement of loveMidst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay,Remembering no more of that other dayThan the hot noon remembereth of the night,Than summer thinketh of the winter white.In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried,"Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide,And rising on his elbow, gazed around,And strange to him and empty was the soundOf his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said."For I, the man who lies upon this bed,Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day,But in a year that now is past awayThe Ancient Knight they called me: who is this,Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his?And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh,As of one grieved, came from some place anighHis bed-side, and a soft voice spake again,"This Ogier once was great amongst great men;To Italy a helpless hostage led;He saved the King when the false Lombard fled,Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day;Charlot he brought back, whom men led away,And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu.The ravager of Rome his right hand slew;Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine,Who for a dreary year beset in vainHis lonely castle; yet at last caught then,And shut in hold, needs must he come againTo give an unhoped great deliveranceUnto the burdened helpless land of France:Denmark he gained thereafter, and he woreThe crown of England drawn from trouble sore;At Tyre then he reigned, and BabylonWith mighty deeds he from the foemen won;And when scarce aught could give him greater fame,He left the world still thinking on his name."These things did Ogier, and these things didst thou,Nor will I call thee by a new name nowSince I have spoken words of love to thee—Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me,E'en if thou hast no thought of that past timeBefore thou earnest to our happy clime?"As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeedA lovely woman clad in dainty weedBeside his bed, and many a thought was stirredWithin his heart by that last plaintive word,Though nought he said, but waited what should come."Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home;Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do,And if thou bidest here, for something newWill folk begin to cry, and all thy fameShall then avail thee but for greater blame;Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earthThou lovest now shall be of little worthWhile still thou keepest life, abhorring it.Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flitThus is it, how then shall it be with thee,Who some faint image of eternityHast gained through me?—alas, thou heedest not!On all these changing things thine heart is hot—Take then this gift that I have brought from far,And then may'st thou remember what we are;The lover and the loved from long ago."He trembled, and more memory seemed to growWithin his heart as he beheld her stand,Holding a glittering crown in her right hand:"Ogier," she said, "arise and do on theeThe emblems of thy worldly sovereignity,For we must pass o'er many a sea this morn."He rose, and in the glittering tunic wornBy Charlemaine he clad himself, and tookThe ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shookOver the people's head in days of old;Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold,And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair,And set the gold crown on his golden hair:Then on the royal chair he sat him down,As though he deemed the elders of the townShould come to audience; and in all he seemedTo do these things e'en as a man who dreamed.And now adown the Seine the golden sunShone out, as toward him drew that lovely oneAnd took from off his head the royal crown,And, smiling, on the pillow laid it downAnd said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine,Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain,Because he died, and all the things he didWere changed before his face by earth was hid;A better crown I have for my love's head,Whereby he yet shall live, when all are deadHis hand has helped." Then on his head she setThe wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget!Forget these weary things, for thou hast muchOf happiness to think of."At that touchHe rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes;And smitten by the rush of memories,He stammered out, "O love! how came we here?What do we in this land of Death and Fear?Have I not been from thee a weary while?Let us return—I dreamed about the isle;I dreamed of other years of strife and pain,Of new years full of struggles long and vain."She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love,I am not changed;" and therewith did they moveUnto the door, and through the sleeping placeSwiftly they went, and still was Ogier's faceTurned on her beauty, and no thought was hisExcept the dear returning of his bliss.But at the threshold of the palace-gateThat opened to them, she awhile did wait,And turned her eyes unto the rippling SeineAnd said, "O love, behold it once again!"He turned, and gazed upon the city greySmit by the gold of that sweet morn of May;He heard faint noises as of wakening folkAs on their heads his day of glory broke;He heard the changing rush of the swift streamAgainst the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream.His work was over, his reward was come,Why should he loiter longer from his home?A little while she watched him silently,Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh,And, raising up the raiment from her feet,Across the threshold stepped into the street;One moment on the twain the low sun shone,And then the place was void, and they were goneHow I know not; but this I know indeed,That in whatso great trouble or sore needThe land of France since that fair day has been,No more the sword of Ogier has she seen.

Suchwas the tale he told of Avallon,E'en such an one as in days past had wonHis youthful heart to think upon the quest;But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest,Not much to be desired now it seemed—Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamedHad found no words in this death-laden tongueWe speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung;Perchance the changing years that changed his heartE'en in the words of that old tale had part,Changing its sweet to bitter, to despairThe foolish hope that once had glittered there—Or think, that in some bay of that far homeThey then had sat, and watched the green waves comeUp to their feet with many promises;Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees,In the sweet Spring had weighted many a wordOf no worth now, and many a hope had stirredLong dead for ever.Howsoe'er that beAmong strange folk they now sat quietly,As though that tale with them had nought to do,As though its hopes and fears were something new.But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled bandHad no tears left for that once longed-for land,The very wind must moan for their decay,And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey,Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field,That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield;And on the blackening woods, wherein the dovesSat silent now, forgetful of their loves.Yet, since a little life at least was left,They were not yet of every joy bereft,For long ago was past the agony,Midst which they found that they indeed must die;And now well-nigh as much their pain was pastAs though death's veil already had been castOver their heads—so, midst some little mirth,They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth.

This tale tells of the voyage of a ship of Tyre, that, against the will of the shipmen, bore Hercules to an unknown land of the West, that he might accomplish a task laid on him by the Fates.

As many as the leaves fall from the tree,From the world's life the years are fallen awaySince King Eurystheus sat in majestyIn fair Mycenæ; midmost of whose dayIt once befell that in a quiet bayA ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the shore,Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar.Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stoleDown from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that crowned,And ruffled lightly the long gleaming rollOf the peaceful sea, and bore along the soundOf shepherd-folk and sheep and questing hound,For in the first dip of the hillside thereLay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair.Amid regrets for last night, when the moon,Risen on the soft dusk, shone on maidens' feetBrushing the gold-heart lilies to the tuneOf pipes complaining, o'er the grass down-beatThat mixed with dewy flowers its odour sweet,The shipmen laboured, till the sail unfurledSwung round the prow to meet another world.But ere the anchor had come home, a shoutRang from the strand, as though the ship were hailed.Whereat the master bade them stay, in doubtThat they without some needful thing had sailed;When, lo! from where the cliff's steep grey sides failedInto a ragged stony slip, came twainWho seemed in haste the ready keel to gain.Soon they drew nigh, and he who first came downUnto the surf was a man huge of limb,Grey-eyed, with crisp-curled hair 'twixt black and brown,Who had a lion's skin cast over him,So wrought with gold that the fell showed but dimBetwixt the threads, and in his hand he boreA mighty club with bands of steel done o'er.Panting there followed him a grey old man,Bearing a long staff, clad in gown of blue,Feeble of aspect, hollow-cheeked and wan,Who when unto his fellow's side he drew,Said faintly: "Now, do that which thou shouldst do;This is the ship." Then in the other's eyeA smile gleamed, and he spake out merrily:"Masters, folk tell me that ye make for Tyre,And after that still nearer to the sun;And since Fate bids me look to die by fire,Fain am I, ere my worldly day be done,To know what from earth's hottest can be won;And this old man, my kinsman, would with me.How say ye, will ye bear us o'er the sea?""What is thy name?" the master said: "And knowThat we are merchants, and for nought give nought;What wilt thou pay?—thou seem'st full rich, I trow."The old man muttered, stooped adown and caughtAt something in the sand: "E'en so I thought,"The younger said, "when I set out from home—As to my name, perchance in days to come"Thou shalt know that—but have heed, take this toy,And call me the Strong Man." And as he spakeThe master's deep-brown eyes 'gan gleam with joy,For from his arm a huge ring did he take,And cast it on the deck, where it did breakA water-jar, and in the wet shards layGolden, and gleaming like the end of day.But the old man held out a withered hand,Wherein there shone two pearls most great and fair,And said, "If any nigher I might stand,Then might'st thou see the things I give thee here—And for a name—a many names I bear,But call me Shepherd of the Shore this tide,And for more knowledge with a good will bide."From one to the other turned the master's eyes;The Strong Man laughed as at some hidden jest,And wild doubts in the shipman's heart did rise;But thinking on the thing, he deemed it bestTo bid them come aboard, and take such restAs they might have of the untrusty sea,'Mid men who trusty fellows still should be.Then no more words the Strong Man made, but straightCaught up the elder in his arms, and so,Making no whit of all that added weight,Strode to the ship, right through the breakers low,And catching at the rope that they did throwOut toward his hand, swung up into the ship;Then did the master let the hawser slip.The shapely prow cleft the wet mead and green,And wondering drew the shipmen round to gazeUpon those limbs, the mightiest ever seen;And many deemed it no light thing to faceThe splendour of his eyen, though they did blazeWith no wrath now, no hate for them to dread,As seaward 'twixt the summer isles they sped.Freshened the wind, but ever fair it blewUnto the south-east; but as failed the land,Unto the plunging prow the Strong Man drew,And silent, gazing with wide eyes did stand,As though his heart found rest; but 'mid the bandOf shipmen in the stern the old man sat,Telling them tales that no man there forgat.As one who had beheld, he told them thereOf the sweet singer, whom, for his song's sake,The dolphins back from choking death did bear;How in the mid sea did the vine outbreakO'er that ill bark when Bacchus 'gan to wake;How anigh Cyprus, ruddy with the roseThe cold sea grew as any June-loved close;While on the flowery shore all things aliveGrew faint with sense of birth of some delight,And the nymphs waited trembling there, to giveGlad welcome to the glory of that sight:He paused then, ere he told how, wild and white,Rose ocean, breaking o'er a race accurst,A world once good, now come unto its worst.And then he smiled, and said, "And yet ye won,Ye men, and tremble not on days like these,Nor think with what a mind Prometheus' sonBeheld the last of the torn reeling treesFrom high Parnassus: slipping through the seasYe never think, ye men-folk, how ye seemFrom down below through the green waters' gleam."Dusk was it now when these last words he said,And little of his visage might they see,But o'er their hearts stole vague and troublous dread,They knew not why; yet ever quietlyThey sailed that night; nor might a morning beFairer than was the next morn; and they wentAlong their due course after their intent.The fourth day, about sunrise, from the mastThe watch cried out he saw Phoenician land;Whereat the Strong Man on the elder castA look askance, and he straight took his standAnigh the prow, and gazed beneath his handUpon the low sun and the scarce-seen shore,Till cloud-flecks rose, and gathered and drew o'er.The morn grown cold; then small rain 'gan to fall,And all the wind dropped dead, and hearts of menSank, and their bark seemed helpless now and small;Then suddenly the wind 'gan moan again;Sails flapped, and ropes beat wild about; and thenDown came the great east wind; and the ship ranStraining, heeled o'er, through seas all changed and wan.Westward, scarce knowing night from day, they draveThrough sea and sky grown one; the Strong Man wroughtWith mighty hands, and seemed a god to save;But on the prow, heeding all weather nought,The elder stood, nor any prop he sought,But swayed to the ship's wallowing, as on wingsHe there were set above the wrack of things.And westward still they drave; and if they sawLand upon either side, as on they sped,'Twas but as faces in a dream may drawAnigh, and fade, and leave nought in their stead;And in the shipmen's hearts grew heavy dreadTo sick despair; they deemed they should drive onTill the world's edge and empty space were won.But 'neath the Strong Man's eyes e'en as they mightThey toiled on still; and he sang to the wind,And spread his arms to meet the waters white,As o'er the deck they tumbled, making blindThe brine-drenched shipmen; nor with eye unkindHe gazed up at the lightning; nor would frownWhen o'er the wet waste Jove's bolt rattled down.And they, who at the last had come to thinkTheir guests were very gods, with all their fearFeared nought belike that their good ship would sinkAmid the storm; but rather looked to hearThe last moan of the wind that them should bearInto the windless stream of ocean grey,Where they should float till dead was every day.Yet their fear mocked them; for the storm 'gan dieAbout the tenth day, though unto the westThey drave on still; soon fair and quietlyThe morn would break: and though amid their restNought but long evil wandering seemed the bestThat they might hope for; still, despite their dread,Sweet was the quiet sea and goodliheadOf the bright sun at last come back again;And as the days passed, less and less fear grew,If without cause, till faded all their pain;And they 'gan turn unto their guests anew,Yet durst ask nought of what that evil drewUpon their heads; or of returning speak.Happy they felt, but listless, spent, and weak.And now as at the first the elder was,And sat and told them tales of yore agone;But ever the Strong Man up and down would passAbout the deck, or on the prow aloneWould stand and stare out westward; and still onThrough a fair summer sea they went, nor thoughtOf what would come when these days turned to nought.And now when twenty days were well passed o'erThey made a new land; cloudy mountains highRose from the sea at first; then a green shoreSpread fair below them: as they drew anighNo sloping, stony strand could they espy,And no surf breaking; the green sea and wideWherethrough they slipped was driven by no tide.Dark fell ere they might set their eager feetUpon the shore; but night-long their ship layAs in a deep stream, by the blossoms sweetThat flecked the grass whence flowers ne'er passed away.But when the cloud-barred east brought back the day,And turned the western mountain-tops to gold,Fresh fear the shipmen in their bark did hold.For as a dream seemed all; too fair for thoseWho needs must die; moreover they could see,A furlong off, 'twixt apple-tree and rose,A brazen wall that gleamed out wondrouslyIn the young sun, and seemed right long to be;And memory of all marvels lay uponTheir shrinking hearts now this sweet place was won.But when unto the nameless guests they turned,Who stood together nigh the plank shot outShoreward, within the Strong Man's eyes there burnedA wild light, as the other one in doubtHe eyed a moment; then with a great shoutLeaped into the blossomed grass; the echoes rolledBack from the hills, harsh still and over-bold.Slowly the old man followed him, and stillThe crew held back: they knew now they were broughtOver the sea the purpose to fulfilOf these strange men; and in their hearts they thought,"Perchance we yet shall live, if, meddling noughtWith dreams, we bide here till these twain come back;But prying eyes the fire-blast seldom lack."Yet 'mongst them were two fellows bold and young,Who, looking each upon the other's face,Their hearts to meet the unknown danger strung,And went ashore, and at a gentle paceFollowed the strangers, who unto the placeWhere the wall gleamed had turned; peace and desireMingled together in their hearts, as nigherThey drew unto that wall, and dulled their fear:Fair wrought it was, as though with bricks of brass;And images upon its face there were,Stories of things a long while come to pass:Nor that alone—as looking in a glassIts maker knew the tales of what should be,And wrought them there for bird and beast to see.So on they went; the many birds sang sweetThrough all that blossomed thicket from above,And unknown flowers bent down before their feet;The very air, cleft by the grey-winged dove,Throbbed with sweet scent, and smote their souls with love.Slowly they went till those twain stayed beforeA strangely-wrought and iron-covered door.They stayed, too, till o'er noise of wind, and bird,And falling flower, there rang a mighty shoutAs the Strong Man his steel-bound club upreared,And drave it 'gainst the hammered iron stout,Where 'neath his blows flew bolt and rivet out,Till shattered on the ground the great door lay,And into the guarded place bright poured the day.The Strong Man entered, but his fellow stayed,Leaning against a tree-trunk as they deemed.They faltered now, and yet all things being weighedWent on again; and thought they must have dreamedOf the old man, for now the sunlight streamedFull on the tree he had been leaning on,And him they saw not go, yet was he gone:Only a slim green lizard flitted thereAmidst the dry leaves; him they noted nought,But trembling, through the doorway 'gan to peer,And still of strange and dreadful saw not aught,Only a garden fair beyond all thought.And there, 'twixt sun and shade, the Strong Man wentOn some long-sought-for end belike intent.They 'gan to follow down a narrow wayOf green-sward that the lilies trembled o'er,And whereon thick the scattered rose-leaves lay;But a great wonder weighed upon them sore,And well they thought they should return no more,Yet scarce a pain that seemed; they looked to meetBefore they died things strange and fair and sweet.So still to right and left the Strong Man thrustThe blossomed boughs, and passed on steadily,As though his hardy heart he well did trust,Till in a while he gave a joyous cry,And hastened on, as though the end drew nigh;And women's voices then they deemed they heard,Mixed with a noise that made desire afeard.Yet through sweet scents and sounds on did they bearTheir panting hearts, till the path ended nowIn a wide space of green, a streamlet clearFrom out a marble basin there did flow,And close by that a slim-trunked tree did grow,And on a bough low o'er the water coldThere hung three apples of red-gleaming gold.About the tree, new risen e'en now to meetThe shining presence of that mighty one,Three damsels stood, naked from head to feetSave for the glory of their hair, where sunAnd shadow flickered, while the wind did runThrough the grey leaves o'erhead, and shook the grassWhere nigh their feet the wandering bee did pass.But 'midst their delicate limbs and all aroundThe tree-roots, gleaming blue black could they seeThe spires of a great serpent, that, enwoundAbout the smooth bole, looked forth threateningly,With glittering eyes and raised crest, o'er the threeFair heads fresh crowned, and hissed above the speechWherewith they murmured softly each to each.Now the Strong Man amid the green space stayed,And leaning on his club, with eager eyesBut brow yet smooth, in voice yet friendly said:"O daughters of old Hesperus the Wise,Well have ye held your guard here; but time triesThe very will of gods, and to my handMust give this day the gold fruit of your land."Then spake the first maid—sweet as the west windAmidst of summer noon her sweet voice was:"Ah, me! what knows this place of changing mindOf men or gods; here shall long ages pass,And clean forget thy feet upon the grass,Thy hapless bones amid the fruitful mould;Look at thy death envenomed swift and cold!"Hiding new flowers, the dull coils, as she spake,Moved near her limbs: but then the second one,In such a voice as when the morn doth wakeTo song of birds, said, "When the world foredoneHas moaned its last, still shall we dwell aloneBeneath this bough, and have no tales to tellOf things deemed great that on the earth befell."Then spake the third, in voice as of the fluteThat wakes the maiden to her wedding morn:"If any god should gain our golden fruit,Its curse would make his deathless life forlorn.Lament thou, then, that ever thou wert born;Yet all things, changed by joy or loss or pain,To what they were shall change and change again.""So be it," he said, "the Fates that drive me onShall slay me or shall save; blessing or curseThat followeth after when the thing is wonShall make my work no better now nor worse;And if it be that the world's heart must nurseHatred against me, how then shall I chooseTo leave or take?—let your dread servant loose!"E'en therewith, like a pillar of black smoke,Swift, shifting ever, drave the worm at him;In deadly silence now that nothing broke,Its folds were writhing round him trunk and limb,Until his glittering gear was nought but dimE'en in that sunshine, while his head and sideAnd breast the fork-tongued, pointed muzzle tried.Closer the coils drew, quicker all aboutThe forked tongue darted, and yet stiff he stood,E'en as an oak that sees the straw flare outAnd lick its ancient bole for little good:Until the godlike fury of his moodBurst from his heart in one great shattering cry,And rattling down the loosened coils did lie;And from the torn throat and crushed dreadful headForth flowed a stream of blood along the grass;Bright in the sun he stood above the dead,Panting with fury; yet as ever wasThe wont of him, soon did his anger pass,And with a happy smile at last he turnedTo where the apples o'er the water burned.Silent and moveless ever stood the three;No change came o'er their faces, as his handWas stretched aloft unto the sacred tree;Nor shrank they aught aback, though he did standSo close that tresses of their bright hair, fannedBy the sweet garden breeze, lay light on him,And his gold fell brushed by them breast and limb.He drew adown the wind-stirred bough, and tookThe apples thence; then let it spring away,And from his brow the dark hair backward shook,And said: "O sweet, O fair, and shall this dayA curse upon my life henceforward lay—This day alone? Methinks of coming lifeSomewhat I know, with all its loss and strife."But this I know, at least: the world shall wendUpon its way, and, gathering joy and griefAnd deeds done, bear them with it to the end;So shall it, though I lie as last year's leafLies 'neath a summer tree, at least receiveMy life gone by, and store it, with the gainThat men alive call striving, wrong, and pain."So for my part I rather bless than curse,And bless this fateful land; good be with it;Nor for this deadly thing's death is it worse,Nor for the lack of gold; still shall ye sitWatching the swallow o'er the daisies flit;Still shall your wandering limbs ere day is doneMake dawn desired by the sinking sun."And now, behold! in memory of all thisTake ye this girdle that shall waste and fadeAs fadeth not your fairness and your bliss,That when hereafter 'mid the blossoms laidYe talk of days and men now nothing made,Ye may remember how the Theban man,The son of Jove, came o'er the waters wan."Their faces changed not aught for all they heard;As though all things now fully told out were,They gazed upon him without any word:Ah! craving kindness, hope, or loving care,Their fairness scarcely could have made more fair,As with the apples folded in his fellHe went, to do more deeds for folk to tell.Now as the girdle on the ground was castThose fellows turned and hurried toward the door,And as across its broken leaves they passedThe old man saw they not, e'en as before;But an unearthed blind mole bewildered soreWas wandering there in fruitless, aimless wise,That got small heed from their full-sated eyes.Swift gat they to their anxious folk; nor hadMore time than just to say, "Be of good cheer,For in our own land may we yet be glad,"When they beheld the guests a-drawing near;And much bewildered the two fellows wereTo see the old man, and must even deemThat they should see things stranger than a dream.But when they were aboard the elder cried,"Up sails, my masters, fair now is the wind;Nor good it is too long here to abide,Lest what ye may not loose your souls should bind."And as he spake, the tall trees left behindStirred with the rising land-wind, and the crew,Joyous thereat, the hawsers shipward drew.Swift sped the ship, and glad at heart were all,And the Strong Man was merry with the rest,And from the elder's lips no word did fallThat did not seem to promise all the best;Yet with a certain awe were men oppressed,And felt as if their inmost hearts were bare,And each man's secret babbled through the air.Still oft the old man sat with them and toldTales of past time, as on the outward way;And now would they the face of him beholdAnd deem it changed; the years that on him laySeemed to grow nought, and no more wan and greyHe looked, but ever glorious, wise and strong,As though no lapse of time for him were long.At last, when six days through the kindly seaTheir keel had slipped, he said: "Come hearken now,For so it is that things fare wondrouslyE'en in these days; and I a tale can showThat, told by you unto your sons shall growA marvel of the days that are to come:Take heed and tell it when ye reach your home."Yet living in the world a man there isMen call the Theban King Amphitryon's son,Although perchance a greater sire was his;But certainly his lips have hung uponAlcmena's breasts: great deeds this man hath wonAlready, for his name is Hercules,And e'en ye Asian folk have heard of these."Now ere the moon, this eve in his last wane,Was born, this Hercules, the fated thrallOf King Eurystheus, was straight bid to gainGifts from a land whereon no foot doth fallOf mortal man, beyond the misty wallOf unknown waters; pensively he wentAlong the sea on his hard life intent."And at the dawn he came into a bayWhere the sea, ebbed far down, left wastes of sand,Walled from the green earth by great cliffs and grey;Then he looked up, and wondering there did stand,For strange things lay in slumber on the strand;Strange counterparts of what the firm earth hathLay scattered all about his weary path:"Sea-lions and sea-horses and sea-kine,Sea-boars, sea-men strange-skinned, of wondrous hair;And in their midst a man who seemed divineFor changeless eld, and round him women fair,Clad in the sea-webs glassy green and clearWith gems on head and girdle, limb and breast,Such as earth knoweth not among her best."A moment at the fair and wondrous sightHe stared, then, since the heart in him was good,He went about with careful steps and lightTill o'er the sleeping sea-god now he stood;And if the white-foot maids had stirred his bloodAs he passed by, now other thoughts had placeWithin his heart when he beheld that face."For Nereus now he knew, who knows all things;And to himself he said, 'If I prevail,Better than by some god-wrought eagle-wingsShall I be holpen;' then he cried out: 'Hail,O Nereus! lord of shifting hill and dale!Arise and wrestle; I am Hercules!Not soon now shalt thou meet the ridgy seas.'"And mightily he cast himself on him;And Nereus cried out shrilly; and straightwayThat sleeping crowd, fair maid with half-hid limb,Strange man and green-haired beast, made no delay,But glided down into the billows grey,And, by the lovely sea embraced, were gone,While they two wrestled on the sea strand lone."Soon found the sea-god that his bodily mightWas nought in dealing with Jove's dear one there;And soon he 'gan to use his magic sleight:Into a lithe leopard, and a hugging bearHe turned him; then the smallest fowl of airThe straining arms of Hercules must hold,And then a mud-born wriggling eel and cold."Then as the firm hands mastered this, forth brakeA sudden rush of waters all around,Blinding and choking: then a thin green snakeWith golden eyes; then o'er the shell-strewn groundForth stole a fly the least that may be found;Then earth and heaven seemed wrapped in one huge flame,But from the midst thereof a voice there came:"'Kinsman and stout-heart, thou hast won the day,Nor to my grief: what wouldst thou have of me?'And therewith to an old man small and greyFaded the roaring flame, who wearilySat down upon the sand and said, 'Let be!I know thy tale; worthy of help thou art;Come now, a short way hence will there depart"'A ship of Tyre for the warm southern seas,Come we a-board; according to my willHer way shall be.' Then up rose Hercules,Merry of face, though hot and panting still;But the fair summer day his heart did fillWith all delight; and so forth went the twain,And found those men desirous of all gain."Ah, for these gainful men—somewhat indeedTheir sails are rent, their bark beat; kin and friendAre wearying for them; yet a friend in needThey yet shall gain, if at their journey's end,Upon the last ness where the wild goats wendTo lick the salt-washed stones, a house they raiseBedight with gold in kindly Nereus' praise."Breathless they waited for these latest words,That like the soft wind of the gathering nightWere grown to be: about the mast flew birdsMaking their moan, hovering long-winged and white;And now before their straining anxious sightThe old man faded out into the air,And from his place flew forth a sea-mew fair.Then to the Mighty Man, Alcmena's son,With yearning hearts they turned till he should speak,And he spake softly: "Nought ill have ye doneIn helping me to find what I did seek:The world made better by me knows if weakMy hand and heart are: but now, light the fireUpon the prow and worship the grey sire."So did they; and such gifts as there they hadGave unto Nereus; yea, and sooth to say,Amid the tumult of their hearts made glad,Had honoured Hercules in e'en such way;But he laughed out amid them, and said, "Nay,Not yet the end is come; nor have I yetBowed down before vain longing and regret."It may be—who shall tell, when I go backThere whence I came, and looking down beholdThe place that my once eager heart shall lack,And all my dead desires a-lying cold,But I may have the might then to enfoldThe hopes of brave men in my heart?—but longLife lies before first with its change and wrong."So fair along the watery ways they spedIn happy wise, nor failed of their return;Nor failed in ancient Tyre the ways to tread,Teaching their tale to whomsoever would learn,Nor failed at last the flesh of beasts to burnIn Nereus' house, turned toward the bright day's endOn the last ness, round which the wild goats wend.

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