EUROPA

“Milanion, seven years ago this dayYou overcame me by a golden fraud,Traitor, and see I crown your cup with flowers,With violets and white sorrel from dim haunts,—A fair libation—ask you to what God?To Artemis, to Artemis my Queen.Not by my will did you escape the spearThough piteous I might be for your glad life,Husband, and for your foolish love: the GodsWho heard your vows had care of you: I stoopedHalf toward the beauty of the shining thingThrough some blind motion of an instant joy,—As when our babe reached arms to pluck the moonA great, round fruit between dark apple-boughs,—And half, marking your wile, to fling awayNeedless advantage, conquer carelessly,And pass the goal with one light finger-touchJust while you leaned forth the bent body’s lengthTo reach it. Could I guess I strove with three,With Aphrodite, Eros, and the third—Milanion? There upon the maple-postYour right hand rested: the event had sprungComplete from darkness, and possessed the worldEre yet conceived: upon the edge of doomI stood with foot arrested and blind heart,Aware of nought save some unmastered fateAnd reddening neck and brow. I heard you cry‘Judgment, both umpires!’ saw you stand erect,Panting, and with a face so glad, so greatIt shone through all my dull bewildermentA beautiful uncomprehended joy,One perfect thing and bright in a strange world.But when I looked to see my father shamed,A-choke with rage and words of proper scorn,He nodded, and the beard upon his breastPulled twice or thrice, well-pleased, and laughed aloud,And while the wrinkles gathered round his eyesCried ‘Girl, well done! My brother’s son retainShrewd head upon your shoulders! Maidens ho!A veil for Atalanta, and a zoneMale fingers may unclasp! Lead home the bride,Prepare the nuptial chamber!’ At his wordMy life turned round: too great the shame had grownWith all men leagued to mock me. Could I stay,Confront the vulgar gladness of the worldAt high emprise defeated, a free lifeTethered, light dimmed, a virtue singularSubdued to ways of common use and wont?Must I become the men’s familiar jest,The comment of the matron-guild? I turned,I sought the woods, sought silence, solitude,Green depths divine, where the soft-footed ounceLurks, and the light deer comes and drinks and goes,Familiar paths in which the mind might gainFooting, and haply from a vantage-groundDrive this new fate an arm’s-length, hand’s-breadth offA little while, till certitude of sightAnd strength returned.At evening I went back,Walked past the idle groups at gossipry,Sought you, and laid my hand upon your wrist,Drew you apart, and with no shaken voiceSpoke, while the swift, hard strokes my heart out-beatSeemed growing audible, ‘Milanion,I am your wife for freedom and fair deeds:Choose: am I such an one a man could love?What need you? Some soft song to soothe your life,Or a clear cry at daybreak?’ And I ceased.How deemed you that first moment? That the GodsHad changed my heart? That I since morn had grownHaunter of Aphrodite’s golden shrine,Had kneeled before the victress, vowed my vow,Besought her pardon, ‘Aphrodite, grace!Accept the rueful Atalanta’s gifts,Rose wreaths and snow-white doves’?In the dim woodsThere is a sacred place, a solitudeWithin their solitude, a heart of strengthWithin their strength. The rocks are heaped aroundA goblet of great waters ever fedBy one swift stream which flings itself in airWith all the madness, mirth and melodyOf twenty rivulets gathered in the hillsWhere might escapes in gladness. Here the treesStrike deeper roots into the heart of earth,And hold more high communion with the heavens;Here in the hush of noon the silence broodsMore full of vague divinity; the lightSlow-changing and the shadows as they shiftSeem characters of some inscrutable law,And one who lingers long will almost hopeThe secret of the world may be surprisedEre he depart. It is a haunt belovedOf Artemis, the echoing rocks have heardHer laughter and her lore, and the brown streamFlashed, smitten by the splendour of her limbs.Hither I came; here turned, and dared confrontPursuing thoughts; here held my life at gaze,If ruined at least to clear loose wrack away,Study its lines of bare dismantlement,And shape a strict despair. With fixed hard lips,Dry-eyed, I set my face against the streamTo deal with fate; the play of woven lightGleaming and glancing on the rippled floodGrew to a tyranny; and one visioned faceWould glide into the circle of my sight,Would glide and pass away, so glad, so greatThe imminent joy it brought seemed charged with fear.I rose, and paced from trunk to trunk, brief trackThis way and that; at least my will maintainedHer law upon my limbs; they needs must turnAt the appointed limit. A keen cryRose from my heart—‘Toils of the world grow strong,‘Yield strength, yield strength to rend them to my hands;‘Be thou apparent, Queen! in dubious ways‘Lo my feet fail; cry down the forest glade,‘Pierce with thy voice the tangle and dark boughs,‘Call, and I follow thee.’What things made upMemorial for the Presence of the placeThenceforth to hold? Only the torrent’s leapEndlessly vibrating, monotonous rhythmOf the swift footstep pacing to and fro,Only a soul’s reiterated cryUnder the calm, controlling, ancient trees,And tutelary ward and watch of heavenFelt through steep inlets which the upper airsBlew wider.On the grass at last I laySeized by a peace divine, I know not how;Passive, yet never so possessed of power,Strong, yet content to feel not use my strengthSustained a babe upon the breasts of lifeYet armed with adult will, a shining spear.O strong deliverance of the larger lawWhich strove not with the less! impetuous youthCaught up in ampler force of womanhood!Co-operant ardours of joined lives! the callsOf heart to heart in chase of strenuous deeds!Virgin and wedded freedom not disjoined,And loyal married service to my Queen!Husband, have lesser gains these seven good yearsBeen yours because you chose no gracious maidWhose hands had woven in the women’s roomMany fair garments, while her dreaming heartHad prescience of the bridal; one whose claims,Tender exactions feminine, had pleasedFond husband, one whose gentle gifts had pleased,Soft playful touches, little amorous words,Untutored thoughts that widened up toward yours,With trustful homage of uplifted eyes,And sweetest sorrows lightly comforted?Have we two challenged each the other’s heartToo highly? Have our joys been all too large,No gleaming gems on finger or on neckA man may turn and touch caressingly,But ampler than this heaven we stand beneath—Wide wings of Presences august? Our lives,Were it not better they had stood apartA little space, letting the sweet sense growOf distance bridged by love? Had that full calm,—I may not question since you call it true,—Found in some rightness of a woman’s will,Been gladder through perturbing touch of doubt,By brief unrest made exquisitely awareOf all its dear possession? Have our eyesMet with too calm directness—soul to soulTurned with the unerroneous long regard,Until no stuff remains for dreams to weave,Nought but unmeasured faithfulness, clear depthsPierced by the sun, and yielding to the eyeWhich searches, yet not fathoms? Did my lipsLay on your lips too great a pledge of loveWith awe too rapturous? Teach me how I fail,Recount what things your life has missed through me,Appease me with new needs; my strength is weakTrembling toward perfect service.”In her eyesTears stood and utterance ceased. Wondering the boyParthenopœus stopped his play and gazed.

Not by my will did you escape the spearThough piteous I might be for your glad life,Husband, and for your foolish love: the GodsWho heard your vows had care of you: I stoopedHalf toward the beauty of the shining thingThrough some blind motion of an instant joy,—As when our babe reached arms to pluck the moonA great, round fruit between dark apple-boughs,—And half, marking your wile, to fling awayNeedless advantage, conquer carelessly,And pass the goal with one light finger-touchJust while you leaned forth the bent body’s lengthTo reach it. Could I guess I strove with three,With Aphrodite, Eros, and the third—Milanion? There upon the maple-postYour right hand rested: the event had sprungComplete from darkness, and possessed the worldEre yet conceived: upon the edge of doomI stood with foot arrested and blind heart,Aware of nought save some unmastered fateAnd reddening neck and brow. I heard you cry‘Judgment, both umpires!’ saw you stand erect,Panting, and with a face so glad, so greatIt shone through all my dull bewildermentA beautiful uncomprehended joy,One perfect thing and bright in a strange world.But when I looked to see my father shamed,A-choke with rage and words of proper scorn,He nodded, and the beard upon his breastPulled twice or thrice, well-pleased, and laughed aloud,And while the wrinkles gathered round his eyesCried ‘Girl, well done! My brother’s son retainShrewd head upon your shoulders! Maidens ho!A veil for Atalanta, and a zoneMale fingers may unclasp! Lead home the bride,Prepare the nuptial chamber!’ At his wordMy life turned round: too great the shame had grownWith all men leagued to mock me. Could I stay,Confront the vulgar gladness of the worldAt high emprise defeated, a free lifeTethered, light dimmed, a virtue singularSubdued to ways of common use and wont?Must I become the men’s familiar jest,The comment of the matron-guild? I turned,I sought the woods, sought silence, solitude,Green depths divine, where the soft-footed ounceLurks, and the light deer comes and drinks and goes,Familiar paths in which the mind might gainFooting, and haply from a vantage-groundDrive this new fate an arm’s-length, hand’s-breadth offA little while, till certitude of sightAnd strength returned.

At evening I went back,Walked past the idle groups at gossipry,Sought you, and laid my hand upon your wrist,Drew you apart, and with no shaken voiceSpoke, while the swift, hard strokes my heart out-beatSeemed growing audible, ‘Milanion,I am your wife for freedom and fair deeds:Choose: am I such an one a man could love?What need you? Some soft song to soothe your life,Or a clear cry at daybreak?’ And I ceased.How deemed you that first moment? That the GodsHad changed my heart? That I since morn had grownHaunter of Aphrodite’s golden shrine,Had kneeled before the victress, vowed my vow,Besought her pardon, ‘Aphrodite, grace!Accept the rueful Atalanta’s gifts,Rose wreaths and snow-white doves’?

In the dim woodsThere is a sacred place, a solitudeWithin their solitude, a heart of strengthWithin their strength. The rocks are heaped aroundA goblet of great waters ever fedBy one swift stream which flings itself in airWith all the madness, mirth and melodyOf twenty rivulets gathered in the hillsWhere might escapes in gladness. Here the treesStrike deeper roots into the heart of earth,And hold more high communion with the heavens;Here in the hush of noon the silence broodsMore full of vague divinity; the lightSlow-changing and the shadows as they shiftSeem characters of some inscrutable law,And one who lingers long will almost hopeThe secret of the world may be surprisedEre he depart. It is a haunt belovedOf Artemis, the echoing rocks have heardHer laughter and her lore, and the brown streamFlashed, smitten by the splendour of her limbs.Hither I came; here turned, and dared confrontPursuing thoughts; here held my life at gaze,If ruined at least to clear loose wrack away,Study its lines of bare dismantlement,And shape a strict despair. With fixed hard lips,Dry-eyed, I set my face against the streamTo deal with fate; the play of woven lightGleaming and glancing on the rippled floodGrew to a tyranny; and one visioned faceWould glide into the circle of my sight,Would glide and pass away, so glad, so greatThe imminent joy it brought seemed charged with fear.I rose, and paced from trunk to trunk, brief trackThis way and that; at least my will maintainedHer law upon my limbs; they needs must turnAt the appointed limit. A keen cryRose from my heart—‘Toils of the world grow strong,‘Yield strength, yield strength to rend them to my hands;‘Be thou apparent, Queen! in dubious ways‘Lo my feet fail; cry down the forest glade,‘Pierce with thy voice the tangle and dark boughs,‘Call, and I follow thee.’

What things made upMemorial for the Presence of the placeThenceforth to hold? Only the torrent’s leapEndlessly vibrating, monotonous rhythmOf the swift footstep pacing to and fro,Only a soul’s reiterated cryUnder the calm, controlling, ancient trees,And tutelary ward and watch of heavenFelt through steep inlets which the upper airsBlew wider.

On the grass at last I laySeized by a peace divine, I know not how;Passive, yet never so possessed of power,Strong, yet content to feel not use my strengthSustained a babe upon the breasts of lifeYet armed with adult will, a shining spear.O strong deliverance of the larger lawWhich strove not with the less! impetuous youthCaught up in ampler force of womanhood!Co-operant ardours of joined lives! the callsOf heart to heart in chase of strenuous deeds!Virgin and wedded freedom not disjoined,And loyal married service to my Queen!

Husband, have lesser gains these seven good yearsBeen yours because you chose no gracious maidWhose hands had woven in the women’s roomMany fair garments, while her dreaming heartHad prescience of the bridal; one whose claims,Tender exactions feminine, had pleasedFond husband, one whose gentle gifts had pleased,Soft playful touches, little amorous words,Untutored thoughts that widened up toward yours,With trustful homage of uplifted eyes,And sweetest sorrows lightly comforted?Have we two challenged each the other’s heartToo highly? Have our joys been all too large,No gleaming gems on finger or on neckA man may turn and touch caressingly,But ampler than this heaven we stand beneath—Wide wings of Presences august? Our lives,Were it not better they had stood apartA little space, letting the sweet sense growOf distance bridged by love? Had that full calm,—I may not question since you call it true,—Found in some rightness of a woman’s will,Been gladder through perturbing touch of doubt,By brief unrest made exquisitely awareOf all its dear possession? Have our eyesMet with too calm directness—soul to soulTurned with the unerroneous long regard,Until no stuff remains for dreams to weave,Nought but unmeasured faithfulness, clear depthsPierced by the sun, and yielding to the eyeWhich searches, yet not fathoms? Did my lipsLay on your lips too great a pledge of loveWith awe too rapturous? Teach me how I fail,Recount what things your life has missed through me,Appease me with new needs; my strength is weakTrembling toward perfect service.”

In her eyesTears stood and utterance ceased. Wondering the boyParthenopœus stopped his play and gazed.

“He stood with head erect fronting the herd;At the first sight of him I knew the GodAnd had no fear. The grass is sweet and longUp the east land backed by a pale blue heaven:Grey, shining gravel shelves toward the seaWhich sang and sparkled; between these he stood,Beautiful, with imperious head, firm foot,And eyes resolved on present victory,Which swerved not from the full acquist of joy,Calmly triumphant. Did I see at allThe creamy hide, deep dewlap, little horns,Or hear the girls describe them? I beheldZeus, and the law of my completed life.Therefore the ravishment of some great calmPossessed me, and I could not basely startOr scream; if there was terror in my breastIt was to see the inevitable blissIn prone descent from heaven; apart I livedHeld in some solitude, intense and clear,Even while amid the frolic girls I stoopedAnd praised the flowers we gathered, they and I,Pink-streaked convolvulus the warm sand bears,Orchids, dark poppies with the crumpled leaf,And reeds and giant rushes from a pondWhere the blue dragon-fly shimmers and shifts.All these were notes of music, harmoniesFashioned to underlie a resonant song,Which sang how no more days of flower-cullingLittle Europa must desire; henceforthThe large needs of the world resumed her life,So her least joy must be no trivial thing,But ordered as the motion of the stars,Or grand incline of sun-flower to the sun.By this the God was near; my soul waxed strong,And wider orbed the vision of the worldAs fate drew nigh. He stooped, all gentleness,Inviting touches of the tender hands,And wore the wreaths they twisted round his hornsIn lordly-playful wise, me all this whileSummoning by great mandates at my heart,Which silenced every less authentic call,Away, away, from girlhood, home, sweet friends,The daily dictates of my mother’s will,Agenor’s cherishing hand, and all the waysOf the calm household. I would fain have feltSome ruth to part from these, the tender tiesSevering with thrills of passion. Can I blameMy heart for light surrender of things dear,And hardness of a little selfish soul?Nay: the decree of joy was over me,There was the altar, I, the sacrificeForedoomed to life, not death; the victim boundLooked for the stroke, the world’s one fact for her,The blissful consummation: straight to thisHer course had tended from the hour of birth.Even till this careless morn of maidenhoodA sudden splendour changed to life’s high noon:For this my mother taught me gracious things,My father’s thoughts had dealt with me, for thisThe least flower blossomed, the least cloud went by,All things conspired for this; the glad eventSummed my full past and held it, as the fruitHolds the fair sequence of the bud and flowerIn soft matureness.Now he bent the knee;I never doubted of my part to do,Nor lingered idly, since to veil commandIn tender invitation pleased my lord;I sat, and round his neck one arm I laidBeyond all chance secure. Whether my weightOr the soft pressure of the encircling armQuickened in him some unexpected blissI know not, but his flight was one steep rush.O uncontrollable and joyous rage!O splendour of the multitudinous sea!Swift foam about my feet, the eager strokeOf the strong swimmer, new sea-creatures brave,And uproar of blown conch, and shouting lipsUnder the open heaven; till Crete rose fairWith steadfast shining peak, and promontories.Shed not a leaf, O plane-tree, not a leaf,Let sacred shadow, and slumbrous sound remainAlway, where Zeus looked down upon his bride.”

By this the God was near; my soul waxed strong,And wider orbed the vision of the worldAs fate drew nigh. He stooped, all gentleness,Inviting touches of the tender hands,And wore the wreaths they twisted round his hornsIn lordly-playful wise, me all this whileSummoning by great mandates at my heart,Which silenced every less authentic call,Away, away, from girlhood, home, sweet friends,The daily dictates of my mother’s will,Agenor’s cherishing hand, and all the waysOf the calm household. I would fain have feltSome ruth to part from these, the tender tiesSevering with thrills of passion. Can I blameMy heart for light surrender of things dear,And hardness of a little selfish soul?Nay: the decree of joy was over me,There was the altar, I, the sacrificeForedoomed to life, not death; the victim boundLooked for the stroke, the world’s one fact for her,The blissful consummation: straight to thisHer course had tended from the hour of birth.Even till this careless morn of maidenhoodA sudden splendour changed to life’s high noon:For this my mother taught me gracious things,My father’s thoughts had dealt with me, for thisThe least flower blossomed, the least cloud went by,All things conspired for this; the glad eventSummed my full past and held it, as the fruitHolds the fair sequence of the bud and flowerIn soft matureness.

Now he bent the knee;I never doubted of my part to do,Nor lingered idly, since to veil commandIn tender invitation pleased my lord;I sat, and round his neck one arm I laidBeyond all chance secure. Whether my weightOr the soft pressure of the encircling armQuickened in him some unexpected blissI know not, but his flight was one steep rush.O uncontrollable and joyous rage!O splendour of the multitudinous sea!Swift foam about my feet, the eager strokeOf the strong swimmer, new sea-creatures brave,And uproar of blown conch, and shouting lipsUnder the open heaven; till Crete rose fairWith steadfast shining peak, and promontories.

Shed not a leaf, O plane-tree, not a leaf,Let sacred shadow, and slumbrous sound remainAlway, where Zeus looked down upon his bride.”

“This is my joy—that when my soul had wroughtHer single victory over fate and fear,He came, who was deliverance. At the first,Though the rough-bearded fellows bruised my wristsHolding them backwards while they drove the bolts,And stared around my body, workman-like,I did not argue nor bewail; but whenThe flash and dip of equal oars had passed,And I was left a thing for sky and seaTo encircle, gaze on, wonder at, not save—The clear resolve which I had grasped and held,Slipped as a dew-drop slips from some flower-cupO’erweighted, and I longed to cry aloudOne sharp, great cry, and scatter the fixed will,In fond self-pity. Have you watched night-long,Above a face from which the life recedes,And seen death set his seal before the dawn?You do not shriek and clasp the hands, but justWhen morning finds the world once more all goodAnd ready for wave’s leap and swallow’s flight,There comes a drift from undiscovered flowers,A drone of sailing bee, a dance of lightAmong the awakened leaves, a touch, a tang,A nameless nothing, and the world turns round,And the full soul runs over, and tears flow,And it is seen a piteous thing to die.So fared it there with me; the ripple ranCrisp to my feet; the tufted sea-pink bloomedFrom a cleft rock, I saw the insects dropFrom blossom into blossom; and the wideIntolerable splendour of the sea,Calm in a liquid hush of summer morn,Girdled me, and no cloud relieved the sky.I had refused to drink the proffered wineBefore they bound me, and my strength was lessThan needful: yet the cry escaped not, yetMy purpose had not fallen abroad in ruin;Only the perfect knowledge I had wonOf things which fate decreed deserted me,The vision I had held of life and deathWas blurred by some vague mist of piteousness,Nor could I lean upon a steadfast will.Therefore I closed both eyes resolved to searchBackwards across the abysm, and find Death there,And hold him with my hand, and scan his faceBy my own choice, and read his strict intentOn lip and brow,—not hunted to his feetAnd cowering slavewise; ‘Death,’ I whispered, ‘Death,’Calling him whom I needed: and he came.Wherefore record the travail of the soulThrough darkness to grey light, the cloudy war,The austere calm, the bitter victory?It seemed that I had mastered fate, and held,Still with shut eyes, the passion of my heartCompressed, and cast the election of my willInto that scale made heavy with the woeOf all the world, and fair relinquished lives.Suddenly the broad sea was vibrated,And the air shaken with confused noiseNot like the steadfast plash and creak of oars,And higher on my foot the ripple slid.The monster was abroad beneath the sun.This therefore was the moment—could my soulSustain her trial? And the soul repliedA swift, sure ‘Yes’: yet must I look forth once,Confront my anguish, nor drop blindly downFrom horror into horror: and I looked—O thou deliverance, thou bright victoryI saw thee, and was saved! The middle airWas cleft by thy impatience of revenge,Thy zeal to render freedom to things bound:The conquest sitting on thy brow, the joyOf thy unerring flight became to meNowise mere hope, but full enfranchisement.A sculptor of the isles has carved the deedUpon a temple’s frieze; the maiden chainedLifts one free arm across her eyes to hideThe terror of the moment, and her headSideways averted writhes the slender neck:While with a careless grace in flying curve,And glad like Hermes in his aery poise,Toward the gaping throat a youth extendsThe sword held lightly. When to sacrificeI pass at morn with my tall Sthenelos,I smile, but do not speak. No! when my gazeFirst met him I was saved; because the worldCould hold so brave a creature I was free:Here one had come with not my father’s eyesWhich darkened to the clamour of the crowd,And gave a grieved assent; not with the eyesOf anguish-stricken Cassiopeia, dryAnd staring as I passed her to the boat.Was not the beauty of his strength and youthWarrant for many good things in the worldWhich could not be so poor while nourishing him?What faithlessness of heart could countervailThe witness of that brow? What dastard chains?Did he not testify of sovereign powersO’ermatching evil, awful charitiesWhich save and slay, the terror of clear joy,Unquenchable intolerance of ill,Order subduing chaos, beauty pledgedTo conquest of all foul deformities?And was there need to turn my head aside,I, who had one sole thing to do, no more,To watch the deed? I know the careless graceMy Perseus wears in manage of the steed,Or shooting the swift disc: not such the modeOf that victorious moment of descentWhen the large tranquil might his soul containsWas gathered for a swift abolishmentOf proud brute-tyranny. He seemed in airA shining spear which hisses in its speedAnd smites through boss and breastplate. Did he seeAndromeda, who never glanced at herBut set his face against the evil thing?I know not; yet one truth I may not doubtHow ere the wallowing monster blind and vastTurned a white belly to the sun, he stoodBeside me with some word of comfort strongNourishing the heart like choral harmonies.O this was then my joy, that I could giveA soul not saved from wretched female fright,Or anarchy of self-abandoned will,But one which had achieved deliverance,And wrought with shaping hands among the stuffWhich fate presented. Had I shrunk from Death?Might I not therefore unashamed accept—In a calm wonder of unfaltering joy—Life, the fair gift he laid before my feet?Somewhat a partner of his deed I seemed;His equal? Nay, yet upright at his sideScarce lower by a head and helmet’s heightTouching my Perseus’ shoulder.He has wroughtGreat deeds. Athena loves to honour him;And I have borne him sons. Look, yonder goesLifting the bow, Eleios, the last-born.”

Wherefore record the travail of the soulThrough darkness to grey light, the cloudy war,The austere calm, the bitter victory?It seemed that I had mastered fate, and held,Still with shut eyes, the passion of my heartCompressed, and cast the election of my willInto that scale made heavy with the woeOf all the world, and fair relinquished lives.Suddenly the broad sea was vibrated,And the air shaken with confused noiseNot like the steadfast plash and creak of oars,And higher on my foot the ripple slid.The monster was abroad beneath the sun.This therefore was the moment—could my soulSustain her trial? And the soul repliedA swift, sure ‘Yes’: yet must I look forth once,Confront my anguish, nor drop blindly downFrom horror into horror: and I looked—O thou deliverance, thou bright victoryI saw thee, and was saved! The middle airWas cleft by thy impatience of revenge,Thy zeal to render freedom to things bound:The conquest sitting on thy brow, the joyOf thy unerring flight became to meNowise mere hope, but full enfranchisement.A sculptor of the isles has carved the deedUpon a temple’s frieze; the maiden chainedLifts one free arm across her eyes to hideThe terror of the moment, and her headSideways averted writhes the slender neck:While with a careless grace in flying curve,And glad like Hermes in his aery poise,Toward the gaping throat a youth extendsThe sword held lightly. When to sacrificeI pass at morn with my tall Sthenelos,I smile, but do not speak. No! when my gazeFirst met him I was saved; because the worldCould hold so brave a creature I was free:Here one had come with not my father’s eyesWhich darkened to the clamour of the crowd,And gave a grieved assent; not with the eyesOf anguish-stricken Cassiopeia, dryAnd staring as I passed her to the boat.Was not the beauty of his strength and youthWarrant for many good things in the worldWhich could not be so poor while nourishing him?What faithlessness of heart could countervailThe witness of that brow? What dastard chains?Did he not testify of sovereign powersO’ermatching evil, awful charitiesWhich save and slay, the terror of clear joy,Unquenchable intolerance of ill,Order subduing chaos, beauty pledgedTo conquest of all foul deformities?And was there need to turn my head aside,I, who had one sole thing to do, no more,To watch the deed? I know the careless graceMy Perseus wears in manage of the steed,Or shooting the swift disc: not such the modeOf that victorious moment of descentWhen the large tranquil might his soul containsWas gathered for a swift abolishmentOf proud brute-tyranny. He seemed in airA shining spear which hisses in its speedAnd smites through boss and breastplate. Did he seeAndromeda, who never glanced at herBut set his face against the evil thing?I know not; yet one truth I may not doubtHow ere the wallowing monster blind and vastTurned a white belly to the sun, he stoodBeside me with some word of comfort strongNourishing the heart like choral harmonies.O this was then my joy, that I could giveA soul not saved from wretched female fright,Or anarchy of self-abandoned will,But one which had achieved deliverance,And wrought with shaping hands among the stuffWhich fate presented. Had I shrunk from Death?Might I not therefore unashamed accept—In a calm wonder of unfaltering joy—Life, the fair gift he laid before my feet?Somewhat a partner of his deed I seemed;His equal? Nay, yet upright at his sideScarce lower by a head and helmet’s heightTouching my Perseus’ shoulder.

He has wroughtGreat deeds. Athena loves to honour him;And I have borne him sons. Look, yonder goesLifting the bow, Eleios, the last-born.”

“Now must this waste of vain desire have end:Fetter these thoughts which traverse to and froThe road which has no issue! We are judged.O wherefore could I not uphold his heart?Why claimed I not some partnership with himIn the strict test, urging my right of wife?How have I let him fall? I, knowing theeMy Orpheus, bounteous giver of rich gifts,Not all inured in practice of the will,Worthier than I, yet weaker to sustainAn inner certitude against the blankAnd silence of the senses; so no moreMy heart helps thine, and henceforth there remainsNo gift to thee from me, who would give all,Only the memory of me growing faintUntil I seem a thing incredible,Some high, sweet dream, which was not, nor could be.Ay, and in idle fields of asphodelMust it not be that I shall fade indeed,No memory of me, but myself; these handsCeasing from mastery and use, my thoughtsLosing distinction in the vague, sweet air,The heart’s swift pulses slackening to the sobOf the forgetful river, with no deedPre-eminent to dare and to achieve,No joy for climbing to, no clear resolveFrom which the soul swerves never, no ill thingTo rid the world of, till I am no moreEurydice, and shouldst thou at thy timeDescend, and hope to find a helpmate here,I were grown slavish, like the girls men buySoft-bodied, foolish-faced, luxurious-eyed,And meet to be another thing than wife.Would that it had been thus: when the song ceasedAnd laughterless Aidoneus lifted upThe face, and turned his grave persistent eyesUpon the singer, I had forward steppedAnd spoken—‘King! he has wrought well, nor failed,Who ever heard divine large song like this,Keener than sunbeam, wider than the air,And shapely as the mould of faultless fruit?And now his heart upon the gale of songSoars with wide wing, and he is strong for flight,Not strong for treading with the careful foot:Grant me the naked trial of the willDivested of all colour, scents and song:The deed concerns the wife; I claim my share.’O then because Persephone was byWith shadowed eyes when Orpheus sang of flowers,He would have yielded. And I stepping forthFrom the clear radiance of the singer’s heights,Made calm through vision of his wider truth,And strengthened by deep beauty to hold fastThe presences of the invisible things,Had led the way. I know how in that moodHe leans on me as babe on mother’s breast,Nor could he choose but let his foot descendWhere mine left lightest pressure; so are passedThe brute three-visaged, and the flowerless ways,Nor have I turned my head; and now beholdThe greyness of remote terrestrial light,And I step swifter. Does he follow still?O surely since his will embraces mineCloser than clinging hand can clasp a hand:No need to turn and dull with visible proofThe certitude that soul relies on soul!So speed we to the day; and now we touchWarm grass, and drink the Sun. O Earth, O Sun,Not you I need, but Orpheus’ breast, and weepThe gladdest tears that ever woman shed,And may be weak awhile, and need to knowThe sustenance and comfort of his arms.Self-foolery of dreams; come bitter truth.Yet he has sung at least a perfect songWhile the Gods heard him, and I stood besideO not applauding, but at last content,Fearless for him, and calm through perfect joy,Seeing at length his foot upon the heightsOf highest song, by me discerned from far,Now suddenly attained in confidentAnd errorless ascension. Did I askThe lesser joy, lips’ touch and clasping arms,Or was not this salvation? For I urgedAlways, in jealous service to his art,‘Now thou hast told their secrets to the treesOf which they muse through lullèd summer nights;Thou hast gazed downwards in the formless gulfOf the brute-mind, and canst control the willOf snake, and brooding panther fiery-eyed,And lark in middle heaven: leave these behind!And let some careless singer of the fieldsSet to the shallow sound of cymbal-strokeThe Faun a-dance; some less true-tempered soul,Which cannot shape to harmony augustThe splendour and the tumult of the world,Inflame to frenzy of delirious rageThe Mœnad’s breast; yea, and the hearts of men,Smoke of whose fire upcurls from little roofs,Let singers of the wine-cup and the roast,The whirling spear, the toy-like chariot-race,And bickering counsel of contending kingsDelight them: leave thou these; sing thou for Gods.’And thou hast sung for Gods; and I have heard.I shall not fade beneath this sunless sky,Mixed in the wandering, ineffectual tribe;For these have known no moment when the soulStood vindicated, laying sudden handsOn immortality of joy, and loveWhich sought not, saw not, knew not, could not knowThe instruments of sense; I shall not fade.Yea, and thy face detains me evermoreWithin the realm of light. Love, wherefore blameThy heart because it sought me? Could the years’Whole sum of various fashioned happinessExceed the measure of that eager faceImportunate and pure, still lit with song,Turning from song to comfort of my love,And thirsty for my presence? We are saved!Yield Heracles, thou brawn and thews of Zeus,Yield up thy glory on Thessalian ground,Competitor of Death in single strife!The lyre methinks outdoes the club and fist,And beauty’s ingress the outrageous forceOf tyrant though beneficent; supremeThis feat remains, a memory shaped for Gods.Nor canst thou wholly lose me from thy life;Still I am with thee; still my hand keeps thine;Now I restrain from too intemperate griefBeing a portion of the thoughts that claimThy service; now I urge with that good painWhich wastes and feeds the spirit, a desireUnending; now I lurk within thy willAs vigour; now am gleaming through the worldAs beauty; and if greater thoughts must layTheir solemn light on thee, outshining mine,And in some far faint-gleaming hour of HellI stand unknown and muffled by the boatLeaning an eager ear to catch some speechOf thee, and if some comer tell aloudHow Orpheus who had loved EurydiceWas summoned by the Gods to fill with joyAnd clamour of celestial song the courtsOf bright Olympus,—I, with pang of prideAnd pain dissolved in rapture, will returnAppeased, with sense of conquest stern and high.”But while she spoke, upon a chestnut trunkFallen from cliffs of Thracian RhodopeSat Orpheus, for he deemed himself alone,And sang. But bands of wild-eyed women roamedThe hills, whom he had passed with calm disdain.And now the shrilling Berecynthian pipeSounded, blown horn, and frantic female cries:He ceased from song and looked for the event.

Would that it had been thus: when the song ceasedAnd laughterless Aidoneus lifted upThe face, and turned his grave persistent eyesUpon the singer, I had forward steppedAnd spoken—‘King! he has wrought well, nor failed,Who ever heard divine large song like this,Keener than sunbeam, wider than the air,And shapely as the mould of faultless fruit?And now his heart upon the gale of songSoars with wide wing, and he is strong for flight,Not strong for treading with the careful foot:Grant me the naked trial of the willDivested of all colour, scents and song:The deed concerns the wife; I claim my share.’O then because Persephone was byWith shadowed eyes when Orpheus sang of flowers,He would have yielded. And I stepping forthFrom the clear radiance of the singer’s heights,Made calm through vision of his wider truth,And strengthened by deep beauty to hold fastThe presences of the invisible things,Had led the way. I know how in that moodHe leans on me as babe on mother’s breast,Nor could he choose but let his foot descendWhere mine left lightest pressure; so are passedThe brute three-visaged, and the flowerless ways,Nor have I turned my head; and now beholdThe greyness of remote terrestrial light,And I step swifter. Does he follow still?O surely since his will embraces mineCloser than clinging hand can clasp a hand:No need to turn and dull with visible proofThe certitude that soul relies on soul!So speed we to the day; and now we touchWarm grass, and drink the Sun. O Earth, O Sun,Not you I need, but Orpheus’ breast, and weepThe gladdest tears that ever woman shed,And may be weak awhile, and need to knowThe sustenance and comfort of his arms.

Self-foolery of dreams; come bitter truth.Yet he has sung at least a perfect songWhile the Gods heard him, and I stood besideO not applauding, but at last content,Fearless for him, and calm through perfect joy,Seeing at length his foot upon the heightsOf highest song, by me discerned from far,Now suddenly attained in confidentAnd errorless ascension. Did I askThe lesser joy, lips’ touch and clasping arms,Or was not this salvation? For I urgedAlways, in jealous service to his art,‘Now thou hast told their secrets to the treesOf which they muse through lullèd summer nights;Thou hast gazed downwards in the formless gulfOf the brute-mind, and canst control the willOf snake, and brooding panther fiery-eyed,And lark in middle heaven: leave these behind!And let some careless singer of the fieldsSet to the shallow sound of cymbal-strokeThe Faun a-dance; some less true-tempered soul,Which cannot shape to harmony augustThe splendour and the tumult of the world,Inflame to frenzy of delirious rageThe Mœnad’s breast; yea, and the hearts of men,Smoke of whose fire upcurls from little roofs,Let singers of the wine-cup and the roast,The whirling spear, the toy-like chariot-race,And bickering counsel of contending kingsDelight them: leave thou these; sing thou for Gods.’And thou hast sung for Gods; and I have heard.

I shall not fade beneath this sunless sky,Mixed in the wandering, ineffectual tribe;For these have known no moment when the soulStood vindicated, laying sudden handsOn immortality of joy, and loveWhich sought not, saw not, knew not, could not knowThe instruments of sense; I shall not fade.Yea, and thy face detains me evermoreWithin the realm of light. Love, wherefore blameThy heart because it sought me? Could the years’Whole sum of various fashioned happinessExceed the measure of that eager faceImportunate and pure, still lit with song,Turning from song to comfort of my love,And thirsty for my presence? We are saved!Yield Heracles, thou brawn and thews of Zeus,Yield up thy glory on Thessalian ground,Competitor of Death in single strife!The lyre methinks outdoes the club and fist,And beauty’s ingress the outrageous forceOf tyrant though beneficent; supremeThis feat remains, a memory shaped for Gods.

Nor canst thou wholly lose me from thy life;Still I am with thee; still my hand keeps thine;Now I restrain from too intemperate griefBeing a portion of the thoughts that claimThy service; now I urge with that good painWhich wastes and feeds the spirit, a desireUnending; now I lurk within thy willAs vigour; now am gleaming through the worldAs beauty; and if greater thoughts must layTheir solemn light on thee, outshining mine,And in some far faint-gleaming hour of HellI stand unknown and muffled by the boatLeaning an eager ear to catch some speechOf thee, and if some comer tell aloudHow Orpheus who had loved EurydiceWas summoned by the Gods to fill with joyAnd clamour of celestial song the courtsOf bright Olympus,—I, with pang of prideAnd pain dissolved in rapture, will returnAppeased, with sense of conquest stern and high.”

But while she spoke, upon a chestnut trunkFallen from cliffs of Thracian RhodopeSat Orpheus, for he deemed himself alone,And sang. But bands of wild-eyed women roamedThe hills, whom he had passed with calm disdain.And now the shrilling Berecynthian pipeSounded, blown horn, and frantic female cries:He ceased from song and looked for the event.

Whywould the open sky not be deniedPossession of me, when I sat to-dayRock-couched, and round my feet the soft slave lay,My singing Sea, dark-bosom’d, dusky-eyed?She breathed low mystery of song, she sighed,And stirred herself, and set lithe limbs to playIn blandishing serpent-wreaths, and would betrayAn anklet gleaming, or a swaying side.Why could she not detain me? Why must IDevote myself to the dread Heaven, adoreThe spacious pureness, the large ardour? whySprang forth my heart as though all wanderingsHad end? To what last bliss did I upsoarBeating on indefatigable wings?

Tenderimpatience quickening, quickening;O heart within me that art grown a sea,How vexed with longing all thy live waves be,How broken with desire! A ceaseless wingO’er every green sea-ridge goes fluttering,And there are cries and long reluctancy,Swift ardours, and the clash of waters free,Fain for the coming of some perfect Thing.Emerge white Wonder, be thou born a Queen!Let shine the splendours of thy lovelinessFrom the brow’s radiance to the equal poiseOf calm, victorious feet; let thy sereneCommand go forth; replenish with strong joysThe spaces and the sea-deeps measureless.

Whoare chief counsellors of me? Who knowMy heart’s desire and every secret thing?Three of one fellowship: the encompassingStrong Sea, who mindful of Earth’s ancient woeStill surges on with swift, undaunted flowThat no sad shore should lack his comforting;And next the serene Sky, whether he ringWith flawless blue a wilderness, or showTranced in the Twilight’s arms his fair child-star;Third of the three, eldest and lordliest,Love, all whose wings are wide above my head,Whose eyes are clearer heavens, whose lips have saidLow words more rare than the quired sea-songs are,—O Love, high things and stern thou counsellest.

Lightebbs from off the Earth; the fields are strange,Dusk, trackless, tenantless; now the mute skyResigns itself to Night and Memory,And no wind will yon sunken clouds derange,No glory enrapture them; from cot or grangeThe rare voice ceases; one long-breathèd sigh,And steeped in summer sleep the world must lie;All things are acquiescing in the change.Hush! while the vaulted hollow of the nightDeepens, what voice is this the sea sends forth,Disconsolate iterance, a passionless moan?Ah! now the Day is gone, and tyrannous Light,And the calm presence of fruit-bearing Earth:Cry, Sea! it is thy hour; thou art alone.

Spring-tides of Pleasure in the blood, keen thrillOf eager nerves,—but ended as a dream;Look! the wind quickens, and the long waves gleamShoreward, and all this deep noon hour will fillEach lone sea-cave with mirth immeasurable,Huge sport of Ocean’s brood; yet eve’s red skyFades o’er spent waters, weltering sullenly,The dank piled weed, the sand-waste grey and still.Sad Pleasure in the moon’s control! But JoyIs stable; is discovered law; the birthOf dreadful light; life’s one imperative way;The rigour hid in song; flowers’ strict employWhich turn to meet their sun; the roll of EarthSwift and perpetual through the night and day.

Morethan bare mountains ’neath a naked sky,Or star-enchanted hollows of the nightWhen clouds are riven, or the most sacred lightOf summer dawns, art thou a mysteryAnd awe and terror and delight, O sea!Our Earth is simple-hearted, sad to-dayBeneath the hush of snow, next morning gayBecause west-winds have promised to the leaViolets and cuckoo-buds; and sweetly theseLive innocent lives, each flower in its green field,Joying as children in sun, air, and sleep.But thou art terrible, with the unrevealedBurden of dim lamentful prophecies,And thy lone life is passionate and deep.

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