OH LOVE! LOVE

Translation of a lyric in theHyppolytusof Euripides, and printed by J. P. Mahaffy in hisEuripides, 1879. Mr. Mahaffy writes: "Mr. Browning has honored me with the following translation of these stanzas, so that the general reader may not miss the meaning or the spirit of the ode. The English metre, though not a strict reproduction, gives an excellent idea of the original."

IOh Love! Love, thou that from the eyes diffusestYearning, and on the soul sweet grace inducest—Souls against whom thy hostile march is made—Never to me be manifest in ire,Nor, out of time and tune, my peace invade!Since neither from the fire—No, nor from the stars—is launched a bolt more mightyThan that of AphroditéHurled from the hands of Love, the boy with Zeus for sire.IIIdly, how idly, by the Alpheian riverAnd in the Pythian shrines of Phœbus, quiverBlood-offerings from the bull, which Hellas heaps:While Love we worship not—the Lord of men!Worship not him, the very key who keepsOf Aphrodité, whenShe closes up her dearest chamber-portals:—Love, when he comes to mortals,Wide-wasting, through those deeps of woes beyond the deep!

Oh Love! Love, thou that from the eyes diffusestYearning, and on the soul sweet grace inducest—Souls against whom thy hostile march is made—Never to me be manifest in ire,Nor, out of time and tune, my peace invade!Since neither from the fire—No, nor from the stars—is launched a bolt more mightyThan that of AphroditéHurled from the hands of Love, the boy with Zeus for sire.

Oh Love! Love, thou that from the eyes diffusest

Yearning, and on the soul sweet grace inducest—

Souls against whom thy hostile march is made—

Never to me be manifest in ire,

Nor, out of time and tune, my peace invade!

Since neither from the fire—

No, nor from the stars—is launched a bolt more mighty

Than that of Aphrodité

Hurled from the hands of Love, the boy with Zeus for sire.

Idly, how idly, by the Alpheian riverAnd in the Pythian shrines of Phœbus, quiverBlood-offerings from the bull, which Hellas heaps:While Love we worship not—the Lord of men!Worship not him, the very key who keepsOf Aphrodité, whenShe closes up her dearest chamber-portals:—Love, when he comes to mortals,Wide-wasting, through those deeps of woes beyond the deep!

Idly, how idly, by the Alpheian river

And in the Pythian shrines of Phœbus, quiver

Blood-offerings from the bull, which Hellas heaps:

While Love we worship not—the Lord of men!

Worship not him, the very key who keeps

Of Aphrodité, when

She closes up her dearest chamber-portals:

—Love, when he comes to mortals,

Wide-wasting, through those deeps of woes beyond the deep!

FIRST SERIES

TheDramatic Idyls, a group of poems which indicated a return to Browning's earlier manner, furnished the title for two successive volumes, the first series published in 1879, the second the year following. The poems in the first series were composed while Browning and his sister were sojourning in a mountain hotel near the summit of the Splügen Pass in the summer of 1878. So stimulated was Browning by the mountain air that he composed with extraordinary rapidity, even for him, bringing down upon himself his sister's determined caution.

My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago,On a bright May day, a strange old man, with a beard as white as snow,Stand on the hill outside our town like a monument of woe,And, striking his bare bald head the while, sob out the reason—so!If I last as long as Methuselah I shall never forgive myself:But—God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph,As coward, coward I call him—him, yes, him! Away from me!Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be!What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue?People have urged, "You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young!You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, "no time to regain your wits:Besides it had maybe cost your life." Ay, there is the cap which fits!So, cap me, the coward,—thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good:The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food.See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends,The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends!For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I,Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why,When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the biteOf a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I have balked him quite!I 'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they coopedUs peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hoopedBy the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sightAnd take the example,—see, not speak, for speech was the Captain's right."You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried he: "This woman about to dieGives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy.Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learnThat peasants should stick to their ploughtail, leave to the King the King's concern."Here 's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes:What call has a man of your kind—much less, a woman—to interpose?Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes—so much the worse!The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse."Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago,And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know.Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news,From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes."All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do!Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too.Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demureBetokens the finger foul with ink: 't is a woman who writes, be sure!"Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!'—good natural stuff, she pens?Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about cocks and hens,How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to griefThrough the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round casement in famous leaf.'"But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into 'Horrid the place is grownWith Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own:And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seekFor the second Company sure to come ('t is whispered) on Monday week.''And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder, you see, was out:Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about!Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign:But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign!"That traitors had played us false, was proved—sent news which fell so pat:And the murder was out—this letter of love, the sender of this sent that!'T is an ugly job, though, all the same—a hateful, to have to dealWith a case of the kind, when a woman 's in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel!"So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent ParkesWhom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King's own clerks,Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp:A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort—the scamp!"'If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks,And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels' books,Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime,Or martial law must take its course: this day next week 's the time!'"Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice!He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice!His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the noose still, here she standsTo pay for her fault. 'T is an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands."And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance shareThe folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware!Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives—Or sweethearts or what they may be—from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!"Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the Captain's face—the bruteWith the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit!He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear;He had but a handful of men, that 's true,—a riot might cost him dear.And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and faceBandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party's firing-place.I hope she was wholly with God: I hope 't was his angel stretched a handTo steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand.I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes,No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies—"Why did you leave me to die?"—"Because" ... Oh, fiends, too soon you grinAt merely a moment of hell, like that—such heaven as hell ended in!Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line.Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb,—for, of all eyes, only mineLooked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer,Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there.That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group:I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop!From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I tightened:Itouch ground?No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the fetters rust around!Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst—aught else but see, see, only see?And see I do—for there comes in sight—a man, it sure must be!—Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weightOn and on, anyhow onward—a man that's mad he arrives too late!Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head?Why does not he call, cry,—curse the fool!—why throw up his arms instead?O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay!Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he 's mad to say"?And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain,And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,—time 's over, repentance vain!They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no moreOf the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore.But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb,Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, not one of us saw him come!Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast?Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last?Dead! dead as she, by the selfsame shot: one bullet has ended both,Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth."Till death us do part?" Till death us do join past parting—that sounds likeBetrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike?I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers!There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain aversShe is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King's Arms broad engraved:No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she 's saved!And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break—plain it grewHow the week's delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true.It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and thenSuch pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lions' den!And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms—The license and leave: I make no doubt—what wonder if passion warmsThe pulse in a man if you play with his heart?—he was something hasty in speech;Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech!And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp,—what followed but fresh delays?For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways!And 't was "Halt there!" at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thickOf the redcoats: what did they care for him and his "Quick, for God's sake, quick!"Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked "You bragYourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a King's friend here your nag!"Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still,With their "Wait you must,—no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!"And a borough there was—I forget the name—whose Mayor must have the benchOf Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vincent," thinks he, sounds French!It well may have driven him daft, God knows! all man can certainly knowIs—rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror—so!When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued both! Ay, bite me! The worm beginsAt his work once more. Had cowardice proved—that only—my sin of sins!Friends, look you here! Suppose ... suppose ... But mad I am, needs must be!Judas the Damned would never have dared such a sin as I dream! For, see!Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my wretched self, and dreamedIn the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"—while gleamedA light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfectest embrace,He the savior and she the saved,—bliss born of the very murder-place!No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and coward, but nothing worse!Jeer at the fool and gibe at the coward! 'T was ever the coward's curseThat fear breeds fancies in such: such takes their shadow for substance still,—A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes,—loved Vincent, if you will!And her—why, I said "Good morrow" to her, "Good even," and nothing more:The neighborly way! She was just to me as fifty had been before.So, coward it is and coward shall be! There's a friend, now! Thanks! A drinkOf water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think.

My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago,

On a bright May day, a strange old man, with a beard as white as snow,

Stand on the hill outside our town like a monument of woe,

And, striking his bare bald head the while, sob out the reason—so!

If I last as long as Methuselah I shall never forgive myself:But—God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph,As coward, coward I call him—him, yes, him! Away from me!Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be!

If I last as long as Methuselah I shall never forgive myself:

But—God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph,

As coward, coward I call him—him, yes, him! Away from me!

Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be!

What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue?People have urged, "You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young!You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, "no time to regain your wits:Besides it had maybe cost your life." Ay, there is the cap which fits!

What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue?

People have urged, "You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young!

You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, "no time to regain your wits:

Besides it had maybe cost your life." Ay, there is the cap which fits!

So, cap me, the coward,—thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good:The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food.See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends,The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends!

So, cap me, the coward,—thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good:

The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food.

See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends,

The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends!

For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I,Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why,When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the biteOf a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I have balked him quite!

For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I,

Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why,

When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the bite

Of a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I have balked him quite!

I 'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they coopedUs peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hoopedBy the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sightAnd take the example,—see, not speak, for speech was the Captain's right.

I 'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they cooped

Us peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped

By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sight

And take the example,—see, not speak, for speech was the Captain's right.

"You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried he: "This woman about to dieGives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy.Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learnThat peasants should stick to their ploughtail, leave to the King the King's concern.

"You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried he: "This woman about to die

Gives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy.

Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learn

That peasants should stick to their ploughtail, leave to the King the King's concern.

"Here 's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes:What call has a man of your kind—much less, a woman—to interpose?Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes—so much the worse!The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse.

"Here 's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes:

What call has a man of your kind—much less, a woman—to interpose?

Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes—so much the worse!

The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse.

"Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago,And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know.Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news,From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes.

"Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago,

And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know.

Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news,

From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes.

"All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do!Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too.Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demureBetokens the finger foul with ink: 't is a woman who writes, be sure!

"All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do!

Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too.

Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demure

Betokens the finger foul with ink: 't is a woman who writes, be sure!

"Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!'—good natural stuff, she pens?Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about cocks and hens,How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to griefThrough the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round casement in famous leaf.'

"Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!'—good natural stuff, she pens?

Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about cocks and hens,

How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to grief

Through the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round casement in famous leaf.'

"But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into 'Horrid the place is grownWith Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own:And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seekFor the second Company sure to come ('t is whispered) on Monday week.'

"But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into 'Horrid the place is grown

With Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own:

And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seek

For the second Company sure to come ('t is whispered) on Monday week.'

'And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder, you see, was out:Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about!Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign:But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign!

'And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder, you see, was out:

Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about!

Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign:

But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign!

"That traitors had played us false, was proved—sent news which fell so pat:And the murder was out—this letter of love, the sender of this sent that!'T is an ugly job, though, all the same—a hateful, to have to dealWith a case of the kind, when a woman 's in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel!

"That traitors had played us false, was proved—sent news which fell so pat:

And the murder was out—this letter of love, the sender of this sent that!

'T is an ugly job, though, all the same—a hateful, to have to deal

With a case of the kind, when a woman 's in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel!

"So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent ParkesWhom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King's own clerks,Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp:A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort—the scamp!

"So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent Parkes

Whom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King's own clerks,

Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp:

A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort—the scamp!

"'If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks,And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels' books,Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime,Or martial law must take its course: this day next week 's the time!'

"'If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks,

And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels' books,

Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime,

Or martial law must take its course: this day next week 's the time!'

"Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice!He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice!His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the noose still, here she standsTo pay for her fault. 'T is an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands.

"Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice!

He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice!

His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the noose still, here she stands

To pay for her fault. 'T is an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands.

"And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance shareThe folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware!Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives—Or sweethearts or what they may be—from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!"

"And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance share

The folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware!

Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives—

Or sweethearts or what they may be—from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!"

Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the Captain's face—the bruteWith the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit!He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear;He had but a handful of men, that 's true,—a riot might cost him dear.

Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the Captain's face—the brute

With the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit!

He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear;

He had but a handful of men, that 's true,—a riot might cost him dear.

And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and faceBandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party's firing-place.I hope she was wholly with God: I hope 't was his angel stretched a handTo steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand.

And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and face

Bandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party's firing-place.

I hope she was wholly with God: I hope 't was his angel stretched a hand

To steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand.

I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes,No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies—"Why did you leave me to die?"—"Because" ... Oh, fiends, too soon you grinAt merely a moment of hell, like that—such heaven as hell ended in!

I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes,

No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies—

"Why did you leave me to die?"—"Because" ... Oh, fiends, too soon you grin

At merely a moment of hell, like that—such heaven as hell ended in!

Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line.Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb,—for, of all eyes, only mineLooked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer,Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there.

Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line.

Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb,—for, of all eyes, only mine

Looked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer,

Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there.

That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group:I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop!From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I tightened:Itouch ground?No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the fetters rust around!

That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group:

I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop!

From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I tightened:Itouch ground?

No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the fetters rust around!

Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst—aught else but see, see, only see?And see I do—for there comes in sight—a man, it sure must be!—Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weightOn and on, anyhow onward—a man that's mad he arrives too late!

Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst—aught else but see, see, only see?

And see I do—for there comes in sight—a man, it sure must be!—

Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weight

On and on, anyhow onward—a man that's mad he arrives too late!

Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head?Why does not he call, cry,—curse the fool!—why throw up his arms instead?O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay!Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he 's mad to say"?

Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head?

Why does not he call, cry,—curse the fool!—why throw up his arms instead?

O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay!

Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he 's mad to say"?

And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain,And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,—time 's over, repentance vain!They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no moreOf the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore.

And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain,

And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,—time 's over, repentance vain!

They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no more

Of the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore.

But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb,Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, not one of us saw him come!Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast?Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last?

But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb,

Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, not one of us saw him come!

Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast?

Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last?

Dead! dead as she, by the selfsame shot: one bullet has ended both,Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth."Till death us do part?" Till death us do join past parting—that sounds likeBetrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike?

Dead! dead as she, by the selfsame shot: one bullet has ended both,

Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth.

"Till death us do part?" Till death us do join past parting—that sounds like

Betrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike?

I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers!There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain aversShe is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King's Arms broad engraved:No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she 's saved!

I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers!

There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain avers

She is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King's Arms broad engraved:

No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she 's saved!

And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break—plain it grewHow the week's delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true.It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and thenSuch pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lions' den!

And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break—plain it grew

How the week's delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true.

It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and then

Such pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lions' den!

And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms—The license and leave: I make no doubt—what wonder if passion warmsThe pulse in a man if you play with his heart?—he was something hasty in speech;Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech!

And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms—

The license and leave: I make no doubt—what wonder if passion warms

The pulse in a man if you play with his heart?—he was something hasty in speech;

Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech!

And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp,—what followed but fresh delays?For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways!And 't was "Halt there!" at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thickOf the redcoats: what did they care for him and his "Quick, for God's sake, quick!"

And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp,—what followed but fresh delays?

For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways!

And 't was "Halt there!" at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thick

Of the redcoats: what did they care for him and his "Quick, for God's sake, quick!"

Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked "You bragYourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a King's friend here your nag!"Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still,With their "Wait you must,—no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!"

Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked "You brag

Yourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a King's friend here your nag!"

Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still,

With their "Wait you must,—no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!"

And a borough there was—I forget the name—whose Mayor must have the benchOf Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vincent," thinks he, sounds French!It well may have driven him daft, God knows! all man can certainly knowIs—rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror—so!

And a borough there was—I forget the name—whose Mayor must have the bench

Of Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vincent," thinks he, sounds French!

It well may have driven him daft, God knows! all man can certainly know

Is—rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror—so!

When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued both! Ay, bite me! The worm beginsAt his work once more. Had cowardice proved—that only—my sin of sins!Friends, look you here! Suppose ... suppose ... But mad I am, needs must be!Judas the Damned would never have dared such a sin as I dream! For, see!

When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued both! Ay, bite me! The worm begins

At his work once more. Had cowardice proved—that only—my sin of sins!

Friends, look you here! Suppose ... suppose ... But mad I am, needs must be!

Judas the Damned would never have dared such a sin as I dream! For, see!

Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my wretched self, and dreamedIn the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"—while gleamedA light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfectest embrace,He the savior and she the saved,—bliss born of the very murder-place!

Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my wretched self, and dreamed

In the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"—while gleamed

A light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfectest embrace,

He the savior and she the saved,—bliss born of the very murder-place!

No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and coward, but nothing worse!Jeer at the fool and gibe at the coward! 'T was ever the coward's curseThat fear breeds fancies in such: such takes their shadow for substance still,—A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes,—loved Vincent, if you will!

No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and coward, but nothing worse!

Jeer at the fool and gibe at the coward! 'T was ever the coward's curse

That fear breeds fancies in such: such takes their shadow for substance still,

—A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes,—loved Vincent, if you will!

And her—why, I said "Good morrow" to her, "Good even," and nothing more:The neighborly way! She was just to me as fifty had been before.So, coward it is and coward shall be! There's a friend, now! Thanks! A drinkOf water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think.

And her—why, I said "Good morrow" to her, "Good even," and nothing more:

The neighborly way! She was just to me as fifty had been before.

So, coward it is and coward shall be! There's a friend, now! Thanks! A drink

Of water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think.

Χαίρετε, νικῶμεν.

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!Gods of my birthplace, dæmons and heroes, honor to all!Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise—Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the ægis and spear!Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be, your peer.Now, henceforth and forever,—O latest to whom I upraiseHand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call!Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks!Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed,Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burnOver the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come!Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth;Razed to the ground is Eretria—but Athens, shall Athens sink,Drop into dust and die—the flower of Hellas utterly die,Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by?Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink?How,—when? No care for my limbs!—there's lightning in all and some—Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!"O my Athens—Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond?Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust,Malice,—each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate!Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stoodQuivering,—the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood:"Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate?Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyondSwing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!"No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last!"Has Persia come,—does Athens ask aid,—may Sparta befriend?Nowise precipitate judgment—too weighty the issue at stake!Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods!Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the oddsIn your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to takeFull-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast:Athens must wait, patient as we—who judgment suspend."Athens,—except for that sparkle,—thy name, I had mouldered to ash!That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I back,—Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile!Yet "O gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain,Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again,"Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile?Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rashLove in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack!"Oak and olive and bay,—I bid you cease to enwreatheBrows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot,You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave!Rather I hail thee, Parnes,—trust to thy wild waste tract!Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slackedMy speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to caveNo deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can breathe,Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!"Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge;Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a barJutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way.Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across:"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse?Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I obey—Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridgeBetter!"—when—ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are?There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he—majestical Pan!Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof:All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly—the curlCarved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe,As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw."Halt, Pheidippides!"—halt I did, my brain of a whirl:"Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began:"How is it,—Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof?"Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast!Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old?Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me!Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faithIn the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith:When Persia—so much as strews not the soil—is cast in the sea,Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least,Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!'"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'"(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear—Fennel—I grasped it a-tremble with dew—whatever it bode)"While, as for thee" ... But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto—Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew.Parnes to Athens—earth no more, the air was my road:Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge!Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare!Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece,Whose limbs did duty indeed,—what gift is promised thyself?Tell it us straightway,—Athens the mother demands of her son!"Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at lengthHis eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strengthInto the utterance—"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast doneCount on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee releaseFrom the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind!Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,—Pound—Pan helping us—Persia to dust, and, under the deep,Whelm her away forever; and then,—no Athens to save,—Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,—Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creepClose to my knees,—recount how the God was awful yet kind,Promised their sire reward to the full—rewarding him—so!"Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day:So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis!Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield,Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-fieldAnd Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay,Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss!So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of saluteIs still "Rejoice!"—his word which brought rejoicing indeed.So is Pheidippides happy forever,—the noble strong manWho could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well;He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tellSuch tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute:"Athens is saved!"—Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed.

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!

Gods of my birthplace, dæmons and heroes, honor to all!

Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise

—Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the ægis and spear!

Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be, your peer.

Now, henceforth and forever,—O latest to whom I upraise

Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!

Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call!

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks!Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed,Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burnOver the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!

See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks!

Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,

"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!

Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed,

Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,

Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn

Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.

Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come!Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth;Razed to the ground is Eretria—but Athens, shall Athens sink,Drop into dust and die—the flower of Hellas utterly die,Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by?Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink?How,—when? No care for my limbs!—there's lightning in all and some—Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!"

Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come!

Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth;

Razed to the ground is Eretria—but Athens, shall Athens sink,

Drop into dust and die—the flower of Hellas utterly die,

Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by?

Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink?

How,—when? No care for my limbs!—there's lightning in all and some—

Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!"

O my Athens—Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond?Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust,Malice,—each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate!Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stoodQuivering,—the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood:"Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate?Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyondSwing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!"

O my Athens—Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond?

Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust,

Malice,—each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate!

Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood

Quivering,—the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood:

"Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate?

Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond

Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!"

No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last!"Has Persia come,—does Athens ask aid,—may Sparta befriend?Nowise precipitate judgment—too weighty the issue at stake!Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods!Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the oddsIn your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to takeFull-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast:Athens must wait, patient as we—who judgment suspend."

No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last!

"Has Persia come,—does Athens ask aid,—may Sparta befriend?

Nowise precipitate judgment—too weighty the issue at stake!

Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods!

Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds

In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take

Full-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast:

Athens must wait, patient as we—who judgment suspend."

Athens,—except for that sparkle,—thy name, I had mouldered to ash!That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I back,—Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile!Yet "O gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain,Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again,"Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile?Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rashLove in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack!

Athens,—except for that sparkle,—thy name, I had mouldered to ash!

That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I back,

—Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile!

Yet "O gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain,

Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again,

"Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile?

Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash

Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack!

"Oak and olive and bay,—I bid you cease to enwreatheBrows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot,You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave!Rather I hail thee, Parnes,—trust to thy wild waste tract!Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slackedMy speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to caveNo deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can breathe,Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!"

"Oak and olive and bay,—I bid you cease to enwreathe

Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot,

You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave!

Rather I hail thee, Parnes,—trust to thy wild waste tract!

Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked

My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave

No deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can breathe,

Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!"

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge;Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a barJutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way.Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across:"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse?Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I obey—Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridgeBetter!"—when—ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are?

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge;

Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar

Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way.

Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across:

"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse?

Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I obey—

Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge

Better!"—when—ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are?

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he—majestical Pan!Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof:All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly—the curlCarved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe,As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw."Halt, Pheidippides!"—halt I did, my brain of a whirl:"Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began:"How is it,—Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof?

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he—majestical Pan!

Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof:

All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly—the curl

Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe,

As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw.

"Halt, Pheidippides!"—halt I did, my brain of a whirl:

"Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began:

"How is it,—Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof?

"Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast!Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old?Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me!Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faithIn the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith:When Persia—so much as strews not the soil—is cast in the sea,Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least,Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!'

"Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast!

Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old?

Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me!

Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith

In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith:

When Persia—so much as strews not the soil—is cast in the sea,

Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least,

Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!'

"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'"(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear—Fennel—I grasped it a-tremble with dew—whatever it bode)"While, as for thee" ... But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto—Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew.Parnes to Athens—earth no more, the air was my road:Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge!Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare!

"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'"

(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear

—Fennel—I grasped it a-tremble with dew—whatever it bode)

"While, as for thee" ... But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto—

Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew.

Parnes to Athens—earth no more, the air was my road:

Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge!

Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare!

Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece,Whose limbs did duty indeed,—what gift is promised thyself?Tell it us straightway,—Athens the mother demands of her son!"Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at lengthHis eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strengthInto the utterance—"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast doneCount on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee releaseFrom the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'

Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece,

Whose limbs did duty indeed,—what gift is promised thyself?

Tell it us straightway,—Athens the mother demands of her son!"

Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length

His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength

Into the utterance—"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast done

Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee release

From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'

"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind!Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,—Pound—Pan helping us—Persia to dust, and, under the deep,Whelm her away forever; and then,—no Athens to save,—Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,—Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creepClose to my knees,—recount how the God was awful yet kind,Promised their sire reward to the full—rewarding him—so!"

"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind!

Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,—

Pound—Pan helping us—Persia to dust, and, under the deep,

Whelm her away forever; and then,—no Athens to save,—

Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,—

Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep

Close to my knees,—recount how the God was awful yet kind,

Promised their sire reward to the full—rewarding him—so!"

Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day:So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis!Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield,Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-fieldAnd Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay,Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss!

Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day:

So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis!

Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!

'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield,

Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field

And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,

Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay,

Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss!

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of saluteIs still "Rejoice!"—his word which brought rejoicing indeed.So is Pheidippides happy forever,—the noble strong manWho could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well;He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tellSuch tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute:"Athens is saved!"—Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed.

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute

Is still "Rejoice!"—his word which brought rejoicing indeed.

So is Pheidippides happy forever,—the noble strong man

Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well;

He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell

Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,

So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute:

"Athens is saved!"—Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed.

Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den,In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild menInhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut,Time out of mind their birthright: father and son, these—but—Such a son, such a father! Most wildness by degreesSoftens away: yet, last of their line, the wildest and worst were these.Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder and rob;But, give them a word, they returned a blow—old Halbert as young Hob:Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed,Hated or feared the more—who knows?—the genuine wild-beast breed.Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the countryside;But how fared each with other? E'en beasts couch, hide by hide,In a growling, grudged agreement: so, father and son aye curledThe closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the world.Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow,Came father and son to words—such words! more cruel because the blowTo crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curseCompeted with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,—nay, worse:For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at lastThe son at the throat of the father, seized him and held him fast."Out of this house you go!" (there followed a hideous oath)—"This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold us both!If there's snow outside, there's coolness: out with you, bide a spellIn the drift and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell!"Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oakUntouched at the core by a thousand years: much less had its seventy brokeOne whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder-bladeOf the mountainous man, whereon his child's rash hand like a feather weighed.Nevertheless at once did the mammoth shut his eyes,Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened—arms and thighsAll of a piece—struck mute, much as a sentry stands,Patient to take the enemy's fire: his captain so commands.Whereat the son's wrath flew to fury at such sheer scornOf his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born:And "Neither will this turn serve!" yelled he. "Out with you! Trundle, log!If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!"Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,—down to floorPulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,—Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, untilA certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-door-sill.Then the father opened eyes—each spark of their rage extinct,—Temples, late black, dead-blanched,—right-hand with left-hand linked,—He faced his son submissive; when slow the accents came,They were strangely mild though his son's rash hand on his neck lay all the same."Hob, on just such a night of a Christmas long ago,For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag—so—My father down thus far: but, softening here, I heardA voice in my heart, and stopped: you wait for an outer word,"For your own sake, not mine, soften you too! UntrodLeave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God!I dared not pass its lifting: I did well. I nor blameNor praise you. I stopped here: and, Hob, do you the same!"Straightway the son relaxed his hold of the father's throat.They mounted, side by side, to the room again: no noteTook either of each, no sign made each to either: lastAs first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed.At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the selfsame place,With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face:But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned.When he went to the burial, some one's staff he borrowed,—tottered and leaned.But his lips were loose, not locked,—kept muttering, mumbling. "There!At his cursing and swearing!" the youngsters cried: but the elders thought "In prayer."A boy threw stones: he picked them up and stored them in his vest.So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest."Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?" O Lear,That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear!

Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den,

In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild men

Inhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut,

Time out of mind their birthright: father and son, these—but—

Such a son, such a father! Most wildness by degrees

Softens away: yet, last of their line, the wildest and worst were these.

Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder and rob;But, give them a word, they returned a blow—old Halbert as young Hob:Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed,Hated or feared the more—who knows?—the genuine wild-beast breed.

Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder and rob;

But, give them a word, they returned a blow—old Halbert as young Hob:

Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed,

Hated or feared the more—who knows?—the genuine wild-beast breed.

Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the countryside;But how fared each with other? E'en beasts couch, hide by hide,In a growling, grudged agreement: so, father and son aye curledThe closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the world.

Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the countryside;

But how fared each with other? E'en beasts couch, hide by hide,

In a growling, grudged agreement: so, father and son aye curled

The closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the world.

Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow,Came father and son to words—such words! more cruel because the blowTo crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curseCompeted with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,—nay, worse:For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at lastThe son at the throat of the father, seized him and held him fast.

Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow,

Came father and son to words—such words! more cruel because the blow

To crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curse

Competed with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,—nay, worse:

For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at last

The son at the throat of the father, seized him and held him fast.

"Out of this house you go!" (there followed a hideous oath)—"This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold us both!If there's snow outside, there's coolness: out with you, bide a spellIn the drift and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell!"

"Out of this house you go!" (there followed a hideous oath)—

"This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold us both!

If there's snow outside, there's coolness: out with you, bide a spell

In the drift and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell!"

Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oakUntouched at the core by a thousand years: much less had its seventy brokeOne whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder-bladeOf the mountainous man, whereon his child's rash hand like a feather weighed.

Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oak

Untouched at the core by a thousand years: much less had its seventy broke

One whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder-blade

Of the mountainous man, whereon his child's rash hand like a feather weighed.

Nevertheless at once did the mammoth shut his eyes,Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened—arms and thighsAll of a piece—struck mute, much as a sentry stands,Patient to take the enemy's fire: his captain so commands.

Nevertheless at once did the mammoth shut his eyes,

Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened—arms and thighs

All of a piece—struck mute, much as a sentry stands,

Patient to take the enemy's fire: his captain so commands.

Whereat the son's wrath flew to fury at such sheer scornOf his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born:And "Neither will this turn serve!" yelled he. "Out with you! Trundle, log!If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!"

Whereat the son's wrath flew to fury at such sheer scorn

Of his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born:

And "Neither will this turn serve!" yelled he. "Out with you! Trundle, log!

If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!"

Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,—down to floorPulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,—Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, untilA certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-door-sill.

Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,—down to floor

Pulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,—

Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, until

A certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-door-sill.

Then the father opened eyes—each spark of their rage extinct,—Temples, late black, dead-blanched,—right-hand with left-hand linked,—He faced his son submissive; when slow the accents came,They were strangely mild though his son's rash hand on his neck lay all the same.

Then the father opened eyes—each spark of their rage extinct,—

Temples, late black, dead-blanched,—right-hand with left-hand linked,—

He faced his son submissive; when slow the accents came,

They were strangely mild though his son's rash hand on his neck lay all the same.

"Hob, on just such a night of a Christmas long ago,For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag—so—My father down thus far: but, softening here, I heardA voice in my heart, and stopped: you wait for an outer word,

"Hob, on just such a night of a Christmas long ago,

For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag—so—

My father down thus far: but, softening here, I heard

A voice in my heart, and stopped: you wait for an outer word,

"For your own sake, not mine, soften you too! UntrodLeave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God!I dared not pass its lifting: I did well. I nor blameNor praise you. I stopped here: and, Hob, do you the same!"

"For your own sake, not mine, soften you too! Untrod

Leave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God!

I dared not pass its lifting: I did well. I nor blame

Nor praise you. I stopped here: and, Hob, do you the same!"

Straightway the son relaxed his hold of the father's throat.They mounted, side by side, to the room again: no noteTook either of each, no sign made each to either: lastAs first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed.

Straightway the son relaxed his hold of the father's throat.

They mounted, side by side, to the room again: no note

Took either of each, no sign made each to either: last

As first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed.

At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the selfsame place,With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face:But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned.

At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the selfsame place,

With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face:

But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned.

When he went to the burial, some one's staff he borrowed,—tottered and leaned.But his lips were loose, not locked,—kept muttering, mumbling. "There!At his cursing and swearing!" the youngsters cried: but the elders thought "In prayer."A boy threw stones: he picked them up and stored them in his vest.

When he went to the burial, some one's staff he borrowed,—tottered and leaned.

But his lips were loose, not locked,—kept muttering, mumbling. "There!

At his cursing and swearing!" the youngsters cried: but the elders thought "In prayer."

A boy threw stones: he picked them up and stored them in his vest.

So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest."Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?" O Lear,That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear!

So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest.

"Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?" O Lear,

That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear!

"They tell me, your carpenters," quoth I to my friend the Russ,"Make a simple hatchet serve as a tool-box serves with us.Arm but each man with his axe, 'tis a hammer and saw and planeAnd chisel, and—what know I else? We should imitate in vainThe mastery wherewithal, by a flourish of just the adze,He cleaves, clamps, dovetails in,—no need of our nails and brads,—The manageable pine: 'tis said he could shave himselfWith the axe,—so all adroit, now a giant and now an elf,Does he work and play at once!"Quoth my friend the Russ to me,"Ay, that and more beside on occasion! It scarce may beYou never heard tell a tale told children, time out of mind,By father and mother and nurse, for a moral that's behind,Which children quickly seize. If the incident happened at all,We place it in Peter's time when hearts were great not small,Germanized, Frenchified. I wager 'tis old to youAs the story of Adam and Eve, and possibly quite as true."In the deep of our land, 't is said, a village from out the woodsEmerged on the great main-road 'twixt two great solitudes.Through forestry right and left, black verst and verst of pine,From village to village runs the road's long wide bare line.Clearance and clearance break the else-unconquered growthOf pine and all that breeds and broods there, leaving lothMan's inch of masterdom,—spot of life, spirt of fire,—To star the dark and dread, lest right and rule expireThroughout the monstrous wild, a-hungered to resumeIts ancient sway, suck back the world into its womb:Defrauded by man's craft which clove from North to SouthThis highway broad and straight e'en from the Neva's mouthTo Moscow's gates of gold. So, spot of life and spirtOf fire aforesaid, burn, each village death-begirtBy wall and wall of pine—unprobed undreamed abyss.Early one winter morn, in such a village as this,Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle roadIce-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abodeIvàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employedOn a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyedWith branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the holeChanged bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul.About him, watched the work his neighbors sheepskin-clad;Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled gladTo see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play,Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may.Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edgeOf the hamlet—horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge?What's here?" cried all as—in, up to the open space,Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,—Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life,A horse: and, at his heels, a sledge held—"Dmìtri's wife!Back without Dmitri too! and children—where are they?Only a frozen corpse!"They drew it forth: then—"Nay,Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago:Home again, this rough jaunt—alone through night and snow—What can the cause be? Hark—Droug, old horse, how he groans:His day's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans:She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends!Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amendsFor outside cold,—sup quick! Don't look as we were bears!What is it startles you? What strange adventure staresUp at us in your face? You know friends—which is which?I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"—At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they nearedThe blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard,Took in full light and sense and—torn to rags, some dreamWhich hid the naked truth—O loud and long the screamShe gave, as if all power of voice within her throatPoured itself wild away to waste in one dread note!Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flowOf kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know.Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee;His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it freeFrom fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed—"Loukèria, Loùscha!"—still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed.At last her lips formed speech."Ivàn, dear—you indeed!You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede,Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty—let his mightBring yesterday once more, undo all done last night!But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you,A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two,A babe inside my arms, close to my heart—that's lostIn morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost,Cannot you bring again my blessed yesterday?"When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way."Maybe, a month ago,—was it not?—news came here,They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rearA church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said:'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.'So, friends here helped us off—Ivàn, dear, you the first!How gay we jingled forth, all five—(my heart will burst)—While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track!"Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back,When yesterday—behold, the village was on fire!Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher,The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must doThe little good man may: to sledge and in with you,You and our three! We check the fire by laying flatEach building in its path,—I needs must stay for that,—But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug,Cover the couple close,—you'll have the babe to hug.No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess,Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less!The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soonYou'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon.Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch!Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch,All's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all's right with me,So I but find as safe you and our precious three!Off, Droug!'—because the flames had reached us, and the menShouted 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri—as good as ten!'"So, in we bundled—I, and those God gave me once;Old Droug, that's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce:He understood the case, galloping straight ahead.Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly redIn that unnatural day—yes, daylight, bred betweenMoonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screenSuch devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow,Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow!Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blindWhile we escaped outside their border!"Was that—wind?Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs,Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough'sOnly the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight!Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rateThere's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learnThe truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn—"'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge!An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge:They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side,Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wideThe four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass:They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye—green-glowing brass!But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best:Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches ... How utter the rest?O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue,How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry amongThe wraps and the rags! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead!Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,—here's your mother instead!No, he will not be counselled—must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though firstOf my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors have called him the worst:He was puny, an undersized slip,—a darling to me, all the same!But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame.I loved him with heart and soul, yes—-but deal him a blow for a fault,He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault,Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, screams,—who can holdFast a boy in a frenzy of fear! It follows—as I foretold!The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore—and thenHis brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is menThe Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! PerhapsMy hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps:God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew,Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue!That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verstOr two, or three—God sends we beat them, arrive the first!A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich:Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,—God knows whichIs worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pineAnd pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!"O misery! for while I settle to what near seemsContent, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams—Point and point—the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire!So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tireThe furies? And yet I think—I am certain the race is slack,And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack!Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why?We'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,—gallop, reach home, and die,Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trapFor life—we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap!Yes, I'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the stringsHere—of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ...Flings? I flung? Never! But think!—a woman, after all,Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall,Terentiì!"How now? What, you still head the race,Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face?There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! Flash again?All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain!My fist—why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God,Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prodThe earth till out they scratch some corpse—mere putrid flesh!Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh?Terentiì—God, feel!—his neck keeps fast thy bagOf holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will dragForth, and devour along with him, our Pope declaredThe relics were to save from danger!"Spurned, not spared!'Twas through my arms, crossed arms, he—nuzzling now with snout,Now ripping, tooth and claw—plucked, pulled Terentiì out,A prize indeed! I saw—how could I else but see?—My precious one—I bit to hold back—pulled from me!Up came the others, fell to dancing—did the imps!—Skipped as they scampered round. There's one is gray, and limps:Who knows but old bad Màrpha—she always owed me spiteAnd envied me my births—skulks out of doors at nightAnd turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood,And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood,Squats down at door by dawn, spins there demure as erst—No strength, old crone,—not she!—to crawl forth half a verst!"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there liesThe space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyesThe endmost snow: 'tis dawn, 'tis day, 'tis safe at home!We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam,Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,—Forgetful, in your greed, our finest off we hear,Tough Droug and I,—my babe, my boy that shall be man,My man that shall be more, do all a hunter canTo trace and follow and find and catch and crucifyWolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall dieThe whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat!'Take that!' we'll stab you with,—'the tenderness we metWhen, wretches, you danced round,—not this, thank God—not this!Hellhounds, we balk you!'"But—Ah, God above!—Bliss, bliss,—Not the band, no! And yet—yes, for Droug knows him! One—This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!'His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes,He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves:He 's off and after us,—one speck, one spot, one ballGrows bigger, bound on bound,—one wolf as good as all!Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue!That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrungThe panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst!Now for it—now! Ah me! I know him—thrice-accurstSatan-face,—him to the end my foe!"All fight 's in vain:This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain.I fall—fall as I ought—quite on the babe I guard:I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hardTo die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I—one inch!Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch!O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!—see!It grinds—it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me,Could I do more? Besides he knew wolf's way to win:I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in,Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feelsThe onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels,Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leafAnd bloom and seed unborn?"That slew me: yes, in brief,I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stoppedHere, I suppose. I come to life, I find me proppedThus,—how or when or why—I know not. Tell me, friends,All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends!Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof,Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you 'd see the roofWhich holds my three—my two—my one—not one?"Life 's mixedWith misery, yet we live—must live. The Satan fixedHis face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitchTakes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch,'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing!Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling.Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears—What good they do! Life 's sweet, and all its after-years,Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I!May God reward you, dear!"Down she sank. SolemnlyIvàn rose, raised his axe,—for fitly, as she knelt,Her head lay: well-apart, each side, her arms hung,—dealtLightning-swift thunder-strong one blow—no need of more!Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound at core(Neighbors were used to say)—cast-iron-kernelled—whichTaxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be:I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'"Then stooping, peering round—what is it now he lacks?A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe.Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind.The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake windInto a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.At length, still mute, all move: one lifts—from where it steepsRedder each ruddy rag of pine—the head: two moreTake up the dripping body: then, mute still as before,Move in a sort of march, march on till marching endsOpposite to the church; where halting,—who suspends,By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its placeThe piteous head: once more the body shows no traceOf harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wifeAnd mother, loved until this latest of her life.Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a spaceKept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!Presently all the souls, man, woman, child, which makeThe village up, are found assembling for the sakeOf what is to be done. The very Jews are there:A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair,Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethesAnd simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,—none breathes.Anon from out the church totters the Pope—the priest—Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least.With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too,Stàrosta, that 's his style,—like Equity Judge with you,—Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs,Pomeschìk,—Lord of the Land, who wields—and none demurs—A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta—the thorpe'sSagaciousest old man—hears what you just have heard,From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word—"God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"Silence—the Pomeschìk broke with "A wild wrong wayOf righting wrong—if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse!Why was not law observed? What article allowsWhoso may please to play the judge, and, judgment dealt,Play executioner, as promptly as we peltTo death, without appeal, the vermin whose sole faultHas been—it dared to leave the darkness of its vault,Intrude upon our day! Too sudden and too rash!What was this woman's crime? Suppose the church should crashDown where I stand, your lord: bound are my serfs to dareTheir utmost that I 'scape: yet, if the crashing scareMy children—as you are,—if sons fly, one and all,Leave father to his fate,—poor cowards though I callThe runaways, I pause before I claim their lifeBecause they prized it more than mine. I would each wifeDied for her husband's sake, each son to save his sire:'T is glory, I applaud—scarce duty, I require.Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that 's namedMurder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old—How old, myself have got to know no longer. RolledQuite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age,Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stageAt least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discernTruer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learnWhen first we set our foot to tread the course I trodWith man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God.'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I sawAnd paid obedience to man's visionary law:'Your old men shall dream dreams:' and, in my age, a handConducts me through the cloud round law to where I standFirm on its base,—know cause, who, before, knew effect."The world lies under me: and nowhere I detectSo great a gift as this—God's own—of human life.'Shall the dead praise thee?' No! 'The whole live world is rife,God, with thy glory,' rather! Life then, God's best of gifts,For what shall man exchange? For life—when so he shiftsThe weight and turns the scale, lets life for life restoreGod's balance, sacrifice the less to gain the more,Substitute—for low life, another's or his own—Life large and liker God's who gave it: thus aloneMay life extinguish life that life may trulier be!How low this law descends on earth, is not for meTo trace: complexed becomes the simple, intricateThe plain, when I pursue law's winding. 'T is the straightOutflow of law I know and name: to law, the fountFresh from God's footstool, friends, follow while I remount."A mother bears a child: perfection is completeSo far in such a birth. Enabled to repeatThe miracle of life,—herself was born so justA type of womankind, that God sees fit to trustHer with the holy task of giving life in turn.Crowned by this crowning pride, how say you, should she spurnRegality—discrowned, unchilded, by her choiceOf barrenness exchanged for fruit which made rejoiceCreation, though life's self were lost in giving birthTo life more fresh and fit to glorify God's earth?How say you, should the hand God trusted with life's torchKindled to light the world—aware of sparks that scorch,Let fall the same? Forsooth, her flesh a fire-flake stings:The mother drops the child! Among what monstrous thingsShall she he classed? Because of motherhood, each maleYields to his partner place, sinks proudly in the scale:His strength owned weakness, wit—folly, and courage—fear,Beside the female proved male's mistress—only here.The fox-dam, hunger-pined, will slay the felon sireWho dares assault her whelp: the beaver, stretched on fire,Will die-without a groan: no pang avails to wrestHer young from where they hide—her sanctuary breast.What 's here then? Answer me, thou dead one, as, I trow,Standing at God's own bar, he bids thee answer now!Thrice crowned wast thou—each crown of pride, a child—thy charge!Where are they? Lost? Enough: no need that thou enlargeOn how or why the loss: life left to utter 'lost'Condemns itself beyond appeal. The soldier's postGuards from the foe's attack the camp he sentinels:That he no traitor proved, this and this only tells—Over the corpse of him trod foe to foe's success.Yet—one by one thy crowns torn from thee—thou no lessTo scare the world, shame God,—livedst! I hold he sawThe unexampled sin, ordained the novel law,Whereof first instrument was first intelligenceFound loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense,The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to effaceHumanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace.Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was foundA man and mar enough, head-sober and heart-sound,Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey.Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day,No otherwise than did, in ages long ago,Moses when he made known the purport of that flowOf fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaimIvàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"At which nameUprose that creepy whisper from out the crowd, is wont,To swell and surge and sink when fellow-men confrontA punishment that falls on fellow flesh and blood,Appallingly beheld—shudderingly understood,No less, to be the right, the just, the merciful."God's servant!" hissed the crowd.When the Amen grew dullAnd died away and left acquittal plain adjudged,"Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There 's none shall say I grudgedEscape from punishment in such a novel case.Deferring to old age and holy life,—be graceGranted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a senseFirmer than I boast mine. Law 's law, and evidenceOf breach therein lies plain,—blood-red-bright,—all may see!Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!"And next—as mercy rules the hour—methinks 't were wellYou signify forthwith its sentence, and dispelThe doubts and fears, I judge, which busy now the headLaw puts a halter round—a halo—you, instead!Ivàn Ivànovitch—what think you he expectsWill follow from his feat? Go, tell him—law protectsMurder, for once: no need he longer keep behindThe Sacred Pictures—where skulks Innocence enshrined,Or I missay! Go, some! You others, haste and hideThe dismal object there: get done, whate'er betide!"So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders troopedSilently to the house: where halting, some one stooped,Listened beside the door; all there was silent too.Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through,Stood in the murderer's presence.Ivàn IvànovitchKnelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and richHe deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights.Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights,Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete.Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heatOf the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread.Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head,Was just in act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,—each a dome,—The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the homeOf Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch,—An acorn-cup—was ready: Ivàn IvànovitchTurned with it in his mouth.They told him he was freeAs air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

"They tell me, your carpenters," quoth I to my friend the Russ,

"Make a simple hatchet serve as a tool-box serves with us.

Arm but each man with his axe, 'tis a hammer and saw and plane

And chisel, and—what know I else? We should imitate in vain

The mastery wherewithal, by a flourish of just the adze,

He cleaves, clamps, dovetails in,—no need of our nails and brads,—

The manageable pine: 'tis said he could shave himself

With the axe,—so all adroit, now a giant and now an elf,

Does he work and play at once!"

Quoth my friend the Russ to me,"Ay, that and more beside on occasion! It scarce may beYou never heard tell a tale told children, time out of mind,By father and mother and nurse, for a moral that's behind,Which children quickly seize. If the incident happened at all,We place it in Peter's time when hearts were great not small,Germanized, Frenchified. I wager 'tis old to youAs the story of Adam and Eve, and possibly quite as true."

Quoth my friend the Russ to me,

"Ay, that and more beside on occasion! It scarce may be

You never heard tell a tale told children, time out of mind,

By father and mother and nurse, for a moral that's behind,

Which children quickly seize. If the incident happened at all,

We place it in Peter's time when hearts were great not small,

Germanized, Frenchified. I wager 'tis old to you

As the story of Adam and Eve, and possibly quite as true."

In the deep of our land, 't is said, a village from out the woodsEmerged on the great main-road 'twixt two great solitudes.Through forestry right and left, black verst and verst of pine,From village to village runs the road's long wide bare line.Clearance and clearance break the else-unconquered growthOf pine and all that breeds and broods there, leaving lothMan's inch of masterdom,—spot of life, spirt of fire,—To star the dark and dread, lest right and rule expireThroughout the monstrous wild, a-hungered to resumeIts ancient sway, suck back the world into its womb:Defrauded by man's craft which clove from North to SouthThis highway broad and straight e'en from the Neva's mouthTo Moscow's gates of gold. So, spot of life and spirtOf fire aforesaid, burn, each village death-begirtBy wall and wall of pine—unprobed undreamed abyss.

In the deep of our land, 't is said, a village from out the woods

Emerged on the great main-road 'twixt two great solitudes.

Through forestry right and left, black verst and verst of pine,

From village to village runs the road's long wide bare line.

Clearance and clearance break the else-unconquered growth

Of pine and all that breeds and broods there, leaving loth

Man's inch of masterdom,—spot of life, spirt of fire,—

To star the dark and dread, lest right and rule expire

Throughout the monstrous wild, a-hungered to resume

Its ancient sway, suck back the world into its womb:

Defrauded by man's craft which clove from North to South

This highway broad and straight e'en from the Neva's mouth

To Moscow's gates of gold. So, spot of life and spirt

Of fire aforesaid, burn, each village death-begirt

By wall and wall of pine—unprobed undreamed abyss.

Early one winter morn, in such a village as this,Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle roadIce-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abodeIvàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employedOn a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyedWith branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the holeChanged bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul.About him, watched the work his neighbors sheepskin-clad;Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled gladTo see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play,Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may.Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edgeOf the hamlet—horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge?What's here?" cried all as—in, up to the open space,Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,—Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life,A horse: and, at his heels, a sledge held—"Dmìtri's wife!Back without Dmitri too! and children—where are they?Only a frozen corpse!"

Early one winter morn, in such a village as this,

Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle road

Ice-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abode

Ivàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employed

On a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyed

With branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the hole

Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul.

About him, watched the work his neighbors sheepskin-clad;

Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled glad

To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play,

Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may.

Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge

Of the hamlet—horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge?

What's here?" cried all as—in, up to the open space,

Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,—

Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life,

A horse: and, at his heels, a sledge held—"Dmìtri's wife!

Back without Dmitri too! and children—where are they?

Only a frozen corpse!"

They drew it forth: then—"Nay,Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago:Home again, this rough jaunt—alone through night and snow—What can the cause be? Hark—Droug, old horse, how he groans:His day's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans:She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends!Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amendsFor outside cold,—sup quick! Don't look as we were bears!What is it startles you? What strange adventure staresUp at us in your face? You know friends—which is which?I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"—

They drew it forth: then—"Nay,

Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago:

Home again, this rough jaunt—alone through night and snow—

What can the cause be? Hark—Droug, old horse, how he groans:

His day's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans:

She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends!

Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends

For outside cold,—sup quick! Don't look as we were bears!

What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares

Up at us in your face? You know friends—which is which?

I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"—

At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they nearedThe blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard,Took in full light and sense and—torn to rags, some dreamWhich hid the naked truth—O loud and long the screamShe gave, as if all power of voice within her throatPoured itself wild away to waste in one dread note!Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flowOf kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know.Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee;His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it freeFrom fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed—"Loukèria, Loùscha!"—still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed.At last her lips formed speech.

At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared

The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard,

Took in full light and sense and—torn to rags, some dream

Which hid the naked truth—O loud and long the scream

She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat

Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note!

Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow

Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know.

Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee;

His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free

From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed—

"Loukèria, Loùscha!"—still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed.

At last her lips formed speech.

"Ivàn, dear—you indeed!You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede,Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty—let his mightBring yesterday once more, undo all done last night!But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you,A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two,A babe inside my arms, close to my heart—that's lostIn morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost,Cannot you bring again my blessed yesterday?"

"Ivàn, dear—you indeed!

You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede,

Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty—let his might

Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night!

But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you,

A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two,

A babe inside my arms, close to my heart—that's lost

In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost,

Cannot you bring again my blessed yesterday?"

When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way.

"Maybe, a month ago,—was it not?—news came here,They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rearA church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said:'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.'So, friends here helped us off—Ivàn, dear, you the first!How gay we jingled forth, all five—(my heart will burst)—While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track!

"Maybe, a month ago,—was it not?—news came here,

They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear

A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said:

'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.'

So, friends here helped us off—Ivàn, dear, you the first!

How gay we jingled forth, all five—(my heart will burst)—

While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track!

"Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back,When yesterday—behold, the village was on fire!Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher,The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must doThe little good man may: to sledge and in with you,You and our three! We check the fire by laying flatEach building in its path,—I needs must stay for that,—But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug,Cover the couple close,—you'll have the babe to hug.No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess,Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less!The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soonYou'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon.Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch!Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch,All's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all's right with me,So I but find as safe you and our precious three!Off, Droug!'—because the flames had reached us, and the menShouted 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri—as good as ten!'

"Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back,

When yesterday—behold, the village was on fire!

Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher,

The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must do

The little good man may: to sledge and in with you,

You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat

Each building in its path,—I needs must stay for that,—

But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug,

Cover the couple close,—you'll have the babe to hug.

No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess,

Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less!

The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon

You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon.

Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch!

Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch,

All's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all's right with me,

So I but find as safe you and our precious three!

Off, Droug!'—because the flames had reached us, and the men

Shouted 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri—as good as ten!'

"So, in we bundled—I, and those God gave me once;Old Droug, that's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce:He understood the case, galloping straight ahead.Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly redIn that unnatural day—yes, daylight, bred betweenMoonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screenSuch devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow,Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow!Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blindWhile we escaped outside their border!

"So, in we bundled—I, and those God gave me once;

Old Droug, that's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce:

He understood the case, galloping straight ahead.

Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red

In that unnatural day—yes, daylight, bred between

Moonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen

Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow,

Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow!

Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind

While we escaped outside their border!

"Was that—wind?Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs,Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough'sOnly the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight!Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rateThere's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learnThe truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn—

"Was that—wind?

Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs,

Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough's

Only the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight!

Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rate

There's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learn

The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn—

"'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge!An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge:They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side,Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wideThe four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass:They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye—green-glowing brass!But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best:Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches ... How utter the rest?O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue,How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry amongThe wraps and the rags! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead!Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,—here's your mother instead!No, he will not be counselled—must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though firstOf my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors have called him the worst:He was puny, an undersized slip,—a darling to me, all the same!But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame.I loved him with heart and soul, yes—-but deal him a blow for a fault,He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault,Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, screams,—who can holdFast a boy in a frenzy of fear! It follows—as I foretold!The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore—and thenHis brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is menThe Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! PerhapsMy hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps:God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew,Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue!That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verstOr two, or three—God sends we beat them, arrive the first!A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich:Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,—God knows whichIs worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pineAnd pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!

"'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge!

An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge:

They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side,

Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide

The four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass:

They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye—green-glowing brass!

But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best:

Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches ... How utter the rest?

O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue,

How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry among

The wraps and the rags! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead!

Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,—here's your mother instead!

No, he will not be counselled—must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though first

Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors have called him the worst:

He was puny, an undersized slip,—a darling to me, all the same!

But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame.

I loved him with heart and soul, yes—-but deal him a blow for a fault,

He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault,

Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, screams,—who can hold

Fast a boy in a frenzy of fear! It follows—as I foretold!

The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore—and then

His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men

The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps

My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps:

God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew,

Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue!

That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst

Or two, or three—God sends we beat them, arrive the first!

A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich:

Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,—God knows which

Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine

And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!

"O misery! for while I settle to what near seemsContent, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams—Point and point—the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire!So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tireThe furies? And yet I think—I am certain the race is slack,And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack!Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why?We'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,—gallop, reach home, and die,Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trapFor life—we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap!Yes, I'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the stringsHere—of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ...Flings? I flung? Never! But think!—a woman, after all,Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall,Terentiì!

"O misery! for while I settle to what near seems

Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams—

Point and point—the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire!

So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire

The furies? And yet I think—I am certain the race is slack,

And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack!

Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why?

We'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,—gallop, reach home, and die,

Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trap

For life—we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap!

Yes, I'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings

Here—of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ...

Flings? I flung? Never! But think!—a woman, after all,

Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall,

Terentiì!

"How now? What, you still head the race,Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face?There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! Flash again?All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain!My fist—why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God,Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prodThe earth till out they scratch some corpse—mere putrid flesh!Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh?Terentiì—God, feel!—his neck keeps fast thy bagOf holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will dragForth, and devour along with him, our Pope declaredThe relics were to save from danger!

"How now? What, you still head the race,

Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face?

There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! Flash again?

All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain!

My fist—why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God,

Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod

The earth till out they scratch some corpse—mere putrid flesh!

Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh?

Terentiì—God, feel!—his neck keeps fast thy bag

Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag

Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared

The relics were to save from danger!

"Spurned, not spared!'Twas through my arms, crossed arms, he—nuzzling now with snout,Now ripping, tooth and claw—plucked, pulled Terentiì out,A prize indeed! I saw—how could I else but see?—My precious one—I bit to hold back—pulled from me!Up came the others, fell to dancing—did the imps!—Skipped as they scampered round. There's one is gray, and limps:Who knows but old bad Màrpha—she always owed me spiteAnd envied me my births—skulks out of doors at nightAnd turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood,And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood,Squats down at door by dawn, spins there demure as erst—No strength, old crone,—not she!—to crawl forth half a verst!

"Spurned, not spared!

'Twas through my arms, crossed arms, he—nuzzling now with snout,

Now ripping, tooth and claw—plucked, pulled Terentiì out,

A prize indeed! I saw—how could I else but see?—

My precious one—I bit to hold back—pulled from me!

Up came the others, fell to dancing—did the imps!—

Skipped as they scampered round. There's one is gray, and limps:

Who knows but old bad Màrpha—she always owed me spite

And envied me my births—skulks out of doors at night

And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood,

And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood,

Squats down at door by dawn, spins there demure as erst

—No strength, old crone,—not she!—to crawl forth half a verst!

"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there liesThe space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyesThe endmost snow: 'tis dawn, 'tis day, 'tis safe at home!We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam,Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,—Forgetful, in your greed, our finest off we hear,Tough Droug and I,—my babe, my boy that shall be man,My man that shall be more, do all a hunter canTo trace and follow and find and catch and crucifyWolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall dieThe whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat!'Take that!' we'll stab you with,—'the tenderness we metWhen, wretches, you danced round,—not this, thank God—not this!Hellhounds, we balk you!'

"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies

The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes

The endmost snow: 'tis dawn, 'tis day, 'tis safe at home!

We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam,

Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,—

Forgetful, in your greed, our finest off we hear,

Tough Droug and I,—my babe, my boy that shall be man,

My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can

To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify

Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die

The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat!

'Take that!' we'll stab you with,—'the tenderness we met

When, wretches, you danced round,—not this, thank God—not this!

Hellhounds, we balk you!'

"But—Ah, God above!—Bliss, bliss,—Not the band, no! And yet—yes, for Droug knows him! One—This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!'His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes,He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves:He 's off and after us,—one speck, one spot, one ballGrows bigger, bound on bound,—one wolf as good as all!Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue!That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrungThe panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst!Now for it—now! Ah me! I know him—thrice-accurstSatan-face,—him to the end my foe!

"But—Ah, God above!—Bliss, bliss,—

Not the band, no! And yet—yes, for Droug knows him! One—

This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!'

His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes,

He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves:

He 's off and after us,—one speck, one spot, one ball

Grows bigger, bound on bound,—one wolf as good as all!

Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue!

That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung

The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst!

Now for it—now! Ah me! I know him—thrice-accurst

Satan-face,—him to the end my foe!

"All fight 's in vain:This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain.I fall—fall as I ought—quite on the babe I guard:I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hardTo die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I—one inch!Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch!O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!—see!It grinds—it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me,Could I do more? Besides he knew wolf's way to win:I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in,Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feelsThe onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels,Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leafAnd bloom and seed unborn?

"All fight 's in vain:

This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain.

I fall—fall as I ought—quite on the babe I guard:

I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard

To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I—one inch!

Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch!

O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!—see!

It grinds—it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me,

Could I do more? Besides he knew wolf's way to win:

I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in,

Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels

The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels,

Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf

And bloom and seed unborn?

"That slew me: yes, in brief,I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stoppedHere, I suppose. I come to life, I find me proppedThus,—how or when or why—I know not. Tell me, friends,All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends!Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof,Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you 'd see the roofWhich holds my three—my two—my one—not one?

"That slew me: yes, in brief,

I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped

Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped

Thus,—how or when or why—I know not. Tell me, friends,

All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends!

Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof,

Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you 'd see the roof

Which holds my three—my two—my one—not one?

"Life 's mixedWith misery, yet we live—must live. The Satan fixedHis face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitchTakes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch,'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing!Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling.Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears—What good they do! Life 's sweet, and all its after-years,Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I!May God reward you, dear!"

"Life 's mixed

With misery, yet we live—must live. The Satan fixed

His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch

Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch,

'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing!

Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling.

Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears

—What good they do! Life 's sweet, and all its after-years,

Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I!

May God reward you, dear!"

Down she sank. SolemnlyIvàn rose, raised his axe,—for fitly, as she knelt,Her head lay: well-apart, each side, her arms hung,—dealtLightning-swift thunder-strong one blow—no need of more!Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound at core(Neighbors were used to say)—cast-iron-kernelled—whichTaxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

Down she sank. Solemnly

Ivàn rose, raised his axe,—for fitly, as she knelt,

Her head lay: well-apart, each side, her arms hung,—dealt

Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow—no need of more!

Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound at core

(Neighbors were used to say)—cast-iron-kernelled—which

Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be:I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'"Then stooping, peering round—what is it now he lacks?A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe.Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind.The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake windInto a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be:

I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'"

Then stooping, peering round—what is it now he lacks?

A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe.

Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind.

The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind

Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts—from where it steepsRedder each ruddy rag of pine—the head: two moreTake up the dripping body: then, mute still as before,Move in a sort of march, march on till marching endsOpposite to the church; where halting,—who suspends,By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its placeThe piteous head: once more the body shows no traceOf harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wifeAnd mother, loved until this latest of her life.Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a spaceKept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts—from where it steeps

Redder each ruddy rag of pine—the head: two more

Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before,

Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends

Opposite to the church; where halting,—who suspends,

By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place

The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace

Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife

And mother, loved until this latest of her life.

Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space

Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!

Presently all the souls, man, woman, child, which makeThe village up, are found assembling for the sakeOf what is to be done. The very Jews are there:A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair,Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethesAnd simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,—none breathes.

Presently all the souls, man, woman, child, which make

The village up, are found assembling for the sake

Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there:

A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair,

Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes

And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,—none breathes.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope—the priest—Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least.With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too,Stàrosta, that 's his style,—like Equity Judge with you,—Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs,Pomeschìk,—Lord of the Land, who wields—and none demurs—A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope—the priest—

Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least.

With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too,

Stàrosta, that 's his style,—like Equity Judge with you,—

Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs,

Pomeschìk,—Lord of the Land, who wields—and none demurs—

A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta—the thorpe'sSagaciousest old man—hears what you just have heard,From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word—"God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta—the thorpe's

Sagaciousest old man—hears what you just have heard,

From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word—

"God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Silence—the Pomeschìk broke with "A wild wrong wayOf righting wrong—if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse!Why was not law observed? What article allowsWhoso may please to play the judge, and, judgment dealt,Play executioner, as promptly as we peltTo death, without appeal, the vermin whose sole faultHas been—it dared to leave the darkness of its vault,Intrude upon our day! Too sudden and too rash!What was this woman's crime? Suppose the church should crashDown where I stand, your lord: bound are my serfs to dareTheir utmost that I 'scape: yet, if the crashing scareMy children—as you are,—if sons fly, one and all,Leave father to his fate,—poor cowards though I callThe runaways, I pause before I claim their lifeBecause they prized it more than mine. I would each wifeDied for her husband's sake, each son to save his sire:'T is glory, I applaud—scarce duty, I require.Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that 's namedMurder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

Silence—the Pomeschìk broke with "A wild wrong way

Of righting wrong—if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse!

Why was not law observed? What article allows

Whoso may please to play the judge, and, judgment dealt,

Play executioner, as promptly as we pelt

To death, without appeal, the vermin whose sole fault

Has been—it dared to leave the darkness of its vault,

Intrude upon our day! Too sudden and too rash!

What was this woman's crime? Suppose the church should crash

Down where I stand, your lord: bound are my serfs to dare

Their utmost that I 'scape: yet, if the crashing scare

My children—as you are,—if sons fly, one and all,

Leave father to his fate,—poor cowards though I call

The runaways, I pause before I claim their life

Because they prized it more than mine. I would each wife

Died for her husband's sake, each son to save his sire:

'T is glory, I applaud—scarce duty, I require.

Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that 's named

Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old—How old, myself have got to know no longer. RolledQuite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age,Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stageAt least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discernTruer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learnWhen first we set our foot to tread the course I trodWith man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God.'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I sawAnd paid obedience to man's visionary law:'Your old men shall dream dreams:' and, in my age, a handConducts me through the cloud round law to where I standFirm on its base,—know cause, who, before, knew effect.

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old—

How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled

Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age,

Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage

At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern

Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn

When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod

With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God.

'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw

And paid obedience to man's visionary law:

'Your old men shall dream dreams:' and, in my age, a hand

Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand

Firm on its base,—know cause, who, before, knew effect.

"The world lies under me: and nowhere I detectSo great a gift as this—God's own—of human life.'Shall the dead praise thee?' No! 'The whole live world is rife,God, with thy glory,' rather! Life then, God's best of gifts,For what shall man exchange? For life—when so he shiftsThe weight and turns the scale, lets life for life restoreGod's balance, sacrifice the less to gain the more,Substitute—for low life, another's or his own—Life large and liker God's who gave it: thus aloneMay life extinguish life that life may trulier be!How low this law descends on earth, is not for meTo trace: complexed becomes the simple, intricateThe plain, when I pursue law's winding. 'T is the straightOutflow of law I know and name: to law, the fountFresh from God's footstool, friends, follow while I remount.

"The world lies under me: and nowhere I detect

So great a gift as this—God's own—of human life.

'Shall the dead praise thee?' No! 'The whole live world is rife,

God, with thy glory,' rather! Life then, God's best of gifts,

For what shall man exchange? For life—when so he shifts

The weight and turns the scale, lets life for life restore

God's balance, sacrifice the less to gain the more,

Substitute—for low life, another's or his own—

Life large and liker God's who gave it: thus alone

May life extinguish life that life may trulier be!

How low this law descends on earth, is not for me

To trace: complexed becomes the simple, intricate

The plain, when I pursue law's winding. 'T is the straight

Outflow of law I know and name: to law, the fount

Fresh from God's footstool, friends, follow while I remount.

"A mother bears a child: perfection is completeSo far in such a birth. Enabled to repeatThe miracle of life,—herself was born so justA type of womankind, that God sees fit to trustHer with the holy task of giving life in turn.Crowned by this crowning pride, how say you, should she spurnRegality—discrowned, unchilded, by her choiceOf barrenness exchanged for fruit which made rejoiceCreation, though life's self were lost in giving birthTo life more fresh and fit to glorify God's earth?How say you, should the hand God trusted with life's torchKindled to light the world—aware of sparks that scorch,Let fall the same? Forsooth, her flesh a fire-flake stings:The mother drops the child! Among what monstrous thingsShall she he classed? Because of motherhood, each maleYields to his partner place, sinks proudly in the scale:His strength owned weakness, wit—folly, and courage—fear,Beside the female proved male's mistress—only here.The fox-dam, hunger-pined, will slay the felon sireWho dares assault her whelp: the beaver, stretched on fire,Will die-without a groan: no pang avails to wrestHer young from where they hide—her sanctuary breast.What 's here then? Answer me, thou dead one, as, I trow,Standing at God's own bar, he bids thee answer now!Thrice crowned wast thou—each crown of pride, a child—thy charge!Where are they? Lost? Enough: no need that thou enlargeOn how or why the loss: life left to utter 'lost'Condemns itself beyond appeal. The soldier's postGuards from the foe's attack the camp he sentinels:That he no traitor proved, this and this only tells—Over the corpse of him trod foe to foe's success.Yet—one by one thy crowns torn from thee—thou no lessTo scare the world, shame God,—livedst! I hold he sawThe unexampled sin, ordained the novel law,Whereof first instrument was first intelligenceFound loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense,The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to effaceHumanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace.Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was foundA man and mar enough, head-sober and heart-sound,Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey.Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day,No otherwise than did, in ages long ago,Moses when he made known the purport of that flowOf fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaimIvàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

"A mother bears a child: perfection is complete

So far in such a birth. Enabled to repeat

The miracle of life,—herself was born so just

A type of womankind, that God sees fit to trust

Her with the holy task of giving life in turn.

Crowned by this crowning pride, how say you, should she spurn

Regality—discrowned, unchilded, by her choice

Of barrenness exchanged for fruit which made rejoice

Creation, though life's self were lost in giving birth

To life more fresh and fit to glorify God's earth?

How say you, should the hand God trusted with life's torch

Kindled to light the world—aware of sparks that scorch,

Let fall the same? Forsooth, her flesh a fire-flake stings:

The mother drops the child! Among what monstrous things

Shall she he classed? Because of motherhood, each male

Yields to his partner place, sinks proudly in the scale:

His strength owned weakness, wit—folly, and courage—fear,

Beside the female proved male's mistress—only here.

The fox-dam, hunger-pined, will slay the felon sire

Who dares assault her whelp: the beaver, stretched on fire,

Will die-without a groan: no pang avails to wrest

Her young from where they hide—her sanctuary breast.

What 's here then? Answer me, thou dead one, as, I trow,

Standing at God's own bar, he bids thee answer now!

Thrice crowned wast thou—each crown of pride, a child—thy charge!

Where are they? Lost? Enough: no need that thou enlarge

On how or why the loss: life left to utter 'lost'

Condemns itself beyond appeal. The soldier's post

Guards from the foe's attack the camp he sentinels:

That he no traitor proved, this and this only tells—

Over the corpse of him trod foe to foe's success.

Yet—one by one thy crowns torn from thee—thou no less

To scare the world, shame God,—livedst! I hold he saw

The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law,

Whereof first instrument was first intelligence

Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense,

The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface

Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace.

Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found

A man and mar enough, head-sober and heart-sound,

Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey.

Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day,

No otherwise than did, in ages long ago,

Moses when he made known the purport of that flow

Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim

Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

At which nameUprose that creepy whisper from out the crowd, is wont,To swell and surge and sink when fellow-men confrontA punishment that falls on fellow flesh and blood,Appallingly beheld—shudderingly understood,No less, to be the right, the just, the merciful."God's servant!" hissed the crowd.

At which name

Uprose that creepy whisper from out the crowd, is wont,

To swell and surge and sink when fellow-men confront

A punishment that falls on fellow flesh and blood,

Appallingly beheld—shudderingly understood,

No less, to be the right, the just, the merciful.

"God's servant!" hissed the crowd.

When the Amen grew dullAnd died away and left acquittal plain adjudged,"Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There 's none shall say I grudgedEscape from punishment in such a novel case.Deferring to old age and holy life,—be graceGranted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a senseFirmer than I boast mine. Law 's law, and evidenceOf breach therein lies plain,—blood-red-bright,—all may see!Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!

When the Amen grew dull

And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged,

"Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There 's none shall say I grudged

Escape from punishment in such a novel case.

Deferring to old age and holy life,—be grace

Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense

Firmer than I boast mine. Law 's law, and evidence

Of breach therein lies plain,—blood-red-bright,—all may see!

Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!

"And next—as mercy rules the hour—methinks 't were wellYou signify forthwith its sentence, and dispelThe doubts and fears, I judge, which busy now the headLaw puts a halter round—a halo—you, instead!Ivàn Ivànovitch—what think you he expectsWill follow from his feat? Go, tell him—law protectsMurder, for once: no need he longer keep behindThe Sacred Pictures—where skulks Innocence enshrined,Or I missay! Go, some! You others, haste and hideThe dismal object there: get done, whate'er betide!"

"And next—as mercy rules the hour—methinks 't were well

You signify forthwith its sentence, and dispel

The doubts and fears, I judge, which busy now the head

Law puts a halter round—a halo—you, instead!

Ivàn Ivànovitch—what think you he expects

Will follow from his feat? Go, tell him—law protects

Murder, for once: no need he longer keep behind

The Sacred Pictures—where skulks Innocence enshrined,

Or I missay! Go, some! You others, haste and hide

The dismal object there: get done, whate'er betide!"

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders troopedSilently to the house: where halting, some one stooped,Listened beside the door; all there was silent too.Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through,Stood in the murderer's presence.

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped

Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped,

Listened beside the door; all there was silent too.

Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through,

Stood in the murderer's presence.

Ivàn IvànovitchKnelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and richHe deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights.Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights,Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete.Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heatOf the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread.Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head,Was just in act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,—each a dome,—The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the homeOf Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch,—An acorn-cup—was ready: Ivàn IvànovitchTurned with it in his mouth.

Ivàn Ivànovitch

Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich

He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights.

Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights,

Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete.

Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat

Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread.

Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head,

Was just in act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,—each a dome,—

The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home

Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch,

—An acorn-cup—was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch

Turned with it in his mouth.

They told him he was freeAs air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

They told him he was free

As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

This poem describes an actual incident witnessed in Paris by a friend of Browning's, and with accuracy of detail. The poem was written as a protest against vivisection, which the poet called "an infamous practice." He was early associated with Miss Frances Power Cobbe in her efforts to prevent vivisection; and he was a vice-president of the "Victoria Street Society for the Protection of Animals." Dr. Berdoe says, "He always expressed the utmost abhorrence of the practices which it opposes." To Miss Cobbe he wrote in 1874: "You have heard, 'I take an equal interest with yourself in the effort to suppress vivisection.' I dare not so honor my mere wishes and prayers as to put them for a moment beside your noble acts; but this I know, I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured on the pretence of sparing me a twinge or two." He goes even so far as to say that the person not willing to sign the petition against vivisection certainly could not be numbered among his friends. To Miss Stackpoole he wrote in April, 1883: "I despise and abhor the pleas on behalf of that infamous practice, vivisection."G. W. Cooke.

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