Theypraised the tale, and for awhile they talkedOf other tales of treasure-seekers balked,And shame and loss for men insatiate stored,Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard,The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead;Then of how men would be rememberédWhen they are gone; and more than one could tellOf what unhappy things therefrom befell;Or how by folly men have gained a name;A name indeed, not hallowed by the fameOf any deeds remembered: and some thought,—"Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but noughtTo dead men! better it would be to giveWhat things they may, while on the earth they liveUnto the earth, and from the bounteous earthTo take their pay of sorrow or of mirth,Hatred or love, and get them on their way;And let the teeming earth fresh troubles makeFor other men, and ever for their sakeUse what they left, when they are gone from it."But while amid such musings they did sit,Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall,And the chief man for minstrelsy did call,And other talk their dull thoughts chased away,Nor did they part till night was mixed with day.
Theypraised the tale, and for awhile they talkedOf other tales of treasure-seekers balked,And shame and loss for men insatiate stored,Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard,The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead;Then of how men would be rememberédWhen they are gone; and more than one could tellOf what unhappy things therefrom befell;Or how by folly men have gained a name;A name indeed, not hallowed by the fameOf any deeds remembered: and some thought,—"Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but noughtTo dead men! better it would be to giveWhat things they may, while on the earth they liveUnto the earth, and from the bounteous earthTo take their pay of sorrow or of mirth,Hatred or love, and get them on their way;And let the teeming earth fresh troubles makeFor other men, and ever for their sakeUse what they left, when they are gone from it."But while amid such musings they did sit,Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall,And the chief man for minstrelsy did call,And other talk their dull thoughts chased away,Nor did they part till night was mixed with day.
OJune,O June, that we desired so,Wilt thou not make us happy on this day?Across the river thy soft breezes blowSweet with the scent of beanfields far away,Above our heads rustle the aspens grey,Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset,No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.See, we have left our hopes and fears behindTo give our very hearts up unto thee;What better place than this then could we findBy this sweet stream that knows not of the sea,That guesses not the city's misery,This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names,This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take;And if indeed but pensive men we seem,What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wakeFrom out the arms of this rare happy dreamAnd wish to leave the murmur of the stream,The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds,And all thy thousand peaceful happy words.
OJune,O June, that we desired so,Wilt thou not make us happy on this day?Across the river thy soft breezes blowSweet with the scent of beanfields far away,Above our heads rustle the aspens grey,Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset,No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.See, we have left our hopes and fears behindTo give our very hearts up unto thee;What better place than this then could we findBy this sweet stream that knows not of the sea,That guesses not the city's misery,This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names,This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take;And if indeed but pensive men we seem,What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wakeFrom out the arms of this rare happy dreamAnd wish to leave the murmur of the stream,The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds,And all thy thousand peaceful happy words.
Nowin the early June they deemed it goodThat they should go unto a house that stoodOn their chief river, so upon a dayWith favouring wind and tide they took their wayUp the fair stream; most lovely was the timeEven amidst the days of that fair clime,And still the wanderers thought about their lives,And that desire that rippling water givesTo youthful hearts to wander anywhere.So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fairThey came to, set upon the river sideWhere kindly folk their coming did abide;There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shadeBeneath the trees they found the fair feast laid,And sat, well pleased; but when the water-henHad got at last to think them harmless men,And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine,Began to feel immortal and divine,An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the dayAmid such calm delight now slips away,And ye yourselves are grown so bright and gladI care not if I tell you something sad;Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by,Unstained by sordid strife or misery;Sad, because though a glorious end it tells,Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells,And striving through all things to reach the bestUpon no midway happiness will rest."
Nowin the early June they deemed it goodThat they should go unto a house that stoodOn their chief river, so upon a dayWith favouring wind and tide they took their wayUp the fair stream; most lovely was the timeEven amidst the days of that fair clime,And still the wanderers thought about their lives,And that desire that rippling water givesTo youthful hearts to wander anywhere.So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fairThey came to, set upon the river sideWhere kindly folk their coming did abide;There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shadeBeneath the trees they found the fair feast laid,And sat, well pleased; but when the water-henHad got at last to think them harmless men,And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine,Began to feel immortal and divine,An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the dayAmid such calm delight now slips away,And ye yourselves are grown so bright and gladI care not if I tell you something sad;Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by,Unstained by sordid strife or misery;Sad, because though a glorious end it tells,Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells,And striving through all things to reach the bestUpon no midway happiness will rest."
Admetus, King of Pheræ in Thessaly, received unwittingly Apollo as his servant, by the help of whom he won to wife Alcestis, daughter of Pelias: afterwards too, as in other things, so principally in this, Apollo gave him help, that when he came to die, he obtained of the Fates for him, that if another would die willingly in his stead, then he should live still; and when to every one else this seemed impossible, Alcestis gave her life for her husband's.
Midstsunny grass-clad meads that slope adownTo lake Bœbeis stands an ancient town,Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly,The son of Pheres and fair Clymene,Who had to name Admetus: long agoThe dwellers by the lake have ceased to knowHis name, because the world grows old, but thenHe was accounted great among great men;Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at allOf gifts that unto royal men might fallIn those old simple days, before men wentTo gather unseen harm and discontent,Along with all the alien merchandiseThat rich folk need, too restless to be wise.Now on the fairest of all autumn eves,When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leavesThe black grapes showed, and every press and vatWas newly scoured, this King Admetus satAmong his people, wearied in such wiseBy hopeful toil as makes a paradiseOf the rich earth; for light and far awaySeemed all the labour of the coming day,And no man wished for more than then he had,Nor with another's mourning was made glad.There in the pillared porch, their supper done,They watched the fair departing of the sun;The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens pouredThe joy of life from out the jars long storedDeep in the earth, while little like a king,As we call kings, but glad with everything,The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life,So free from sickening fear and foolish strife.But midst the joy of this festivity,Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh,Along the dusty grey vine-bordered roadThat had its ending at his fair abode;He seemed e'en from afar to set his faceUnto the King's adornéd reverend place,And like a traveller went he wearily,And yet as one who seems his rest to see.A staff he bore, but nowise was he bentWith scrip or wallet; so withal he wentStraight to the King's high seat, and standing near,Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear,But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad,And though the dust of that hot land he hadUpon his limbs and face, as fair was heAs any king's son you might lightly see,Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb,And no ill eye the women cast on him.But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand,He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land,Unto a banished man some shelter give,And help me with thy goods that I may live:Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I,Who kneel before thee now in misery,Give thee more gifts before the end shall comeThan all thou hast laid safely in thine home.""Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said,"I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread,The land is wide, and bountiful enow.What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show,And be my man, perchance; but this night restNot questioned more than any passing guest.Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt,Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt."Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeedOf thine awarded silence have I need,Nameless I am, nameless what I have doneMust be through many circles of the sun.But for to-morrow—let me rather tellOn this same eve what things I can do well,And let me put mine hand in thine and swearTo serve thee faithfully a changing year;Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beastThat of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast,Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bearThy troubles easier when thou com'st to hearThe music I can make. Let these thy menWitness against me if I fail thee, whenWar falls upon thy lovely land and thee."Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be,Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this,Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss:Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand,Be thou true man unto this guarded land.Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meetWherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet,And bring him back beside my throne to feast."But to himself he said, "I am the leastOf all Thessalians if this man was bornIn any earthly dwelling more forlornThan a king's palace."Then a damsel slimLed him inside, nought loth to go with him,And when the cloud of steam had curled to meetWithin the brass his wearied dusty feet,She from a carved press brought him linen fair,And a new-woven coat a king might wear,And so being clad he came unto the feast,But as he came again, all people ceasedWhat talk they held soever, for they thoughtA very god among them had been brought;And doubly glad the king Admetus wasAt what that dying eve had brought to pass,And bade him sit by him and feast his fill.So there they sat till all the world was still,And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shineHeld forth unto the night a joyous sign.
Midstsunny grass-clad meads that slope adownTo lake Bœbeis stands an ancient town,Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly,The son of Pheres and fair Clymene,Who had to name Admetus: long agoThe dwellers by the lake have ceased to knowHis name, because the world grows old, but thenHe was accounted great among great men;Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at allOf gifts that unto royal men might fallIn those old simple days, before men wentTo gather unseen harm and discontent,Along with all the alien merchandiseThat rich folk need, too restless to be wise.Now on the fairest of all autumn eves,When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leavesThe black grapes showed, and every press and vatWas newly scoured, this King Admetus satAmong his people, wearied in such wiseBy hopeful toil as makes a paradiseOf the rich earth; for light and far awaySeemed all the labour of the coming day,And no man wished for more than then he had,Nor with another's mourning was made glad.There in the pillared porch, their supper done,They watched the fair departing of the sun;The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens pouredThe joy of life from out the jars long storedDeep in the earth, while little like a king,As we call kings, but glad with everything,The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life,So free from sickening fear and foolish strife.But midst the joy of this festivity,Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh,Along the dusty grey vine-bordered roadThat had its ending at his fair abode;He seemed e'en from afar to set his faceUnto the King's adornéd reverend place,And like a traveller went he wearily,And yet as one who seems his rest to see.A staff he bore, but nowise was he bentWith scrip or wallet; so withal he wentStraight to the King's high seat, and standing near,Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear,But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad,And though the dust of that hot land he hadUpon his limbs and face, as fair was heAs any king's son you might lightly see,Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb,And no ill eye the women cast on him.But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand,He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land,Unto a banished man some shelter give,And help me with thy goods that I may live:Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I,Who kneel before thee now in misery,Give thee more gifts before the end shall comeThan all thou hast laid safely in thine home.""Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said,"I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread,The land is wide, and bountiful enow.What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show,And be my man, perchance; but this night restNot questioned more than any passing guest.Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt,Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt."Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeedOf thine awarded silence have I need,Nameless I am, nameless what I have doneMust be through many circles of the sun.But for to-morrow—let me rather tellOn this same eve what things I can do well,And let me put mine hand in thine and swearTo serve thee faithfully a changing year;Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beastThat of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast,Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bearThy troubles easier when thou com'st to hearThe music I can make. Let these thy menWitness against me if I fail thee, whenWar falls upon thy lovely land and thee."Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be,Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this,Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss:Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand,Be thou true man unto this guarded land.Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meetWherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet,And bring him back beside my throne to feast."But to himself he said, "I am the leastOf all Thessalians if this man was bornIn any earthly dwelling more forlornThan a king's palace."Then a damsel slimLed him inside, nought loth to go with him,And when the cloud of steam had curled to meetWithin the brass his wearied dusty feet,She from a carved press brought him linen fair,And a new-woven coat a king might wear,And so being clad he came unto the feast,But as he came again, all people ceasedWhat talk they held soever, for they thoughtA very god among them had been brought;And doubly glad the king Admetus wasAt what that dying eve had brought to pass,And bade him sit by him and feast his fill.So there they sat till all the world was still,And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shineHeld forth unto the night a joyous sign.
Sohenceforth did this man at Pheræ dwell,And what he set his hand to wrought right well,And won much praise and love in everything,And came to rule all herdsmen of the King;But for two things in chief his fame did grow;And first that he was better with the bowThan any 'twixt Olympus and the sea,And then that sweet, heart-piercing melodyHe drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre,And made the circle round the winter fireMore like to heaven than gardens of the May.So many a heavy thought he chased awayFrom the King's heart, and softened many a hate,And choked the spring of many a harsh debate;And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the woldsLurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds.Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal,Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall;For morns there were when he the man would meet,His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet,Gazing distraught into the brightening east,Nor taking heed of either man or beast,Or anything that was upon the earth.Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth,Within the King's hall, would he seem to wakeAs from a dream, and his stringed tortoise takeAnd strike the cords unbidden, till the hallFilled with the glorious sound from wall to wall,Trembled and seemed as it would melt away,And sunken down the faces weeping layThat erewhile laughed the loudest; only heStood upright, looking forward steadilyWith sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep,Until the storm of music sank to sleep.But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of allUnto the King, that should there chance to fallA festal day, and folk did sacrificeUnto the gods, ever by some deviceThe man would be away: yet with all thisHis presence doubled all Admetus' bliss,And happy in all things he seemed to live,And great gifts to his herdsman did he give.But now the year came round again to spring,And southward to Iolchos went the King;For there did Pelias hold a sacrificeUnto the gods, and put forth things of priceFor men to strive for in the people's sight;So on a morn of April, fresh and bright,Admetus shook the golden-studded reins,And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanesThe south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel,Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steelUnto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhileHearkening the echoes with a godlike smile,Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring,"Fair music for the wooing of a King."But in six days again Admetus came,With no lost labour or dishonoured name;A scarlet cloak upon his back he bareA gold crown on his head, a falchion fairGirt to his side; behind him four white steeds,Whose dams had fed full in Nisæan meads;All prizes that his valiant hands had wonWithin the guarded lists of Tyro's son.Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsyNo joyous man in truth he seemed to be;So that folk looking on him said, "Behold,The wise King will not show himself too boldAmidst his greatness: the gods too are great,And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?"Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town,And midst their shouts at last he lighted downAt his own house, and held high feast that night;And yet by seeming had but small delightIn aught that any man could do or say:And on the morrow, just at dawn of day,Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear.And in the fresh and blossom-scented airWent wandering till he reach Bœbeis' shore;Yet by his troubled face set little storeBy all the songs of birds and scent of flowers;Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hoursWere grown but dull and empty of delight.So going, at the last he came in sightOf his new herdsman, who that morning layClose by the white sand of a little bayThe teeming ripple of Bœbeis lapped;There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrappedAgainst the cold dew, free from trouble sang,The while the heifers' bells about him rangAnd mingled with the sweet soft-throated birdsAnd bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these wordsWill tell the tale of his felicity,Halting and void of music though they be.
Sohenceforth did this man at Pheræ dwell,And what he set his hand to wrought right well,And won much praise and love in everything,And came to rule all herdsmen of the King;But for two things in chief his fame did grow;And first that he was better with the bowThan any 'twixt Olympus and the sea,And then that sweet, heart-piercing melodyHe drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre,And made the circle round the winter fireMore like to heaven than gardens of the May.So many a heavy thought he chased awayFrom the King's heart, and softened many a hate,And choked the spring of many a harsh debate;And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the woldsLurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds.Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal,Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall;For morns there were when he the man would meet,His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet,Gazing distraught into the brightening east,Nor taking heed of either man or beast,Or anything that was upon the earth.Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth,Within the King's hall, would he seem to wakeAs from a dream, and his stringed tortoise takeAnd strike the cords unbidden, till the hallFilled with the glorious sound from wall to wall,Trembled and seemed as it would melt away,And sunken down the faces weeping layThat erewhile laughed the loudest; only heStood upright, looking forward steadilyWith sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep,Until the storm of music sank to sleep.But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of allUnto the King, that should there chance to fallA festal day, and folk did sacrificeUnto the gods, ever by some deviceThe man would be away: yet with all thisHis presence doubled all Admetus' bliss,And happy in all things he seemed to live,And great gifts to his herdsman did he give.But now the year came round again to spring,And southward to Iolchos went the King;For there did Pelias hold a sacrificeUnto the gods, and put forth things of priceFor men to strive for in the people's sight;So on a morn of April, fresh and bright,Admetus shook the golden-studded reins,And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanesThe south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel,Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steelUnto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhileHearkening the echoes with a godlike smile,Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring,"Fair music for the wooing of a King."But in six days again Admetus came,With no lost labour or dishonoured name;A scarlet cloak upon his back he bareA gold crown on his head, a falchion fairGirt to his side; behind him four white steeds,Whose dams had fed full in Nisæan meads;All prizes that his valiant hands had wonWithin the guarded lists of Tyro's son.Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsyNo joyous man in truth he seemed to be;So that folk looking on him said, "Behold,The wise King will not show himself too boldAmidst his greatness: the gods too are great,And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?"Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town,And midst their shouts at last he lighted downAt his own house, and held high feast that night;And yet by seeming had but small delightIn aught that any man could do or say:And on the morrow, just at dawn of day,Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear.And in the fresh and blossom-scented airWent wandering till he reach Bœbeis' shore;Yet by his troubled face set little storeBy all the songs of birds and scent of flowers;Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hoursWere grown but dull and empty of delight.So going, at the last he came in sightOf his new herdsman, who that morning layClose by the white sand of a little bayThe teeming ripple of Bœbeis lapped;There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrappedAgainst the cold dew, free from trouble sang,The while the heifers' bells about him rangAnd mingled with the sweet soft-throated birdsAnd bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these wordsWill tell the tale of his felicity,Halting and void of music though they be.
ODwellerson the lovely earth,Why will ye break your rest and mirthTo weary us with fruitless prayer;Why will ye toil and take such careFor children's children yet unborn,And garner store of strife and scornTo gain a scarce-remembered name,Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame?And if the gods care not for you,What is this folly ye must doTo win some mortal's feeble heart?O fools! when each man plays his part,And heeds his fellow little moreThan these blue waves that kiss the shoreTake heed of how the daisies grow.O fools! and if ye could but knowHow fair a world to you is given.O brooder on the hills of heaven,When for my sin thou drav'st me forth,Hadst thou forgot what this was worth,Thine own hand had made? The tears of men,The death of threescore years and ten,The trembling of the timorous race—Had these things so bedimmed the placeThine own hand made, thou couldst not knowTo what a heaven the earth might growIf fear beneath the earth were laid,If hope failed not, nor love decayed.He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord,Who, drawing near, heard little of his word,And noted less; for in that haggard moodNought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood,Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh,He lifted up his drawn face suddenly,And as the singer gat him to his feet,His eyes Admetus' troubled eyes did meet,As with some speech he now seemed labouring,Which from his heart his lips refused to bring.Then spoke the herdsman, "Master, what is this,That thou, returned with honour to the bliss,The gods have given thee here, still makest showTo be some wretch bent with the weight of woe?What wilt thou have? What help there is in meIs wholly thine, for in felicityWithin thine house thou still hast let me live,Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give.""Yea," said Admetus, "thou canst help indeed,But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead.Yet listen: at Iolchos the first dayUnto Diana's house I took my way,Where all men gathered ere the games began,There, at the right side of the royal man,Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand,Who with a suppliant bough in her right handHeaded the band of maidens; but to meMore than a goddess did she seem to be,Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thoughtThat we had all been thither called for noughtBut that her bridegroom Pelias might choose,And with that thought desire did I let loose,And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill,As one who will not fear the coming ill:All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart,To strive in such a marvel to have part!What god shall wed her rather? no more fearThan vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear,Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lipsUnknown love trembled; the Phœnician shipsWithin their dark holds nought so precious bringAs her soft golden hair, no daintiest thingI ever saw was half so wisely wroughtAs was her rosy ear; beyond all thought,All words to tell of, her veiled body showed,As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed,She laid her offering down; then I drawn nearThe murmuring of her gentle voice could hear,As waking one hears music in the morn,Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born;And sweeter than the roses fresh with dewSweet odours floated round me, as she drewSome golden thing from out her balmy breastWith her right hand, the while her left hand pressedThe hidden wonders of her girdlestead;And when abashed I sank adown my head,Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meetThe happy bands about her perfect feet."What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is?Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss,None first a moment; but before that dayNo love I knew but what might pass awayWhen hot desire was changed to certainty,Or not abide much longer; e'en such stingsHad smitten me, as the first warm day bringsWhen March is dying; but now half a godThe crowded way unto the lists I trod,Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles,And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles,And idle talk about me on the way."But none could stand before me on that day,I was as god-possessed, not knowing howThe King had brought her forth but for a show,To make his glory greater through the land:Therefore at last victorious did I standAmong my peers, nor yet one well-known nameHad gathered any honour from my shame.For there indeed both men of Thessaly,Œtolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea,And folk of Attica and Argolis,Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose blissIs to be tossed about from wave to wave,All these at last to me the honour gave,Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said,A wise Thessalian with a snowy head,And voice grown thin with age, 'O Pelias,Surely to thee no evil thing it wasThat to thy house this rich ThessalianShould come, to prove himself a valiant manAmongst these heroes; for if I be wiseBy dint of many years, with wistful eyesDoth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid;And surely, if the matter were well weighed,Good were it both for thee and for the landThat he should take the damsel by the handAnd lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell;What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?'"With that must I, a fool, stand forth and askIf yet there lay before me some great taskThat I must do ere I the maid should wed,But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said,'O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too,O King Admetus, this may seem to youA little matter; yea, and for my partE'en such a marriage would make glad my heart;But we the blood of Salmoneus who shareWith godlike gifts great burdens also bear,Nor is this maid without them, for the dayOn which her maiden zone she puts awayShall be her death-day, if she wed with oneBy whom this marvellous thing may not be done,For in the traces neither must steeds pawBefore my threshold, or white oxen drawThe wain that comes my maid to take from me,Far other beasts that day her slaves must be:The yellow lion 'neath the lash must roar,And by his side unscared, the forest boarToil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto,O lord of Pheræ, wilt thou come to wooIn such a chariot, and win endless fame,Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?'"What answered I? O herdsman, I was madWith sweet love and the triumph I had had.I took my father's ring from off my hand,And said, 'O heroes of the Grecian land,Be witnesses that on my father's nameFor this man's promise, do I take the shameOf this deed undone, if I fail herein;Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall winThis ring from thee, when I shall come againThrough fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain.Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt havePheræ my home, while on the tumbling waveA hollow ship my sad abode shall be.'"So driven by some hostile deity,Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won,But little valued now, set out uponMy homeward way: but nearer as I drewTo mine abode, and ever fainter grewIn my weak heart the image of my love,In vain with fear my boastful folly strove;For I remembered that no god I wasThough I had chanced my fellows to surpass;And I began to mind me in a whileWhat murmur rose, with what a mocking smilePelias stretched out his hand to take the ring.Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king:And when unto my palace-door I cameI had awakened fully to my shame;For certainly no help is left to me,But I must get me down unto the seaAnd build a keel, and whatso things I maySet in her hold, and cross the watery wayWhither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blowUnto a land where none my folly know,And there begin a weary life anew."Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grewThe while this tale was told, and at the endHe said, "Admetus, I thy life may mend,And thou at lovely Pheræ still may dwell;Wait for ten days, and then may all be well,And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go,And to the King thy team unheard-of show.And if not, then make ready for the seaNor will I fail indeed to go with thee,And 'twixt the halyards and the ashen oarFinish the service well begun ashore;But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best;And take another herdsman for the rest,For unto Ossa must I go aloneTo do a deed not easy to be done."Then springing up he took his spear and bowAnd northward by the lake-shore 'gan to go;But the King gazed upon him as he went,Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bentHis lingering steps, and hope began to springWithin his heart, for some betokeningHe seemed about the herdsman now to seeOf one from mortal cares and troubles free.And so midst hopes and fears day followed day,Until at last upon his bed he layWhen the grey, creeping dawn had now begunTo make the wide world ready for the sunOn the tenth day: sleepless had been the nightAnd now in that first hour of gathering lightFor weariness he slept, and dreamed that heStood by the border of a fair, calm seaAt point to go a-shipboard, and to leaveWhatever from his sire he did receiveOf land or kingship; and withal he dreamedThat through the cordage a bright light there gleamedFar off within the east; and nowise sadHe felt at leaving all he might have had,But rather as a man who goes to seeSome heritage expected patiently.But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore,The windless sea rose high and 'gan to roar,And from the gangway thrust the ship aside,Until he hung over a chasm wideVocal with furious waves, yet had no fearFor all the varied tumult he might hear,But slowly woke up to the morning lightThat to his eyes seemed past all memory bright,And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heartWoke up to joyous life with one glad start,And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand,Holding a long white staff in his right hand,Carved with strange figures; and withal he said,"Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed,But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride,For now an ivory chariot waits outside,Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring;Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing,If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod,Whereon are carved the names of every godThat rules the fertile earth; but having comeUnto King Pelias' well-adornéd home,Abide not long, but take the royal maid,And let her dowry in thy wain be laid,Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold,For this indeed will Pelias not withholdWhen he shall see thee like a very god.Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod,Turn round to Pheræ; yet must thou abideBefore thou comest to the streamlet's sideThat feed its dykes; there, by the little woodWherein unto Diana men shed blood,Will I await thee, and thou shalt descendAnd hand-in-hand afoot through Pheræ wend;And yet I bid thee, this night let thy brideApart among the womenfolk abide;That on the morrow thou with sacrificeFor these strange deeds may pay a fitting price."But as he spoke with something like to awe,His eyes and much-changed face Admetus saw,And voiceless like a slave his words obeyed;For rising up no more delay he made,But took the staff and gained the palace-doorWhere stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roarHad wrought his dream; there two and two they stood,Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood,And all the joys of the food-hiding trees,But harmless as their painted images'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he tookThe reins in hand and the bossed leather shook,And no delay the conquered beasts durst makeBut drew, not silent; and folk just awakeWhen he went by, as though a god they saw,Fell on their knees, and maidens come to drawFresh water from the fount sank trembling down,And silence held the babbling wakened town.So 'twixt the dewy hedges did he wend,And still their noise afar the beasts did send,His strange victorious advent to proclaim,Till to Iolchos at the last he came,And drew anigh the gates, whence in affrightThe guards fled, helpless at the wondrous sight;And through the town news of the coming spreadOf some great god so that the scared priests ledPale suppliants forth; who, in unmeet attireAnd hastily-caught boughs and smouldering fireWithin their censers, in the market-placeAwaited him with many an upturned face,Trembling with fear of that unnamed new god;But through the midst of them his lions trodWith noiseless feet, nor noted aught their prey,And the boars' hooves went pattering on the way,While from their churning tusks the white foam flewAs raging, helpless, in the trace they drew.But Pelias, knowing all the work of fate,Sat in his brazen-pillared porch to waitThe coming of the King; the while the maidIn her fair marriage garments was arrayed,And from strong places of his treasuryMen brought fine scarlet from the Syrian sea,And works of brass, and ivory, and gold;But when the strange yoked beasts he did beholdCome through the press of people terrified,Then he arose and o'er the clamour cried,"Hail, thou, who like a very god art comeTo bring great honour to my damsel's home;"And when Admetus tightened rein beforeThe gleaming, brazen-wrought, half-opened door.He cried to Pelias, "Hail, to thee, O King;Let me behold once more my father's ring,Let me behold the prize that I have won,Mine eyes are wearying now to look upon.""Fear not," he said, "the Fates are satisfied;Yet wilt thou not descend and here abide,Doing me honour till the next bright mornHas dried the dew upon the new-sprung corn,That we in turn may give the honour dueTo such a man that such a thing can do,And unto all the gods may sacrifice?""Nay," said Admetus, "if thou call'st me wise,And like a very god thou dost me deem,Shall I abide the ending of the dreamAnd so gain nothing? nay, let me be gladThat I at least one godlike hour have hadAt whatsoever time I come to die,That I may mock the world that passes by,And yet forgets it." Saying this, indeed,Of Pelias did he seem to take small heed,But spoke as one unto himself may speak,And still the half-shut door his eyes did seek,Wherethrough from distant rooms sweet music came,Setting his over-strainéd heart a-flame,Because amidst the Lydian flutes he thoughtFrom place to place his love the maidens brought.Then Pelias said, "What can I give to theeWho fail'st so little of divinity?Yet let my slaves lay these poor gifts withinThy chariot, while my daughter strives to winThe favour of the spirits of this place,Since from their altars she must turn her faceFor ever now; hearken, her flutes I hear,From the last chapel doth she draw anear."Then by Admetus' feet the folk 'gan pileThe precious things, but he no less the whileStared at the door ajar, and thought it longEre with the flutes mingled the maidens' song,And both grew louder, and the scarce-seen floorWas fluttering with white raiment, and the doorBy slender fingers was set open wide,And midst her damsels he beheld the brideUngirt, with hair unbound and garlanded:Then Pelias took her slender hand and said,"Daughter, this is the man that takes from theeThy curse midst women, think no more to beChildless, unloved, and knowing little bliss;But now behold how like a god he is,And yet with what prayers for the love of theeHe must have wearied some divinity,And therefore in thine inmost heart be gladThat thou 'mongst women such a man hast had."Then she with wondering eyes that strange team sawA moment, then as one with gathering aweMight turn from Jove's bird unto very Jove,So did she raise her grey eyes to her love,But to her brow the blood rose therewithal,And she must tremble, such a look did fallUpon her faithful eyes, that none the lessWould falter aught, for all her shamefastness,But rather to her lover's hungry eyesGave back a tender look of glad surprise,Wherein love's flame began to flicker now.Withal, her father kissed her on the brow,And said, "O daughter, take this royal ring,And set it on the finger of the King,And come not back; and thou, Admetus, pourThis wine to Jove before my open door,And glad at heart take back thine own with thee."Then with that word Alcestis silently,And with no look cast back, and ring in hand,Went forth, and soon beside her love did stand,Nor on his finger failed to set the ring;And then a golden cup the city's KingGave to him, and he poured and said, "O thou,From whatsoever place thou lookest now,What prayers, what gifts unto thee shall I giveThat we a little time with love may live?A little time of love, then fall asleepTogether, while the crown of love we keep."So spake he, and his strange beasts turned about,And heeded not the people's wavering shoutThat from their old fear and new pleasure sprung,Nor noted aught of what the damsels sung,Or of the flowers that after them they cast,But like a dream the guarded city passed,And 'twixt the song of birds and blossoms' scentIt seemed for many hundred years they went,Though short the way was unto Pheræ's gates;Time they forgat, and gods, and men, and fates,However nigh unto their hearts they were;The woodland boars, the yellow lords of fearNo more seemed strange to them, but all the earthWith all its changing sorrow and wild mirthIn that fair hour seemed new-born to the twain,Grief seemed a play forgot, a pageant vain,A picture painted, who knows where or when,With soulless images of restless men;For every thought but love was now gone by,And they forgot that they should ever die.But when they came anigh the sacred wood,There, biding them, Admetus' herdsman stood,At sight of whom those yoke-fellows uncheckedStopped dead and little of Admetus reckedWho now, as one from dreams not yet awake,Drew back his love and did his wain forsake,And gave the carven rod and guiding bandsInto the waiting herdsman's outstretched hands,But when he would have thanked him for the thingThat he had done, his speechless tongue must clingUnto his mouth, and why he could not tell.But the man said, "No words! thou hast done wellTo me, as I to thee; the day may comeWhen thou shalt ask me for a fitting home,Nor shalt thou ask in vain; but hasten now,And to thine house this royal maiden show,Then give her to thy women for this night.But when thou wakest up to thy delightTo-morrow, do all things that should be done,Nor of the gods, forget thou any one,And on the next day will I come againTo tend thy flocks upon the grassy plain."But now depart, and from thine home send hereChariot and horse, these gifts of thine to bearUnto thine house, and going, look not backLest many a wished-for thing thou com'st to lack."Then hand in hand together, up the roadThe lovers passed unto the King's abode,And as they went, the whining snort and roarFrom the yoked beasts they heard break out once moreAnd then die off, as they were led away,But whether to some place lit up by day,Or, 'neath the earth, they knew not, for the twainWent hastening on, nor once looked back again.But soon the minstrels met them, and a bandOf white-robed damsels flowery boughs in hand,To bid them welcome to that pleasant place.Then they, rejoicing much, in no long spaceCame to the brazen-pillared porch, whereonFrom 'twixt the passes of the hills yet shoneThe dying sun; and there she stood awhileWithout the threshold, a faint tender smileTrembling upon her lips 'twixt love and shame,Until each side of her a maiden cameAnd raised her in their arms, that her fair feetThe polished brazen threshold might not meet,And in Admetus' house she stood at last.But to the women's chamber straight she passedBepraised of all,—and so the wakeful nightLonely the lovers passed e'en as they might.But the next day with many a sacrifice,Admetus wrought, for such a well-won prize,A life so blest, the gods to satisfy,And many a matchless beast that day did dieUpon the altars; nought unlucky seemedTo be amid the joyous crowd that gleamedWith gold and precious things, and only thisSeemed wanting to the King of Pheræ's bliss,That all these pageants should be soon past by,And hid by night the fair spring blossoms lie.
ODwellerson the lovely earth,Why will ye break your rest and mirthTo weary us with fruitless prayer;Why will ye toil and take such careFor children's children yet unborn,And garner store of strife and scornTo gain a scarce-remembered name,Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame?And if the gods care not for you,What is this folly ye must doTo win some mortal's feeble heart?O fools! when each man plays his part,And heeds his fellow little moreThan these blue waves that kiss the shoreTake heed of how the daisies grow.O fools! and if ye could but knowHow fair a world to you is given.O brooder on the hills of heaven,When for my sin thou drav'st me forth,Hadst thou forgot what this was worth,Thine own hand had made? The tears of men,The death of threescore years and ten,The trembling of the timorous race—Had these things so bedimmed the placeThine own hand made, thou couldst not knowTo what a heaven the earth might growIf fear beneath the earth were laid,If hope failed not, nor love decayed.He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord,Who, drawing near, heard little of his word,And noted less; for in that haggard moodNought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood,Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh,He lifted up his drawn face suddenly,And as the singer gat him to his feet,His eyes Admetus' troubled eyes did meet,As with some speech he now seemed labouring,Which from his heart his lips refused to bring.Then spoke the herdsman, "Master, what is this,That thou, returned with honour to the bliss,The gods have given thee here, still makest showTo be some wretch bent with the weight of woe?What wilt thou have? What help there is in meIs wholly thine, for in felicityWithin thine house thou still hast let me live,Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give.""Yea," said Admetus, "thou canst help indeed,But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead.Yet listen: at Iolchos the first dayUnto Diana's house I took my way,Where all men gathered ere the games began,There, at the right side of the royal man,Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand,Who with a suppliant bough in her right handHeaded the band of maidens; but to meMore than a goddess did she seem to be,Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thoughtThat we had all been thither called for noughtBut that her bridegroom Pelias might choose,And with that thought desire did I let loose,And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill,As one who will not fear the coming ill:All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart,To strive in such a marvel to have part!What god shall wed her rather? no more fearThan vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear,Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lipsUnknown love trembled; the Phœnician shipsWithin their dark holds nought so precious bringAs her soft golden hair, no daintiest thingI ever saw was half so wisely wroughtAs was her rosy ear; beyond all thought,All words to tell of, her veiled body showed,As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed,She laid her offering down; then I drawn nearThe murmuring of her gentle voice could hear,As waking one hears music in the morn,Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born;And sweeter than the roses fresh with dewSweet odours floated round me, as she drewSome golden thing from out her balmy breastWith her right hand, the while her left hand pressedThe hidden wonders of her girdlestead;And when abashed I sank adown my head,Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meetThe happy bands about her perfect feet."What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is?Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss,None first a moment; but before that dayNo love I knew but what might pass awayWhen hot desire was changed to certainty,Or not abide much longer; e'en such stingsHad smitten me, as the first warm day bringsWhen March is dying; but now half a godThe crowded way unto the lists I trod,Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles,And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles,And idle talk about me on the way."But none could stand before me on that day,I was as god-possessed, not knowing howThe King had brought her forth but for a show,To make his glory greater through the land:Therefore at last victorious did I standAmong my peers, nor yet one well-known nameHad gathered any honour from my shame.For there indeed both men of Thessaly,Œtolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea,And folk of Attica and Argolis,Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose blissIs to be tossed about from wave to wave,All these at last to me the honour gave,Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said,A wise Thessalian with a snowy head,And voice grown thin with age, 'O Pelias,Surely to thee no evil thing it wasThat to thy house this rich ThessalianShould come, to prove himself a valiant manAmongst these heroes; for if I be wiseBy dint of many years, with wistful eyesDoth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid;And surely, if the matter were well weighed,Good were it both for thee and for the landThat he should take the damsel by the handAnd lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell;What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?'"With that must I, a fool, stand forth and askIf yet there lay before me some great taskThat I must do ere I the maid should wed,But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said,'O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too,O King Admetus, this may seem to youA little matter; yea, and for my partE'en such a marriage would make glad my heart;But we the blood of Salmoneus who shareWith godlike gifts great burdens also bear,Nor is this maid without them, for the dayOn which her maiden zone she puts awayShall be her death-day, if she wed with oneBy whom this marvellous thing may not be done,For in the traces neither must steeds pawBefore my threshold, or white oxen drawThe wain that comes my maid to take from me,Far other beasts that day her slaves must be:The yellow lion 'neath the lash must roar,And by his side unscared, the forest boarToil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto,O lord of Pheræ, wilt thou come to wooIn such a chariot, and win endless fame,Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?'"What answered I? O herdsman, I was madWith sweet love and the triumph I had had.I took my father's ring from off my hand,And said, 'O heroes of the Grecian land,Be witnesses that on my father's nameFor this man's promise, do I take the shameOf this deed undone, if I fail herein;Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall winThis ring from thee, when I shall come againThrough fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain.Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt havePheræ my home, while on the tumbling waveA hollow ship my sad abode shall be.'"So driven by some hostile deity,Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won,But little valued now, set out uponMy homeward way: but nearer as I drewTo mine abode, and ever fainter grewIn my weak heart the image of my love,In vain with fear my boastful folly strove;For I remembered that no god I wasThough I had chanced my fellows to surpass;And I began to mind me in a whileWhat murmur rose, with what a mocking smilePelias stretched out his hand to take the ring.Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king:And when unto my palace-door I cameI had awakened fully to my shame;For certainly no help is left to me,But I must get me down unto the seaAnd build a keel, and whatso things I maySet in her hold, and cross the watery wayWhither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blowUnto a land where none my folly know,And there begin a weary life anew."Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grewThe while this tale was told, and at the endHe said, "Admetus, I thy life may mend,And thou at lovely Pheræ still may dwell;Wait for ten days, and then may all be well,And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go,And to the King thy team unheard-of show.And if not, then make ready for the seaNor will I fail indeed to go with thee,And 'twixt the halyards and the ashen oarFinish the service well begun ashore;But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best;And take another herdsman for the rest,For unto Ossa must I go aloneTo do a deed not easy to be done."Then springing up he took his spear and bowAnd northward by the lake-shore 'gan to go;But the King gazed upon him as he went,Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bentHis lingering steps, and hope began to springWithin his heart, for some betokeningHe seemed about the herdsman now to seeOf one from mortal cares and troubles free.And so midst hopes and fears day followed day,Until at last upon his bed he layWhen the grey, creeping dawn had now begunTo make the wide world ready for the sunOn the tenth day: sleepless had been the nightAnd now in that first hour of gathering lightFor weariness he slept, and dreamed that heStood by the border of a fair, calm seaAt point to go a-shipboard, and to leaveWhatever from his sire he did receiveOf land or kingship; and withal he dreamedThat through the cordage a bright light there gleamedFar off within the east; and nowise sadHe felt at leaving all he might have had,But rather as a man who goes to seeSome heritage expected patiently.But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore,The windless sea rose high and 'gan to roar,And from the gangway thrust the ship aside,Until he hung over a chasm wideVocal with furious waves, yet had no fearFor all the varied tumult he might hear,But slowly woke up to the morning lightThat to his eyes seemed past all memory bright,And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heartWoke up to joyous life with one glad start,And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand,Holding a long white staff in his right hand,Carved with strange figures; and withal he said,"Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed,But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride,For now an ivory chariot waits outside,Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring;Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing,If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod,Whereon are carved the names of every godThat rules the fertile earth; but having comeUnto King Pelias' well-adornéd home,Abide not long, but take the royal maid,And let her dowry in thy wain be laid,Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold,For this indeed will Pelias not withholdWhen he shall see thee like a very god.Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod,Turn round to Pheræ; yet must thou abideBefore thou comest to the streamlet's sideThat feed its dykes; there, by the little woodWherein unto Diana men shed blood,Will I await thee, and thou shalt descendAnd hand-in-hand afoot through Pheræ wend;And yet I bid thee, this night let thy brideApart among the womenfolk abide;That on the morrow thou with sacrificeFor these strange deeds may pay a fitting price."But as he spoke with something like to awe,His eyes and much-changed face Admetus saw,And voiceless like a slave his words obeyed;For rising up no more delay he made,But took the staff and gained the palace-doorWhere stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roarHad wrought his dream; there two and two they stood,Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood,And all the joys of the food-hiding trees,But harmless as their painted images'Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he tookThe reins in hand and the bossed leather shook,And no delay the conquered beasts durst makeBut drew, not silent; and folk just awakeWhen he went by, as though a god they saw,Fell on their knees, and maidens come to drawFresh water from the fount sank trembling down,And silence held the babbling wakened town.So 'twixt the dewy hedges did he wend,And still their noise afar the beasts did send,His strange victorious advent to proclaim,Till to Iolchos at the last he came,And drew anigh the gates, whence in affrightThe guards fled, helpless at the wondrous sight;And through the town news of the coming spreadOf some great god so that the scared priests ledPale suppliants forth; who, in unmeet attireAnd hastily-caught boughs and smouldering fireWithin their censers, in the market-placeAwaited him with many an upturned face,Trembling with fear of that unnamed new god;But through the midst of them his lions trodWith noiseless feet, nor noted aught their prey,And the boars' hooves went pattering on the way,While from their churning tusks the white foam flewAs raging, helpless, in the trace they drew.But Pelias, knowing all the work of fate,Sat in his brazen-pillared porch to waitThe coming of the King; the while the maidIn her fair marriage garments was arrayed,And from strong places of his treasuryMen brought fine scarlet from the Syrian sea,And works of brass, and ivory, and gold;But when the strange yoked beasts he did beholdCome through the press of people terrified,Then he arose and o'er the clamour cried,"Hail, thou, who like a very god art comeTo bring great honour to my damsel's home;"And when Admetus tightened rein beforeThe gleaming, brazen-wrought, half-opened door.He cried to Pelias, "Hail, to thee, O King;Let me behold once more my father's ring,Let me behold the prize that I have won,Mine eyes are wearying now to look upon.""Fear not," he said, "the Fates are satisfied;Yet wilt thou not descend and here abide,Doing me honour till the next bright mornHas dried the dew upon the new-sprung corn,That we in turn may give the honour dueTo such a man that such a thing can do,And unto all the gods may sacrifice?""Nay," said Admetus, "if thou call'st me wise,And like a very god thou dost me deem,Shall I abide the ending of the dreamAnd so gain nothing? nay, let me be gladThat I at least one godlike hour have hadAt whatsoever time I come to die,That I may mock the world that passes by,And yet forgets it." Saying this, indeed,Of Pelias did he seem to take small heed,But spoke as one unto himself may speak,And still the half-shut door his eyes did seek,Wherethrough from distant rooms sweet music came,Setting his over-strainéd heart a-flame,Because amidst the Lydian flutes he thoughtFrom place to place his love the maidens brought.Then Pelias said, "What can I give to theeWho fail'st so little of divinity?Yet let my slaves lay these poor gifts withinThy chariot, while my daughter strives to winThe favour of the spirits of this place,Since from their altars she must turn her faceFor ever now; hearken, her flutes I hear,From the last chapel doth she draw anear."Then by Admetus' feet the folk 'gan pileThe precious things, but he no less the whileStared at the door ajar, and thought it longEre with the flutes mingled the maidens' song,And both grew louder, and the scarce-seen floorWas fluttering with white raiment, and the doorBy slender fingers was set open wide,And midst her damsels he beheld the brideUngirt, with hair unbound and garlanded:Then Pelias took her slender hand and said,"Daughter, this is the man that takes from theeThy curse midst women, think no more to beChildless, unloved, and knowing little bliss;But now behold how like a god he is,And yet with what prayers for the love of theeHe must have wearied some divinity,And therefore in thine inmost heart be gladThat thou 'mongst women such a man hast had."Then she with wondering eyes that strange team sawA moment, then as one with gathering aweMight turn from Jove's bird unto very Jove,So did she raise her grey eyes to her love,But to her brow the blood rose therewithal,And she must tremble, such a look did fallUpon her faithful eyes, that none the lessWould falter aught, for all her shamefastness,But rather to her lover's hungry eyesGave back a tender look of glad surprise,Wherein love's flame began to flicker now.Withal, her father kissed her on the brow,And said, "O daughter, take this royal ring,And set it on the finger of the King,And come not back; and thou, Admetus, pourThis wine to Jove before my open door,And glad at heart take back thine own with thee."Then with that word Alcestis silently,And with no look cast back, and ring in hand,Went forth, and soon beside her love did stand,Nor on his finger failed to set the ring;And then a golden cup the city's KingGave to him, and he poured and said, "O thou,From whatsoever place thou lookest now,What prayers, what gifts unto thee shall I giveThat we a little time with love may live?A little time of love, then fall asleepTogether, while the crown of love we keep."So spake he, and his strange beasts turned about,And heeded not the people's wavering shoutThat from their old fear and new pleasure sprung,Nor noted aught of what the damsels sung,Or of the flowers that after them they cast,But like a dream the guarded city passed,And 'twixt the song of birds and blossoms' scentIt seemed for many hundred years they went,Though short the way was unto Pheræ's gates;Time they forgat, and gods, and men, and fates,However nigh unto their hearts they were;The woodland boars, the yellow lords of fearNo more seemed strange to them, but all the earthWith all its changing sorrow and wild mirthIn that fair hour seemed new-born to the twain,Grief seemed a play forgot, a pageant vain,A picture painted, who knows where or when,With soulless images of restless men;For every thought but love was now gone by,And they forgot that they should ever die.But when they came anigh the sacred wood,There, biding them, Admetus' herdsman stood,At sight of whom those yoke-fellows uncheckedStopped dead and little of Admetus reckedWho now, as one from dreams not yet awake,Drew back his love and did his wain forsake,And gave the carven rod and guiding bandsInto the waiting herdsman's outstretched hands,But when he would have thanked him for the thingThat he had done, his speechless tongue must clingUnto his mouth, and why he could not tell.But the man said, "No words! thou hast done wellTo me, as I to thee; the day may comeWhen thou shalt ask me for a fitting home,Nor shalt thou ask in vain; but hasten now,And to thine house this royal maiden show,Then give her to thy women for this night.But when thou wakest up to thy delightTo-morrow, do all things that should be done,Nor of the gods, forget thou any one,And on the next day will I come againTo tend thy flocks upon the grassy plain."But now depart, and from thine home send hereChariot and horse, these gifts of thine to bearUnto thine house, and going, look not backLest many a wished-for thing thou com'st to lack."Then hand in hand together, up the roadThe lovers passed unto the King's abode,And as they went, the whining snort and roarFrom the yoked beasts they heard break out once moreAnd then die off, as they were led away,But whether to some place lit up by day,Or, 'neath the earth, they knew not, for the twainWent hastening on, nor once looked back again.But soon the minstrels met them, and a bandOf white-robed damsels flowery boughs in hand,To bid them welcome to that pleasant place.Then they, rejoicing much, in no long spaceCame to the brazen-pillared porch, whereonFrom 'twixt the passes of the hills yet shoneThe dying sun; and there she stood awhileWithout the threshold, a faint tender smileTrembling upon her lips 'twixt love and shame,Until each side of her a maiden cameAnd raised her in their arms, that her fair feetThe polished brazen threshold might not meet,And in Admetus' house she stood at last.But to the women's chamber straight she passedBepraised of all,—and so the wakeful nightLonely the lovers passed e'en as they might.But the next day with many a sacrifice,Admetus wrought, for such a well-won prize,A life so blest, the gods to satisfy,And many a matchless beast that day did dieUpon the altars; nought unlucky seemedTo be amid the joyous crowd that gleamedWith gold and precious things, and only thisSeemed wanting to the King of Pheræ's bliss,That all these pageants should be soon past by,And hid by night the fair spring blossoms lie.
Yeton the morrow-morn Admetus came,A haggard man oppressed with grief and shameUnto the spot beside Bœbeis' shoreWhereby he met his herdsman once before,And there again he found him flushed and glad,And from the babbling water newly clad,Then he with downcast eyes these words began,"O thou, whatso thy name is, god or man,Hearken to me; meseemeth of thy deedSome dread immortal taketh angry heed."Last night the height of my desire seemed won,All day my weary eyes had watched the sunRise up and sink, and now was come the nightWhen I should be alone with my delight;Silent the house was now from floor to roof,And in the well-hung chambers, far aloof,The feasters lay; the moon was in the sky,The soft spring wind was wafting lovinglyAcross the gardens fresh scents to my sweet,As, troubled with the sound of my own feet,I passed betwixt the pillars, whose long shadeBlack on the white red-veinéd floor was laid:So happy was I that the briar-rose,Rustling outside within the flowery close,Seemed but Love's odorous wing—too real all seemedFor such a joy as I had never dreamed."Why do I linger, as I lingered notIn that fair hour, now ne'er to be forgotWhile my life lasts?—Upon the gilded doorI laid my hand; I stood upon the floorOf the bride-chamber, and I saw the bride,Lovelier than any dream, stand by the sideOf the gold bed, with hands that hid her face:One cry of joy I gave, and then the placeSeemed changed to hell as in a hideous dream."Still did the painted silver pillars gleamBetwixt the scented torches and the moon;Still did the garden shed its odorous boonUpon the night; still did the nightingaleUnto his brooding mate tell all his tale:But, risen 'twixt my waiting love and me,As soundless as the dread eternity,Sprung up from nothing, could mine eyes beholdA huge dull-gleaming dreadful coil that rolledIn changing circles on the pavement fair.Then for the sword that was no longer thereMy hand sank to my side; around I gazed,And 'twixt the coils I met her grey eyes, glazedWith sudden horror most unspeakable;And when mine own upon no weapon fell,For what should weapons do in such a place,Unto the dragon's head I set my face,And raised bare hands against him, but a cryBurst on mine ears of utmost agonyThat nailed me there, and she cried out to me,'O get thee hence; alas, I cannot flee!They coil about me now, my lips to kiss.O love, why hast thou brought me unto this?'"Alas, my shame! trembling, away I slunk,Yet turning saw the fearful coil had sunkTo whence it came, my love's limbs freed I saw,And a long breath at first I heard her drawAs one redeemed, then heard the hard sobs come,And wailings for her new accurséd home.But there outside across the door I lay,Like a scourged hound, until the dawn of day;And as her gentle breathing then I heardAs though she slept, before the earliest birdBegan his song, I wandered forth to seekThee, O strange man, e'en as thou seest me, weakWith all the torment of the night, and shamedWith such a shame as never shall be namedTo aught but thee—Yea, yea, and why to theePerchance this ends all thou wilt do for me?—What then, and have I not a cure for that?Lo, yonder is a rock where I have satFull many an hour while yet my life was life,With hopes of all the coming wonder rife.No sword hangs by my side, no god will turnThis cloudless hazy blue to black, and burnMy useless body with his lightning flash;But the white waves above my bones may wash,And when old chronicles our house shall nameThey may leave out the letters and the shame,That make Admetus, once a king of men—And how could I be worse or better then?"As one who notes a curious instrumentWorking against the maker's own intent,The herdsman eyed his wan face silently,And smiling for a while, and then said he,—"Admetus, thou, in spite of all I said,Hast drawn this evil thing upon thine head,Forgetting her who erewhile laid the curseUpon the maiden, so for fear of worseGo back again; for fair-limbed ArtemisNow bars the sweet attainment of thy bliss;So taking heart, yet make no more delayBut worship her upon this very day,Nor spare for aught, and of thy trouble makeNo semblance unto any for her sake;And thick upon the fair bride-chamber floorStrew dittany, and on each side the doorHang up such poppy-leaves as spring may yield;And for the rest, myself may be a shieldAgainst her wrath—nay, be thou not too boldTo ask me that which may not now be told.Yea, even what thou deemest, hide it deepWithin thine heart, and let thy wonder sleep,For surely thou shalt one day know my name,When the time comes again that autumn's flameIs dying off the vine-boughs, overturned,Stripped of their wealth. But now let gifts be burnedTo her I told thee of, and in three daysShall I by many hard and rugged waysHave come to thee again to bring thee peace.Go, the sun rises and the shades decrease."Then, thoughtfully, Admetus gat him back,Nor did the altars of the Huntress lackThe fattest of the flocks upon that day.But when night came, in arms Admetus layAcross the threshold of the bride-chamber,And nought amiss that night he noted there,But durst not enter, though about the doorYoung poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor,Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey,Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay.But when the whole three days and nights were done,The herdsman came with rising of the sun,And said, "Admetus, now rejoice again,Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain,And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss;And if thou askest for a sign of this,Take thou this token; make good haste to rise,And get unto the garden-close that liesBelow these windows sweet with greenery,And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see,Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming,Though this is but the middle of the spring."Nor was it otherwise than he had said,And on that day with joy the twain were wed,And 'gan to lead a life of great delight;But the strange woeful history of that night,The monstrous car, the promise to the King,All these through weary hours of chisellingWere wrought in stone, and in Diana's wallSet up, a joy and witness unto all.But neither so would wingéd time abide,The changing year came round to autumn-tide,Until at last the day was fully comeWhen the strange guest first reached Admetus' home.Then, when the sun was reddening to its end,He to Admetus' brazen porch did wend,Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart,Then said he, "King, the time has come to part.Come forth, for I have that to give thine earNo man upon the earth but thou must hear."Then rose the King, and with a troubled lookHis well-steeled spear within his hand he took,And by his herdsman silently he wentAs to a peakéd hill his steps he bent,Nor did the parting servant speak one word,As up they climbed, unto his silent lord,Till from the top he turned about his headFrom all the glory of the gold light, shedUpon the hill-top by the setting sun,For now indeed the day was well-nigh done,And all the eastern vale was grey and cold;But when Admetus he did now behold,Panting beside him from the steep ascent,One much-changed godlike look on him he bent.And said, "O mortal, listen, for I seeThou deemest somewhat of what is in me;Fear not! I love thee, even as I canWho cannot feel the woes and ways of manIn spite of this my seeming, for indeedNow thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed,And what my name is I would tell thee now,If men who dwell upon the earth as thouCould hear the name and live; but on the earth.With strange melodious stories of my birth,Phœbus men call me, and Latona's son."And now my servitude with thee is done,And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth,This handful, that within its little girthHolds that which moves you so, O men that die;Behold, to-day thou hast felicity,But the times change, and I can see a dayWhen all thine happiness shall fade away;And yet be merry, strive not with the end,Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friendThis year has won thee who shall never fail;But now indeed, for nought will it availTo say what I may have in store for thee,Of gifts that men desire; let these things be,And live thy life, till death itself shall come,And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home,Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold,That here have been the terror of the wold,Take these, and count them still the best of allThine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fallBy any way the worst extremity,Call upon me before thou com'st to die,And lay these shafts with incense on a fire,That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire."He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was stillAn odorous mist had stolen up the hill,And to Admetus first the god grew dim,And then was but a lovely voice to him,And then at last the sun had sunk to rest,And a fresh wind blew lightly from the westOver the hill-top, and no soul was there;But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair,Rustled dry leaves about the windy place,Where even now had been the godlike face,And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay.Then, going further westward, far away,He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan'Neath the white sky, but never any man,Except a grey-haired shepherd driving downFrom off the long slopes to his fold-yard brownHis woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went,Singing for labour done and sweet contentOf coming rest; with that he turned again,And took the shafts up, never sped in vain,And came unto his house most deep in thoughtOf all the things the varied year had brought.
Yeton the morrow-morn Admetus came,A haggard man oppressed with grief and shameUnto the spot beside Bœbeis' shoreWhereby he met his herdsman once before,And there again he found him flushed and glad,And from the babbling water newly clad,Then he with downcast eyes these words began,"O thou, whatso thy name is, god or man,Hearken to me; meseemeth of thy deedSome dread immortal taketh angry heed."Last night the height of my desire seemed won,All day my weary eyes had watched the sunRise up and sink, and now was come the nightWhen I should be alone with my delight;Silent the house was now from floor to roof,And in the well-hung chambers, far aloof,The feasters lay; the moon was in the sky,The soft spring wind was wafting lovinglyAcross the gardens fresh scents to my sweet,As, troubled with the sound of my own feet,I passed betwixt the pillars, whose long shadeBlack on the white red-veinéd floor was laid:So happy was I that the briar-rose,Rustling outside within the flowery close,Seemed but Love's odorous wing—too real all seemedFor such a joy as I had never dreamed."Why do I linger, as I lingered notIn that fair hour, now ne'er to be forgotWhile my life lasts?—Upon the gilded doorI laid my hand; I stood upon the floorOf the bride-chamber, and I saw the bride,Lovelier than any dream, stand by the sideOf the gold bed, with hands that hid her face:One cry of joy I gave, and then the placeSeemed changed to hell as in a hideous dream."Still did the painted silver pillars gleamBetwixt the scented torches and the moon;Still did the garden shed its odorous boonUpon the night; still did the nightingaleUnto his brooding mate tell all his tale:But, risen 'twixt my waiting love and me,As soundless as the dread eternity,Sprung up from nothing, could mine eyes beholdA huge dull-gleaming dreadful coil that rolledIn changing circles on the pavement fair.Then for the sword that was no longer thereMy hand sank to my side; around I gazed,And 'twixt the coils I met her grey eyes, glazedWith sudden horror most unspeakable;And when mine own upon no weapon fell,For what should weapons do in such a place,Unto the dragon's head I set my face,And raised bare hands against him, but a cryBurst on mine ears of utmost agonyThat nailed me there, and she cried out to me,'O get thee hence; alas, I cannot flee!They coil about me now, my lips to kiss.O love, why hast thou brought me unto this?'"Alas, my shame! trembling, away I slunk,Yet turning saw the fearful coil had sunkTo whence it came, my love's limbs freed I saw,And a long breath at first I heard her drawAs one redeemed, then heard the hard sobs come,And wailings for her new accurséd home.But there outside across the door I lay,Like a scourged hound, until the dawn of day;And as her gentle breathing then I heardAs though she slept, before the earliest birdBegan his song, I wandered forth to seekThee, O strange man, e'en as thou seest me, weakWith all the torment of the night, and shamedWith such a shame as never shall be namedTo aught but thee—Yea, yea, and why to theePerchance this ends all thou wilt do for me?—What then, and have I not a cure for that?Lo, yonder is a rock where I have satFull many an hour while yet my life was life,With hopes of all the coming wonder rife.No sword hangs by my side, no god will turnThis cloudless hazy blue to black, and burnMy useless body with his lightning flash;But the white waves above my bones may wash,And when old chronicles our house shall nameThey may leave out the letters and the shame,That make Admetus, once a king of men—And how could I be worse or better then?"As one who notes a curious instrumentWorking against the maker's own intent,The herdsman eyed his wan face silently,And smiling for a while, and then said he,—"Admetus, thou, in spite of all I said,Hast drawn this evil thing upon thine head,Forgetting her who erewhile laid the curseUpon the maiden, so for fear of worseGo back again; for fair-limbed ArtemisNow bars the sweet attainment of thy bliss;So taking heart, yet make no more delayBut worship her upon this very day,Nor spare for aught, and of thy trouble makeNo semblance unto any for her sake;And thick upon the fair bride-chamber floorStrew dittany, and on each side the doorHang up such poppy-leaves as spring may yield;And for the rest, myself may be a shieldAgainst her wrath—nay, be thou not too boldTo ask me that which may not now be told.Yea, even what thou deemest, hide it deepWithin thine heart, and let thy wonder sleep,For surely thou shalt one day know my name,When the time comes again that autumn's flameIs dying off the vine-boughs, overturned,Stripped of their wealth. But now let gifts be burnedTo her I told thee of, and in three daysShall I by many hard and rugged waysHave come to thee again to bring thee peace.Go, the sun rises and the shades decrease."Then, thoughtfully, Admetus gat him back,Nor did the altars of the Huntress lackThe fattest of the flocks upon that day.But when night came, in arms Admetus layAcross the threshold of the bride-chamber,And nought amiss that night he noted there,But durst not enter, though about the doorYoung poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor,Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey,Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay.But when the whole three days and nights were done,The herdsman came with rising of the sun,And said, "Admetus, now rejoice again,Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain,And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss;And if thou askest for a sign of this,Take thou this token; make good haste to rise,And get unto the garden-close that liesBelow these windows sweet with greenery,And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see,Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming,Though this is but the middle of the spring."Nor was it otherwise than he had said,And on that day with joy the twain were wed,And 'gan to lead a life of great delight;But the strange woeful history of that night,The monstrous car, the promise to the King,All these through weary hours of chisellingWere wrought in stone, and in Diana's wallSet up, a joy and witness unto all.But neither so would wingéd time abide,The changing year came round to autumn-tide,Until at last the day was fully comeWhen the strange guest first reached Admetus' home.Then, when the sun was reddening to its end,He to Admetus' brazen porch did wend,Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart,Then said he, "King, the time has come to part.Come forth, for I have that to give thine earNo man upon the earth but thou must hear."Then rose the King, and with a troubled lookHis well-steeled spear within his hand he took,And by his herdsman silently he wentAs to a peakéd hill his steps he bent,Nor did the parting servant speak one word,As up they climbed, unto his silent lord,Till from the top he turned about his headFrom all the glory of the gold light, shedUpon the hill-top by the setting sun,For now indeed the day was well-nigh done,And all the eastern vale was grey and cold;But when Admetus he did now behold,Panting beside him from the steep ascent,One much-changed godlike look on him he bent.And said, "O mortal, listen, for I seeThou deemest somewhat of what is in me;Fear not! I love thee, even as I canWho cannot feel the woes and ways of manIn spite of this my seeming, for indeedNow thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed,And what my name is I would tell thee now,If men who dwell upon the earth as thouCould hear the name and live; but on the earth.With strange melodious stories of my birth,Phœbus men call me, and Latona's son."And now my servitude with thee is done,And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth,This handful, that within its little girthHolds that which moves you so, O men that die;Behold, to-day thou hast felicity,But the times change, and I can see a dayWhen all thine happiness shall fade away;And yet be merry, strive not with the end,Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friendThis year has won thee who shall never fail;But now indeed, for nought will it availTo say what I may have in store for thee,Of gifts that men desire; let these things be,And live thy life, till death itself shall come,And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home,Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold,That here have been the terror of the wold,Take these, and count them still the best of allThine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fallBy any way the worst extremity,Call upon me before thou com'st to die,And lay these shafts with incense on a fire,That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire."He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was stillAn odorous mist had stolen up the hill,And to Admetus first the god grew dim,And then was but a lovely voice to him,And then at last the sun had sunk to rest,And a fresh wind blew lightly from the westOver the hill-top, and no soul was there;But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair,Rustled dry leaves about the windy place,Where even now had been the godlike face,And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay.Then, going further westward, far away,He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan'Neath the white sky, but never any man,Except a grey-haired shepherd driving downFrom off the long slopes to his fold-yard brownHis woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went,Singing for labour done and sweet contentOf coming rest; with that he turned again,And took the shafts up, never sped in vain,And came unto his house most deep in thoughtOf all the things the varied year had brought.