But ere I passedFrom those grim shades a deep voice sounded near,A voice without a form.
"There is an endOf all things that thou seest! There is an endOf Wrong and Death and Hell! When the long wearOf Time and Suffering has effaced the stainIngrown upon the soul, and the cleansed spirit,Long ages floating on the wandering windsOr rolling deeps of Space, renews itselfAnd doth regain its dwelling, and, once moreBlent with the general order, floats anewUpon the stream of Things,[2]and comes at length,After new deaths, to that dim waiting-placeThou next shalt see, and with the justifiedWhite souls awaits the End; or, snatched at once,If Fate so will, to the pure sphere itself,Lives and is blest, and works the Eternal WorkWhose name and end is Love! There is an endOf Wrong and Death and Hell!"
Even as I heard,I passed from out the shadow of Death and Pain,Crying, "There is an end!"
END OF BOOK I.
END OF BOOK I.
BOOK II.HADES.
Then from those darkAnd dreadful precincts passing, ghostly fieldsAnd voiceless took me. A faint twilight veiledThe leafless, shadowy trees and herbless plains.There stirred no breath of air to wake to lifeThe slumbers of the world. The sky aboveWas one gray, changeless cloud. There looked no eyeOf Life from the veiled heavens; but Sleep and DeathWere round me everywhere. And yet no fearNor horror took me here, where was no painNor dread, save that strange tremor which assailsOne who in life's hot noontide looks on deathAnd knows he too shall die. The ghosts which roseFrom every darkling copse showed thin and pale—Thinner and paler far than those I leftIn agony; even as Pity seems to wearA thinner form than Fear.
Not caged aloneLike those the avenging Furies purged were these,Nor that dim land as those black cavernous depthsWhere no hope comes. Fair souls were they and whiteWhom there I saw, waiting as we shall wait,The Beatific End, but thin and paleAs the young faith which made them; touched a littleBy the sad memories of the earth; made gladA little by past joys: no more; and wraptIn musing on the brief play played by themUpon the lively earth, yet ignorantOf the long lapse of years, and what had beenSince they too breathed Life's air, or if they knew,Keeping some echo only; but their painWas fainter than their joy, and a great hopeLike ours possessed them dimly.
First I sawA youth who pensive leaned against the trunkOf a dark cypress, and an idle fluteHung at his side. A sorrowful sad soul,Such as sometimes he knows, who meets the gaze,Mute, uncomplaining yet most pitiful,Of one whom nature, by some secret spite,Has maimed and left imperfect; or the painWhich fills a poet's eyes. Beneath his robeI seemed to see the scar of cruel stripes,Too hastily concealed. Yet was he notWholly unhappy, but from out the coreOf suffering flowed a secret spring of joy,Which mocked the droughts of Fate, and left him gladAnd glorying in his sorrow. As I gazedHe raised his silent flute, and, half ashamed,Blew a soft note; and as I stayed awhileI heard him thus discourse—
"The flute is sweetTo gods and men, but sweeter far the lyreAnd voice of a true singer. Shall I fearTo tell of that great trial, when I stroveAnd Phœbus conquered? Nay, no shame it isTo bow to an immortal melody;But glory.
Once among the Phrygian hillsI lay a-musing,—while the silly sheepWandered among the thyme—upon the bankOf a clear mountain stream, beneath the pines,Safe hidden from the noon. A dreamy hazePlayed on the uplands, but the hills were clearIn sunlight, and no cloud was on the sky.It was the time when a deep silence comesUpon the summer earth, and all the birdsHave ceased from singing, and the world is stillAs midnight, and if any live thing move—Some fur-clad creature, or cool gliding snake—Within the pipy overgrowth of weeds,The ear can catch the rustle, and the treesAnd earth and air are listening. As I lay,Faintly, as in a dream, I seemed to hearA tender music, like the Æolian chords,Sound low within the woodland, whence the stream,Flowed full, yet silent. Long, with ear to ground,I hearkened; and the sweet strain, fuller grown,Rounder and clearer came, and danced alongIn mirthful measure now, and now grown graveIn dying falls, and sweeter and more clear,Tripping at nuptials and high revelry,Wailing at burials, rapt in soaring thoughts,Chanting strange sea-tales full of mystery,Touching all chords of being, and life and death,Now rose, now sank, and always was divine,So strange the music came.
Till, as I layEnraptured, swift a sudden discord rang,And all the sound grew still. A sudden flash,As from a sunlit jewel, fired the wood.A noise of water smitten, and on the hillsA fair white fleece of cloud, which swiftly climbedInto the farthest heaven. Then, as I mused,Knowing a parting goddess, straight I sawA sudden splendour float upon the stream,And knew it for this jewelled flute, which pausedBefore me on an eddy. It I snatchedEager, and to my ardent lips I boreThe wonder, and behold, with the first breath—The first warm human breath, the silent strains.The half-drowned notes which late the goddess blew,Revived, and sounded clearer, sweeter farThan mortal skill could make. So with delightI left my flocks to wander o'er the wastesUntended, and the wolves and eagles seizedThe tender lambs, but I was for my art—Nought else; and though the high-pitched notes divineGrew faint, yet something lingered, and at lastSo sweet a note I sounded of my skill,That all the Phrygian highlands, all the whiteHill villages, were fain to hear the strain,Which the mad shepherd made.
So, overbold,And rapt in my new art, at last I daredTo challenge Phœbus' self.
'Twas a fair dayWhen sudden, on the mountain side, I sawA train of fleecy clouds in a white bandDescending. Down the gleaming pinnaclesAnd difficult crags they floated, and the arch,Drawn with its thousand rays against the sun,Hung like a glory o'er them. Midst the pinesThey clothed themselves with form, and straight I knewThe immortals. Young Apollo, with his lyre,Kissed by the sun, and all the Muses cladIn robes of gleaming white; then a great fear,Yet mixed with joy, assailed me, for I knewMyself a mortal equalled with the gods.
Ah me! how fair they were! how fair and dreadIn face and form, they showed, when now they cameUpon the thymy slope, and the young godLay with his choir around him, beautifulAnd bold as Youth and Dawn! There was no cloudUpon the sky, nor any sound at allWhen I began my strain. No coward fearOf what might come restrained me; but an aweOf those immortal eyes and ears divineLooking and listening. All the earth seemed fullOf ears for me alone—the woods, the fields,The hills, the skies were listening. Scarce a soundMy flute might make; such subtle harmoniesThe silence seemed to weave round me and floutThe half unuttered thought. Till last I blew,As now, a hesitating note, and lo!The breath divine, lingering on mortal lips,Hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes,Sweeter than wont, that swift I knew my lifeRise up within me, and expand, and allThe human, which so nearly is divine,Was glorified, and on the Muses' lips,And in their lovely eyes, I saw a fairApproval, and my soul in me was glad.
For all the strains I blew were strains of love—Love striving, love triumphant, love that liesWithin belovèd arms, and wreathes his locksWith flowers, and lets the world go by and singsUnheeding; and I saw a kindly gleamWithin the Muses' eyes, who were indeed,Women, though god-like.
But upon the faceOf the young Sun-god only haughty scornSate and he swiftly struck his golden lyre,And played the Song of Life; and lo, I knewMy strain, how earthy! Oh, to hear the youngApollo playing! and the hidden cellsAnd chambers of the universe displayedBefore the charmèd sound! I seemed to floatIn some enchanted cave, where the wave dipsIn from the sunlit sea, and floods its depthsWith reflex hues of heaven. My soul was raptBy that I heard, and dared to wish no moreFor victory; and yet because the soundOf music that is born of human breathComes straighter from the soul than any strainThe hand alone can make; therefore I knew,With a mixed thrill of pity and delight,The nine immortal Sisters hardly touchedBy this fine strain of music, as by mine,And when the high lay trembled to its close,Still doubting.
Then upon the Sun-god's faceThere passed a cold proud smile. He swept his lyreOnce more, then laid it down, and with clear voice,The voice of godhead, sang. Oh, ecstasy,Oh happiness of him who once has heardApollo singing! For his ears the soundOf grosser music dies, and all the earthIs full of subtle undertones, which changeThe listener and transform him. As he sang—Of what I know not, but the music touchedEach chord of being—I felt my secret lifeStand open to it, as the parched earth yawnsTo drink the summer rain; and at the callOf those refreshing waters, all my thoughtStir from its dark and secret depths, and burstInto sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wellsDeep call to deep, and all the mysteryOf all that is, laid open. As he sang,I saw the Nine, with lovely pitying eyes,Sign 'He has conquered.' Yet I felt no pangOf fear, only deep joy that I had heardSuch music while I lived, even though it broughtTorture and death. For what were it to lieSleek, crowned with roses, drinking vulgar praise,And surfeited with offerings, the dull giftOf ignorant hands—all which I might have known—To this diviner failure? Godlike 'tisTo climb upon the icy ledge, and fallWhere other footsteps dare not. So I knewMy fate, and it was near.
For to a pineThey bound me willing, and with cruel stripesTore me, and took my life.
But from my bloodWas born the stream of song, and on its flowMy poor flute, to the cool swift river borne,Floated, and thence adown a lordlier tideInto the deep, wide sea. I do not blamePhœbus, or Nature which has set this barBetwixt success and failure, for I knowHow far high failure overleaps the boundOf low successes. Only suffering drawsThe inner heart of song and can elicitThe perfumes of the soul. 'Twere not enoughTo fail, for that were happiness to himWho ever upward looks with reverent eyeAnd seeks but to admire. So, since the raceOf bards soars highest; as who seek to showOur lives as in a glass; therefore it comesThat suffering weds with song, from him of old,Who solaced his blank darkness with his verse;Through all the story of neglect and scorn,Necessity, sheer hunger, early death,Which smite the singer still. Not only thoseWho keep clear accents of the voice divineAre honourable—they are happy, indeed,Whate'er the world has held—but those who hearSome fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf,And see the white gods' garments on the hills,Which the crowd sees not, though they may not findFit music for their thought; they too are blest,Not pitiable. Not from arrogant prideNor over-boldness fail they who have strivenTo tell what they have heard, with voice too weakFor such high message. More it is than ease,Palace and pomp, honours and luxuries,To have seen white Presences upon the hills,To have heard the voices of the Eternal Gods."
So spake he, and I seemed to look on him,Whose sad young eyes grow on us from the pageOf his own verse: who did himself to death:Or whom the dullard slew: or whom the seaRapt from us: and I passed without a word,Slow, grave, with many musings.
Then I cameOn one a maiden, meek with folded hands,Seated against a rugged face of cliff,In silent thought. Anon she raised her arms,Her gleaming arms, above her on the rock,With hands which clasped each other, till she showedAs in a statue, and her white robe fellDown from her maiden shoulders, and I knewThe fair form as it seemed chained to the stoneBy some invisible gyves, and named her name:And then she raised her frightened eyes to mineAs one who, long expecting some great fear,Scarce sees deliverance come. But when she sawOnly a kindly glance, a softer lookCame in them, and she answered to my thoughtWith a sweet voice and low.
"I did but museUpon the painful past, long dead and done,Forgetting I was saved.
The angry cloudsBurst always on the low flat plains, and sweptThe harvest to the ocean; all the landWas wasted. A great serpent from the deep,Lifting his horrible head above their homes,Devoured the children. And the people prayedIn vain to careless gods.
On that dear land,Which now was turned into a sullen sea,Gazing in safety from the stately towersOf my sire's palace, I, a princess, saw,Lapt in soft luxury, within my bowerThe wreck of humble homes come whirling by,The drowning, bleating flocks, the bellowing herds,The grain scarce husbanded by toiling handsUpon the sunlit plain, rush to the sea,With floating corpses. On the rain-swept hillsThe remnant of the people huddled close,Homeless and starving. All my being was filledWith pity for them, and I joyed to giveWhat food and shelter and compassionate handsOf woman might. I took the little onesAnd clasped them shivering to the virgin breastWhich knew no other touch but theirs, and gaveRaiment and food. My sire, not stern to me,Smiled on me as he saw. My gentle mother,Who loved me with a closer love than bindsA mother to her son; and sunned herselfIn my fresh beauty, seeing in my young eyesHer own fair vanished youth; doted on me,And fain had kept my eyes from the sad sightsThat pained them. But my heart was sad in me,Seeing the ineffable miseries of life,And that mysterious anger of the gods,And helpless to allay them. All in vainWere prayer and supplication, all in vainThe costly victims steamed. The vengeful cloudsHid the fierce sky, and still the ruin came.And wallowing his grim length within the flood,Over the ravaged fields and homeless homes,The fell sea-monster raged, sating his jawsWith blood and rapine.
Then to the dread shrineOf Ammon went the priests, and reverend chiefsOf all the nation. White robed, at their head,Went slow my royal sire. The oracleSpoke clear, not as ofttimes in words obscure,Ambiguous. And as we stood to meetThe suppliants—she who bare me, with her headUpon my neck—we cheerful and with songWelcomed their swift return; auguring wellFrom such a quick-sped mission.
But my sireHid his face from me, and the crowd of priestsAnd nobles looked not at us. And no wordWas spoken till at last one drew a scrollAnd gave it to the queen, who straightway swooned,Having read it, on my breast, and then I saw,I the young girl whose soft life scarcely knewShadow of sorrow, I whose heart was fullOf pity for the rest, what doom was mine.
I think I hardly knew in that dread hourThe fear that came anon; I was transformedInto a champion of my race, made strongWith a new courage, glorying to meet,In all the ecstasy of sacrifice,Death face to face. Some god, I know not who,O'erspread me, and despite my mother's tearsAnd my stern father's grief, I met my fateUnshrinking.
When the moon rose clear from cloudOnce more again over the midnight sea,And that vast watery plain, where were beforeHundreds of happy homes, and well-tilled fields,And purple vineyards; from my father's towersThe white procession went along the paths,The high cliff paths, which well I loved of old,Among the myrtles. Priests with censers wentAnd offerings, robed in white, and round their browsThe sacred fillet. With his nobles walkedMy sire with breaking heart. My mother clungTo me the victim, and the young girls wentWith wailing and with tears. A solemn strainThe soft flutes sounded, as we went by nightTo a wild headland, rock-based in the sea.
There on a sea-worn rock, upon the verge,To some rude stanchions, high above my head,They bound me. Out at sea, a black reef rose,Washed by the constant surge, wherein a caveSheltered deep down the monster. The sad queenWould scarcely leave me, though the priests shrunk backIn terror. Last, torn from my endless kiss,Swooning they bore her upwards. All my robeFell from my lifted arms, and left displayedThe virgin treasure of my breasts; and thenThe white procession through the moonlight streamedUpwards, and soon their soft flutes sounded lowUpon the high lawns, leaving me alone.
There stood I in the moonlight, left aloneAgainst the sea-worn rock. Hardly I knew,Seeing only the bright moon and summer sea,Which gently heaved and surged, and kissed the ledgeWith smooth warm tides, what fate was mine. I seemed,Soothed by the quiet, to be resting stillWithin my maiden chamber, and to watchThe moonlight thro' my lattice. Then againFear came, and then the pride of sacrificeFilled me, as on the high cliff lawns I heardThe wailing cries, the chanted liturgies,And knew me bound forsaken to the rock,And saw the monster-haunted depths of sea.
So all night long upon the sandy shoresI heard the hollow murmur of the wave,And all night long the hidden sea caves madeA ghostly echo; and the sea birds mewedAround me; once I heard a mocking laugh,As of some scornful Nereid; once the watersBroke louder on the scarpèd reefs, and ebbedAs if the monster coming; but againHe came not, and the dead moon sank, and stillOnly upon the cliffs the wails, the chants,And I forsaken on my sea-worn rock,And lo, the monster-haunted depths of sea.
Till at the dead dark hour before the dawn,When sick men die, and scarcely fear itselfBore up my weary eyelids, a great surgeBurst on the rock, and slowly, as it seemed,The sea sucked downward to its depths, laid bareThe hidden reefs, and then before my eyes—Oh, horrible! a huge and loathsome snakeLifted his dreadful crest and scaly sideAbove the wave, in bulk and length so large,Coil after hideous coil, that scarce the eyeCould measure its full horror; the great jawsDropped as with gore; the large and furious eyesWere fired with blood and lust. Nearer he came,And slowly, with a devilish glare, more near,Till his hot fœtor choked me, and his tongue,Forked horribly within his poisonous jaws,Played lightning-like around me. For awhileI swooned, and when I knew my life again,Death's bitterness was past.
Then with a boundLeaped up the broad red sun above the sea,And lit the horrid fulgour of his scales,And struck upon the rock; and as I turnedMy head in the last agony of death,I knew a brilliant sunbeam swiftly leapingDownward from crag to crag, and felt new hopeWhere all was hopeless. On the hills a shoutOf joy, and on the rocks the ring of mail;And while the hungry serpent's gloating eyesWere fixed on me, a knight in casque of goldAnd blazing shield, who with his flashing bladeFell on the monster. Long the conflict raged,Till all the rocks were red with blood and slime,And yet my champion from those horrible jawsAnd dreadful coils was scatheless. Zeus his sireProtected, and the awful shield he boreWithered the monster's life and left him cold,Dragging his helpless length and grovelling crest:And o'er his glaring eyes the films of deathCrept, and his writhing flank and hiss of hateThe great deep swallowed down, and blood and spumeRose on the waves; and a strange wailing cryResounded o'er the waters, and the seaBellowed within its hollow-sounding caves.
Then knew I, I was saved, and with me allThe people. From my wrists he loosed the gyves,My hero; and within his godlike armsBore me by slippery rock and difficult path,To where my mother prayed. There was no needTo ask my love. Without a spoken wordLove lit his fires within me. My young heartWent forth, Love calling, and I gave him all.
Dost thou then wonder that the memoryOf this supreme brief moment lingers still,While all the happy uneventful yearsOf wedded life, and all the fair young growthOf offspring, and the tranquil later joys,Nay, even the fierce eventful fight which ragedWhen we were wedded, fade and are deceased,Lost in the irrecoverable past?Nay, 'tis not strange. Always the memoryOf overwhelming perils or great joys,Avoided or enjoyed, writes its own traceWith such deep characters upon our lives,That all the rest are blotted. In this place,Where is not action, thought, or count of time,It is not weary as it were on earth,To dwell on these old memories. Time is bornOf dawns and sunsets, days that wax and waneAnd stamp themselves upon the yielding faceOf fleeting human life; but here there isMorning nor evening, act nor suffering,But only one unchanging Present holdsOur being suspended. One blest day indeed,Or centuries ago or yesterday,There came among us one who was Divine,Not as our gods, joyous and breathing strengthAnd careless life, but crowned with a new crownOf suffering, and a great light came with him,And with him he brought Time and a new senseOf dim, long-vanished years; and since he passedI seem to see new meaning in my fate,And all the deeds I tell of. EvermoreThe young life comes, bound to the cruel rocksAlone. Before it the unfathomed seaSmiles, filled with monstrous growths that wait to takeIts innocence. Far off the voice and handOf love kneel by in agony, and entreatThe seeming careless gods. Still when the deepIs smoothest, lo, the deadly fangs and coilsLurk near, to smite with death. And o'er the cragsOf duty, like a sudden sunbeam, springsSome golden soul half mortal, half divine,Heaven-sent, and breaks the chain; and evermoreFor sacrifice they die, through sacrificeThey live, and are for others, and no griefWhich smites the humblest but reverberatesThro' all the close-set files of life, and takesThe princely soul that from its royal towersLooks down and sees the sorrow.
Sir, farewell!If thou shouldst meet my children on the earthOr here, for maybe it is long agoSince I and they were living, say to themI only muse a little here, and waitThe waking."
And her lifted arms sank downUpon her knees, and as I passed I saw herGazing with soft rapt eyes, and on her lipsA smile as of a saint.
And then I sawA manly hunter pace along the lea,His bow upon his shoulder, and his spearPoised idly in his hand: the face and formOf vigorous youth; but in the full brown eyesA timorous gaze as of a hunted hart,Brute-like, yet human still, even as the FaunOf old, the dumb brute passing into man,And dowered with double nature. As he cameI seemed to question of his fate, and heAnswered me thus:
"'Twas one hot afternoonThat I, a hunter, wearied with my day,Heard my hounds baying fainter on the hills,Led by the flying hart; and when the soundFaded and all was still, I turned to seek,O'ercome by heat and thirst, a little glade,Beloved of old, where, in the shadowy wood,The clear cold crystal of a mossy poolLipped the soft emerald marge, and gave againThe flower-starred lawn where ofttimes overspentI lay upon the grass and careless bathedMy limbs in the sweet lymph.
But as I nearedThe hollow, sudden through the leaves I sawA throng of wood-nymphs fair, sporting undrapedRound one, a goddess. She with timid handLoosened her zone, and glancing round let fallHer robe from neck and bosom, pure and bright,(For it was Dian's self I saw, none else)As when she frees her from a fleece of cloudAnd swims along the deep blue sea of heavenOn sweet June nights. Silent awhile I stood,Rooted with awe, and fain had turned to fly,But feared by careless footstep to affrightThose chaste cold eyes. Great awe and reverenceHeld me, and fear; then Love with passing wingFanned me, and held my eyes, and checked my breath,Signing 'Beware!'
So for a time I watched,Breathless as one a brooding nightmare holds,Who fleeth some great fear, yet fleeth not;Till the last flutter of lawn, and veil no moreObscured, and all the beauty of my dreamsAssailed my sense. But ere I raised my eyes,As one who fain would look and see the sun,The first glance dazed my brain. Only I knewThe perfect outline flow in tender curves,To break in doubled charms; only a hazeOf creamy white, dimple, and deep divine:And then no more. For lo! a sudden chill,And such thick mist as shuts the hills at eve,Oppressed me gazing; and a heaven-sent shame,An awe, a fear, a reverence for the unknown,Froze all the springs of will and left me cold,And blinded all the longings of my eyes,Leaving such dim reflection still as mocksHim who has looked on a great light, and keepsOn his closed eyes the image. Presently,My fainting soul, safe hidden for awhileDeep in Life's mystic shades, renewed herself,And straight, the innocent brute within the manBore on me, and with half-averted eyeI gazed upon the secret.
As I looked,A radiance, white as beamed the frosty moonOn the mad boy and slew him, beamed on me;Made chill my pulses, checked my life and heat;Transformed me, withered all my soul, and leftMy being burnt out. For lo! the dreadful eyesOf Godhead met my gaze, and through the maskAnd thick disguise of sense, as through a wood,Pierced to my life. Then suddenly I knewAn altered nature, touched by no desireFor that which showed so lovely, but declinedTo lower levels. Nought of fear or awe,Nothing of love was mine. Wide-eyed I gazed,But saw no spiritual beam to blightMy brain with too much beauty, no undrapedAnd awful majesty; only a brute,Dumb charm, like that which draws the brute to it,Unknowing it is drawn. So graduallyI knew a dull content o'ercloud my sense,And unabashed I gazed, like that dumb birdWhich thinks no thought and speaks no word, yet frontsThe sun that blinded Homer—all my fearSunk with my shame, in a base happiness.
But as I gazed, and careless turned and passedThrough the thick wood, forgetting what had been,And thinking thoughts no longer, swift there cameA mortal terror: voices that I knew,My own hounds' bayings that I loved before,As with them often o'er the purple hillsI chased the flying hart from slope to slope,Before the slow sun climbed the Eastern peaks,Until the swift sun smote the Western plain;Whom often I had cheered by voice and glance,Whom often I had checked with hand and thongGrim followers, like the passions, firing me,True servants, like the strong nerves, urging meOn many a fruitless chase, to find and takeSome too swift-fleeting beauty; faithful feetAnd tongues, obedient always: these I knew,Clothed with a new-born force and vaster grown,And stronger than their master; and I thought,What if they tare me with their jaws, nor knewThat once I ruled them,—brute pursuing brute,And I the quarry? Then I turned and fled,—If it was I indeed that feared and fled—Down the long glades, and through the tangled brakes,Where scarce the sunlight pierced; fled on and on,And panted, self-pursued. But evermoreThe dissonant music which I knew so sweet,When by the windy hills, the echoing vales,And whispering pines it rang, now far, now near,As from my rushing steed I leant and cheeredWith voice and horn the chase—this brought to meFear of I knew not what, which bade me fly,Fly always, fly; but when my heart stood still,And all my limbs were stiffened as I fled,Just as the white moon ghost-like climbed the sky,Nearer they came and nearer, baying loud,With bloodshot eyes and red jaws dripping foam;And when I strove to check their savagery,Speaking with words; no voice articulate came,Only a dumb, low bleat. Then all the throngLeapt swift on me, and tare me as I lay,And left me man again.
Wherefore I walkAlong these dim fields peopled with the ghostsOf heroes who have left the ways of earthFor this faint ghost of them. Sometimes I think,Pondering on what has been, that all my daysWere shadows, all my life an allegory;And, though I know sometimes some fainter gleamOf the old beauty move me, and sometimesSome beat of the old pulses; that my fate,For ever hurrying on in hot pursuit,To fall at length self-slain, was but a taleWrit large by Zeus upon a mortal life,Writ large, and yet a riddle. For sometimesI read its meaning thus: Life is a chase,And Man the hunter, always following on,With hounds of rushing thought or fiery sense,Some hidden truth or beauty, fleeting stillFor ever through the thick-leaved coverts deepAnd wind-worn wolds of time. And if he turnA moment from the hot pursuit to seizeSome chance-brought sweetness, other than the searchTo which his soul is set,—some dalliance,Some outward shape of Art, some lower love,Some charm of wealth and sleek content and home,—Then, if he check an instant, the swift chaseOf fierce untempered energies which pursue,With jaws unsated and a thirst for act,Bears down on him with clanging shock, and whelmsHis prize and him in ruin.
And sometimesI seem to myself a thinker, who at last,Amid the chase and capture of low ends,Pausing by some cold well of hidden thoughtComes on some perfect truth, and looks and looksTill the fair vision blinds him. And the sumOf all his lower self pursuing him,The strong brute forces, the unchecked desires,Finding him bound and speechless, deem him nowNo more their master, but some soulless thing;And leap on him, and seize him, and possessHis life, till through death's gate he pass to life,And, his own ghost, revives. But looks no moreUpon the truth unveiled, save through a cloudOf creed and faith and longing, which shall changeOne day to perfect knowledge.
But whoe'erShall read the riddle of my life, I walkIn this dim land amid dim ghosts of kings,As one day thou shalt; meantime, fare thou well."
Then passed he; and I marked him slowly goAlong the winding ways of that weird land,And vanish in a wood.
And next I knewA woman perfect as a young man's dream,And breathing as it seemed the old sweet airOf the fair days of old, when man was youngAnd life an Epic. Round the lips a smileSubtle and deep and sweet as hers who looksFrom the old painter's canvas, and deridesLife and the riddle of things, the aimless strife,The folly of Love, as who has proved it all,Enjoyed and suffered. In the lovely eyesA weary look, no other than the gazeWhich ofttimes as the rapid chariot whirls,And ofttimes by the glaring midnight streets,Gleams out and chills our thought. And yet not guiltNor sorrow was it; only weariness,No more, and still most lovely. As I namedHer name in haste, she looked with half surprise,And thus she seemed to speak:
"What? Dost thou knowThou too, the fatal glances which beguiledThose strong rude chiefs of old? Has not the gloomOf this dim land withdrawn from out mine eyesThe glamour which once filled them? Does my cheekRetain the round of youth and still defyThe wear of immemorial centuries?And this low voice, long silent, keeps it stillThe music of old time? Aye, in thine eyesI read it, and within thine eyes I seeThou knowest me, and the story of my lifeSung by the blind old bard when I was dead,And all my lovers dust. I know thee not,Thee nor thy gods, yet would I soothly swearI was not all to blame for what has been,The long fight, the swift death, the woes, the tearsThe brave lives spent, the humble homes uptornTo gain one poor fair face. It was not IThat curved these lips into this subtle smile,Or gave these eyes their fire, nor yet made roundThis supple frame. It was not I, but Love,Love mirroring himself in all things fair,Love that projects himself upon a life,And dotes on his own image.
Ah! the days,The weary years of Love and feasts and gold,The hurried flights, the din of clattering hoofsAt midnight, when the heroes dared for me,And bore me o'er the hills; the swift pursuitsBaffled and lost; or when from isle to isleThe high-oared galley spread its wings and roseOver the swelling surges, and I saw,Time after time, the scarce familiar town,The sharp-cut hills, the well-loved palaces,The gleaming temples fade, and all for me,Me the dead prize, the shell, the soulless ghost,The husk of a true woman; the fond wordsWasted on careless ears, that seemed to hear,Of love to me unloving; the rich feasts,The silken dalliance and soft luxury,The fair observance and high reverenceFor me who cared not, to whatever landMy kingly lover snatched me. I have knownHow small a fence Love sets between the kingAnd the strong hind, who breeds his brood, and diesUpon the field he tills. I have exchangedPeople for people, crown for glittering crown,Through every change a queen, and held my stateHateful, and sickened in my soul to lieStretched on soft cushions to the lutes' low sound,While on the wasted fields the clang of armsRang, and the foemen perished, and swift death,Hunger, and plague, and every phase of woeVexed all the land for me. I have heard the curseUnspoken, when the wife widowed for meClasped to her heart her orphans starved for me;As I swept proudly by. I have prayed the gods,Hating my own fair face which wrought such woe,Some plague divine might light on it and leaveMy curse a ruin. Yet I think indeedThey had not cursed but pitied, those true wivesWho mourned their humble lords, and straining feltThe innocent thrill which swells the mother's heartWho clasps her growing boy; had they but knownThe lifeless life, the pain of hypocrite smiles,The dead load of caresses simulated,When Love stands shuddering by to see his firesLit for the shrine of gold. What if they feltThe weariness of loveless love which grewAnd through the jealous palace portals seizedThe caged unloving woman, sick of toys,Sick of her gilded chains, her ease, herself,Till for sheer weariness she flew to meetSome new unloved seducer? What if they knewNo childish loving hands, or worse than all,Had borne them sullen to a sire unloved,And left them without pain? I might have been,I too, a loving mother and chaste wife,Had Fate so willed.
For I remember wellHow one day straying from my father's hallsSeeking anemones and violets,A girl in Spring-time, when the heart makes SpringWithin the budding bosom, that I cameOf a sudden through a wood upon a bay,A little sunny land-locked bay, whose banksSloped gently downward to the yellow sand,Where the blue wave creamed soft with fairy foam,And oft the Nereids sported. As I strayedSinging, with fresh-pulled violets in my hairAnd bosom, and my hands were full of flowers,I came upon a little milk-white lamb,And took it in my arms and fondled it,And wreathed its neck with flowers, and sang to itAnd kissed it, and the Spring was in my life,And I was glad.
And when I raised my eyesBehold, a youthful shepherd with his crookStood by me and regarded as I lay,Tall, fair, with clustering curls, and front that woreA budding manhood. As I looked a fearCame o'er me, lest he were some youthful godDisguised in shape of man, so fair he was;But when he spoke, the kindly face was fullOf manhood, and the large eyes full of fireDrew me without a word, and all the flowersFell from me, and the little milk-white lambStrayed through the brake, and took with it the whiteFair years of childhood. Time fulfilled my beingWith passion like a cup, and with one kissLeft me a woman.
Ah! the lovely days,When on the warm bank crowned with flowers we sateAnd thought no harm, and his thin reed pipe madeLow music, and no witness of our loveIntruded, but the tinkle of the flockCame from the hill, and 'neath the odorous shadeWe dreamed away the day, and watched the wavesSteal shoreward, and beyond the sylvan capesThe innumerable laughter of the sea!
Ah youth and love! So passed the happy daysTill twilight, and I stole as in a dreamHomeward, and lived as in a happy dream,And when they spoke answered as in a dream,And through the darkness saw, as in a glass,The happy, happy day, and thrilled and glowedAnd kept my love in sleep, and longed for dawnAnd scarcely stayed for hunger, and with mornStole eager to the little wood, and fedMy life with kisses. Ah! the joyous daysOf innocence, when Love was Queen in heaven,And nature unreproved! Break they then still,Those azure circles, on a golden shore?Smiles there no glade upon the older earthWhere spite of all, gray wisdom, and new gods,Young lovers dream within each other's armsSilent, by shadowy grove, or sunlit sea?
Ah days too fair to last! There came a nightWhen I lay longing for my love, and knewSudden the clang of hoofs, the broken doors.The clash of swords, the shouts, the groans, the stainOf red upon the marble, the fixed gazeOf dead and dying eyes,—that was the timeWhen first I looked on death,—and when I wokeFrom my deep swoon, I felt the night air coolUpon my brow, and the cold stars look down,As swift we galloped o'er the darkling plain;And saw the chill sea glimpses slowly wake,With arms unknown around me. When the dawnBroke swift, we panted on the pathless steeps,And so by plain and mountain till we cameTo Athens, where they kept me till I grewFairer with every year, and many wooed,Heroes and chieftains, but I loved not one.
And then the avengers came and snatched me backTo Sparta. All the dark high-crested chiefsOf Argos wooed me, striving king with kingFor one fair foolish face, nor knew I keptNo heart to give them. Yet since I was grownWeary of honeyed words and suit of love,I wedded a brave chief, dauntless and true.But what cared I? I could not prize at allHis honest service. I had grown so tiredOf loving and of love, that when they broughtNews that the fairest shepherd on the hills,Having done himself to death for his lost love,Lay, like a lovely statue, cold and whiteUpon the golden sand, I hardly knewMore than a passing pang. Love, like a flower,Love, springing up too tall in a young breast,The growth of morning, Life's too scorching sunHad withered long ere noon. Love, like a flameOn his own altar offering up my heart,Had burnt my being to ashes.
Was it loveThat drew me then to Paris? He was fair,I grant you, fairer than a summer morn,Fair with a woman's fairness, yet in armsA hero, but he never had my heart,Not love for him allured me, but the thirstFor freedom, if in more than thought I erred,And was not rapt but willing. For my child,Born to an unloved father, loved me not,The fresh sea called, the galleys plunged, and IFled willing from my prison and the painOf undesired caresses, and the windWas fair, and on the third day as we sailed,My heart was glad within me when I sawThe towers of Ilium rise beyond the wave.
Ah, the long years, the melancholy years,The miserable melancholy years!For soon the new grew old, and then I grewWeary of him, of all, of pomp and stateAnd novel splendour. Yet at times I knewSome thrill of pride within me as I sawFrom those high walls, a prisoner and a foe,The swift ships flock at anchor in the bay,The hasty landing and the flash of arms,The lines of royal tents upon the plain,The close-shut gates, the chivalry withinIssuing in all its pride to meet the shockOf the bold chiefs without; so year by yearThe haughty challenge from the warring hostsRang forth, and I with a divided heartSaw victory incline, now here, now there,And helpless marked the Argive chiefs I knew,The spouse I left, the princely loves of old,Now with each other strive, and now with Troy:The brave pomp of the morn, the fair strong limbs,The glittering panoply, the bold young hearts,Athirst for fame of war, and with the nightThe broken spear, the shattered helm, the plumeDyed red with blood, the ghastly dying face,And nerveless limbs laid lifeless. And I knewThe stainless Hector whom I could have loved,But that a happy love made blind his eyesTo all my baleful beauty; fallen and draggedHis noble, manly head upon the sandBy young Achilles' chariot; him in turnFallen and slain; my fair false Paris slain;Plague, famine, battle, raging now within,And now without, for many a weary year,Summer and winter, till I loathed to live,Who was indeed, as well they said, the HellOf men, and fleets, and cities. As I stoodUpon the walls, ofttimes a longing came,Looking on rage, and fight, and blood, and death,To end it all, and dash me down and die;But no god helped me. Nay, one day I mindI would entreat them. 'Pray you, lords, be men.What fatal charm is this which Até givesTo one poor foolish face? Be strong, and turnIn peace, forget this glamour, get you homeWith all your fleets and armies, to the landI love no longer, where your faithful wivesPine widowed of their lords, and your young boysGrow wild to manhood. I have nought to give,No heart, nor prize of love for any man,Nor recompense. I am the ghost aloneOf the fair girl ye knew; she still abides,If she still lives and is not wholly dead,Stretched on a flowery bank upon the seaIn fair heroic Argos. Leave this formThat is no other than the outward shellOf a once loving woman.'
As I spake,My pity fired my eyes and flushed my cheekWith some soft charm; and as I spread my hands,The purple, glancing down a little, leftThe marble of my breasts and one pink budUpon the gleaming snows. And as I lookedWith a mixed pride and terror, I beheldThe brute rise up within them, and my wordsFall barren on them. So I sat apart,Nor ever more looked forth, while every dayBrought its own woe.
The melancholy years,The miserable melancholy years,Crept onward till the midnight terror came,And by the glare of burning streets I sawPalace and temple reel in ruin and fall,And the long-baffled legions, bursting inBy gate and bastion, blunted sword and spearWith unresisted slaughter. From my towerI saw the good old king; his kindly eyesIn agony, and all his reverend hairsDabbled with blood, as the fierce foeman thrustAnd stabbed him as he lay; the youths, the girls,Whom day by day I knew, their silken easeAnd royal luxury changed for blood and tears,Haled forth to death or worse. Then a great hateOf life and fate seized on me, and I roseAnd rushed among them, crying, 'See, 'tis I,I who have brought this evil! Kill me! killThe fury that is I, yet is not I!And let my soul go outward through the woundMade clean by blood to Hades! Let me die,Not these who did no wrong!' But not a handWas raised, and all shrank backward as afraid,As from a goddess. Then I swooned and fellAnd knew no more, and when I woke I feltMy husband's arms around me, and the windBlew fair for Greece, and the beaked galley plunged;And where the towers of Ilium rose of old,A pall of smoke above a glare of fire.
What then in the near future?
Ten long yearsBring youth and love to that deep summer-tideWhen the full noisy current of our livesCreeps dumb through wealth of flowers. I think I knewSomewhat of peace at last, with my good LordWho loved too much, to palter with the past,Flushed with the present. Young HermioneHad grown from child to woman. She was wed;And was not I her mother? At the pompOf solemn nuptials and requited love,I prayed she might be happy, happier farThan ever I was; so in tranquil easeI lived a queen long time, and because wealthAnd high observance can make sweet our daysWhen youth's swift joy is past, I did requiteWith what I might, not love, the kindly careOf him I loved not; pomps and robes of priceAnd chariots held me. But when Fate cut shortHis life and love, his sons who were not mineReigned in his stead, and hated me and mine:And knowing I was friendless, I sailed forthOnce more across the sea, seeking for restAnd shelter. Still I knew that in my eyesLove dwelt, and all the baleful charm of oldBurned as of yore, scarce dimmed as yet by time:I saw it in the mirror of the sea,I saw it in the youthful seamen's eyes,And was half proud again I had such powerWho now kept nothing else. So one calm eve,Behold, a sweet fair isle blushed like a roseUpon the summer sea: there my swift shipCast anchor, and they told me it was Rhodes.
There, in a little wood above the sea,Like that dear wood of yore, I wandered forthForlorn, and all my seamen were apart,And I, alone; when at the close of dayI knew myself surrounded by strange churlsWith angry eyes, and one who ordered them,A woman, whom I knew not, but who walkedIn mien and garb a queen. She, with the fireOf hate within her eyes, 'Quick, bind her, men!I know her; bind her fast!' Then to the trunkOf a tall plane they bound me with rude cordsThat cut my arms. And meantime, far below,The sun was gilding fair with dying raysIsle after isle and purple wastes of sea.
And then she signed to them, and all withdrewAmong the woods and left us, face to face,Two women. Ere I spoke, 'I know,' she said,'I know that evil fairness. This it was,Or ever he had come across my life,That made him cold to me, who had my loveAnd left me half a heart. If all my lifeOf wedlock was but half a life, what fiendCame 'twixt my love and me, but that fair face?What left his children orphans, but that face?And me a widow? Fiend! I have thee now;Thou hast not long to live. I will requiteThy murders; yet, oh fiend! that art so fair,Were it not haply better to defaceThy fatal loveliness, and leave thee bareOf all thy baleful power? And yet I doubt,And looking on thy face I doubt the more,Lest all thy dower of fairness be the giftOf Aphrodité, and I fear to fightAgainst the immortal Gods.'
Even with the word,And she relenting, all the riddle of lifeFlashed through me, and the inextricable coilOf Being, and the immeasurable depthsAnd irony of Fate, burst on my thoughtAnd left me smiling in the eyes of death,With this deep smile thou seëst. Then with a shriekThe woman leapt on me, and with blind rageStrangled my life. And when she had done the deedShe swooned, and those her followers hasting backFell prone upon their knees before the corpseAs to a goddess. Then one went and broughtA sculptor, and within a jewelled shrineThey set me in white marble, bound to a treeOf marble. And they came and knelt to me,Young men and maidens, through the secular years,While the old gods bore sway, but I was here,And now they kneel no longer, for the worldHas gone from beauty.
But I think, indeed,They well might worship still, for never yetWas any thought or thing of beauty bornExcept with suffering. That poor wretch who thoughtI injured her, stealing the foolish heartWhich she prized but I could not, what knew sheOf that I suffered? She had loved her love,Though unrequited, and had borne to himChildren who loved her. What if she had beenLoved yet unloving: all the fire of loveBurnt out before love's time in one brief blazeOf passion. Ah, poor fool! I pity her,Being blest and yet unthankful, and forgive,Now that she is a ghost as I, the handWhich loosed my load of life. For scarce indeedCould any god who cares for mortal menHave ever kept me happy. I had tiredOf simple loving, doubtless, as I tiredOf splendour and being loved. There be some soulsFor which love is enough, content to bearFrom youth to age, from chesnut locks to gray,The load of common, uneventful lifeAnd penury. But I was not of these;I know not now, if it were best indeedThat I had reared my simple shepherd brood,And lived and died unknown in some poor hutAmong the Argive hills; or lived a queenAs I did, knowing every day that dawnedSome high emprise and glorious, and in deathTo fill the world with song. Not the same meedThe gods mete out for all, or She, the dreadNecessity, who rules both gods and men,Some to dishonour, some to honour moulds,To happiness some, some to unhappiness.We are what Zeus has made us, discords playingIn the great music, but the harmonyIs sweeter for them, and the great spheres ringIn one accordant hymn.
But thou, if e'erThere come a daughter of thy love, oh prayTo all thy gods, lest haply they should marHer life with too great beauty!"
So she ceased.The fairest woman that the poet's dreamOr artist hand has fashioned. All the gloomSeemed lightened round her, and I heard the soundOf her melodious voice when all was still,And the dim twilight took her.
Next there cameTwo who together walked: one with a lyreOf gold, which gave no sound; the other hungUpon his breast, and closely clung to him,Spent in a tender longing. As they came,I heard her gentle voice recounting o'erSome ancient tale, and these the words she said:
"Dear voice and lyre now silent, which I heardAcross yon sullen river, bringing to meAll my old life, and he, the ferryman,Heard and obeyed, and the grim monster heardAnd fawned on you. Joyous thou cam'st and freeLike a white sunbeam from the dear bright earth,Where suns shone clear, and moons beamed bright, and streamsLaughed with a rippling music,—nor as hereThe dumb stream stole, the veiled sky slept, the fieldsWere lost in twilight. Like a morning breeze,Which blows in summer from the gates of dawnAcross the fields of spice, and wakes to lifeTheir slumbering perfume, through this silent landOf whispering voices and of half-closed eyes,Where scarce a footstep sounds, nor any strainOf earthly song, thou cam'st; and suddenlyThe pale cheeks flushed a little, the murmured wordsRose to a faint, thin treble; the throng of ghostsPacing along the sunless ways and still,Felt a new life. Thou camest, dear, and straightThe dull cold river broke in sparkling foam,The pale and scentless flowers grew perfumed; lastTo the dim chamber, where with the sad queenI sat in gloom, and silently inwoveDead wreaths of amaranths; thy music cameLaden with life, and I, who seemed to knowNot life's voice only, but my own, rose up,Along the hollow pathways followingThe sound which brought back earth and life and love,And memory and longing. Yet I wentWith half-reluctant footsteps, as of oneWhom passion draws, or some high fantasy,Despite himself, because some subtle spell,Part born of dread to cross that sullen streamAnd its grim guardians, part of secret shameOf the young airs and freshness of the earth,Being that I was, enchained me.
Then at last,From voice and lyre so high a strain aroseAs trembled on the utter verge of being,And thrilling, poured out life. Thus closelier drawnI walked with thee, shut in by halcyon soundAnd soft environments of harmony,Beyond the ghostly gates, beyond the dimCalm fields, where the beetle hummed and the pale owlStole noiseless from the copse, and the white bloomsStretched thin for lack of sun: so fair a lightBorn out of consonant sound environed me.Nor looked I backward, as we seemed to moveTo some high goal of thought and life and love,Like twin birds flying fast with equal wingOut of the night, to meet the coming sunAbove a sea. But on thy dear fair eyes,The eyes that well I knew on the old earth,I looked not, for with still averted gazeThou leddest, and I followed; for, indeed,While that high strain was sounding, I was raptIn faith and a high courage, driving outAll doubt and discontent and womanish fear,Nay, even my love itself. But when awhileIt sank a little, or seemed to sink and fallTo lower levels, seeing that use makes bluntThe too accustomed ear, straightway, desireTo look once more on thy recovered eyesSeized me, and oft I called with piteous voice,Beseeching thee to turn. But thou long timeWert even as one unmindful, with grave signAnd waving hand, denying. Finally,When now we neared the stream, on whose far shoreLay life, great terror took me, and I shriekedThy name, as in despair. Then thou, as oneWho knows him set in some great jeopardy,A swift death fronting him on either hand,Didst slowly turning gaze; and lo! I sawThine eyes grown awful, life that looked on death,Clear purity on dark and cankered sin,The immortal on corruption,—not the eyesThat erst I knew in life, but dreadfuller,And stranger. As I looked, I seemed to swoon,Some blind force whirled me back, and when I wokeI saw thee vanish in the middle stream,A speck on the dull waters, taking with theeMy life, and leaving Love with me. But INot for myself bewail, but all for thee,Who, but for me, wert now among the starsWith thy great Lord; I sitting at thy feet:But now the fierce and unrestrainèd routOf passions woman-natured, finding theeScornful of love within thy lonely cell,With blind rage falling on thee, tore thy limbs,And left them to the Muses' sepulture,While thy soul dwells in Hades. But I wailMy weakness always, who for Love destroyedThe life that was my Love. I prithee, dear,Forgive me if thou canst, who hast lost heavenTo save a loving woman."
He with voiceSweeter than any mortal melody,And plaintive as the music that is madeBy the Æolian strings, or the sad birdThat sings of summer nights:
"Eurydice,Dear love, be comforted; not once aloneThat which thou mournest is, but day by daySome lonely soul, which walks apart and feedsOn high hill pastures, far from herds of men,Comes to the low fat fields, and sunny valesJoyous with fruits and flowers, and the white armsOf laughing love; and there awhile he staysContent, forgetting all the joys he knew,When first the morning broke upon the hills,And the keen air breathed from the Eastern gatesLike a pure draught of wine; forgetting allThe strains which float, as from a nearer heaven,To him who treads at dawn the untrodden snows,While all the warm world sleeps;—forgetting theseAnd all things that have been. And if he gainTo raise to his own heights the simpler soulsThat dwell upon the plains, the untutored thought,The museless lives, the unawakened brainThat yet might soar, then is he blest indeed.But if he fail, then, leaving love behind,The wider love of the race, the closer loveOf some congenial soul, he turns againTo the old difficult steeps, and there alonePines, till the widowed passions of his heartTear him and rend his soul, and drive him downTo the low plains he left. And there he dwells,Missing the heavens, dear, and the white peaks,And the light air of old; but in their steadFinding the soft sweet sun of the vale, the cloudsWhich veil the skies indeed, but give the rainsThat feed the streams of life and make earth green,And bring at last the harvest. So I walkIn this dim land content with thee, O Love,Untouched by any yearning of regretFor those old days; nor that the lyre which madeErewhile such potent music now is dumb;Nor that the voice that once could move the earth(Zeus speaking through it), speaks in household wordsOf homely love: Love is enough for meWith thee, O dearest; and perchance at last,Zeus willing, this dumb lyre and whispered voiceShall wake, by Love inspired, to such clear noteAs soars above the stars, and swelling, liftsOur souls to highest heaven."
Then he stooped,And, folded in one long embrace, they wentAnd faded. And I cried, "Oh, strong God, Love,Mightier than Death and Hell!"
And then I chancedOn a fair woman, whose sad eyes were fullOf a fixed self-reproach, like his who knowsHimself the fountain of his grief, and pinesIn self-inflicted sorrow. As I spakeEnquiring of her grief, she answered thus:
"Stranger, thou seest of all the shades belowThe most unhappy. Others sought their loveIn death, and found it, dying; but for meThe death that took me, took from me my love,And left me comfortless. No load I bearLike those dark wicked women, who have slainTheir Lords for lust or anger, whom the dreadPropitious Ones within the pit belowPunish and purge of sin; only unfaith,If haply want of faith be not a crimeBlacker than murder, when we fail to trustOne worthy of all faith, and folly bringNo harder recompense than comes of scornAnd loathing of itself.
Ah, fool, fool, fool,Who didst mistrust thy love, who was the best,And truest, manliest soul with whom the godsHave ever blest the earth; so brave, so strong,Fired with such burning hate of powerful ill,So loving of the race, so swift to raiseThe fearless arm and mighty club, and smiteAll monstrous growths with ruin—Zeus himselfShowed scarce more mighty—and yet was the whileA very man, not cast in mould too fineFor human love, but ofttimes snared and caughtBy womanish wiles, fast held within the netHis passions wove. Oh, it was grand to hearOf how he went, the champion of his race,Mighty in war, mighty in love, now bentTo more than human tasks, now lapt in ease,Now suffering, now enjoying. Strong, vast soul,Tuned to heroic deeds, and set on highAbove the range of common petty sins—Too high to mate with an unequal soul,Too full of striving for contented days.
Ah me, how well I do recall the causeOf all our ills! I was a happy brideWhen that dark Até which pursues the stepsOf heroes—innocent blood-guiltiness—Drove us to exile, and I joyed to beHis own, and share his pain. To a swift streamFleeing we came, where a rough ferrymanWaited, more brute than man. My hero plungedIn those fierce depths and battled with their flow,And with great labour gained the strand, and badeThe monster row me to him. But with lustAnd brutal cunning in his eyes, the thingSeized me and turned to fly with me, when swiftAn arrow hissed from the unerring bow,Pierced him, and loosed his grasp. Then as his eyesGrew glazed in death there came in them a gleamOf what I know was hate, and he said, 'TakeThis white robe. It is costly. See, my bloodHas stained it but a little. I did wrong:I know it, and repent me. If there comeA time when he grows cold—for all the raceOf heroes wander, nor can any loveFix theirs for long—take it and wrap him in it,And he shall love again.' Then, from the strangeDeep look within his eyes I shrank in fear,And left him half in pity, and I wentTo meet my Lord, who rose from that fierce streamFair as a god.
Ah me, the weary daysWe women live, spending our anxious souls,Consumed with jealous fancies, hungering stillFor the belovèd voice and ear and eye,And hungering all in vain! For life is moreTo youthful manhood than to sit at homeBefore the hearth to watch the children's waysAnd lead the life of petty household careWhich doth content us women. Day by dayI pined in Trachis for my love, while he,Now in some warlike exploit busied, nowFighting some monster, now at some fair court,Resting awhile till some new enterpriseCalled him, returned not. News of treacheriesAvenged, friends succoured, dreadful monsters slain,Came from him: always triumph, always fame,And honour, and success, and reverence,And sometimes, words of love for me who pinedFor more than words, and would have gone to himBut that the toils of such high errantryAsked more than woman's strength.
So the slow yearsVexed me alone in Trachis, set forlornIn solitude, nor hearing at the gateThe frank and cheering voice, nor on the stairThe heavy tread, nor feeling the strong armAround me in the darkling night, when allMy being ran slow. Last, subtle whispers cameOf womanish wiles which kept my Lord from me,And one who, young and fair, a fresh-blown lifeAnd virgin, younger, fairer far than IWhen first he loved me, held him in the toilsOf scarce dissembled love. Not easilyMight I believe this evil, but at lastThe oft-repeated malice finding meForlorn, and sitting imp-like at my ear,Possessed me, and the fire of jealous loveRaged through my veins, not turned as yet to hate—Too well I loved for that—but breeding in meUnfaith in him. Love, setting him so highAnd self so low, betrayed me, and I prayed,Constrained to hold him false, the immortal godsTo make him love again.
But still he came not.And still the maddening rumours worked, and still'Fair, young, and a king's daughter,' the same wordsSmote me and pierced me. Oh, there is no painIn Hades—nay, nor deepest Hell itself,Like that of jealous hearts, the torture-painWhich racked my life so long.
Till one fair mornThere came a joyful message. 'He has come!And at the shrine upon the promontory,The fair white shrine upon the purple sea,He waits to do his solemn sacrificeTo the immortal gods; and with him comesA young maid beautiful as Dawn.'
Then I,Mingling despair with love, rapt in deep joyThat he was come, plunged in the depths of hellThat she came too, bethought me of the robeThe Centaur gave me, and the words he spake,Forgetting the deep hatred in his eyes,And all but love, and sent a messengerBidding him wear it for the sacrificeTo the immortals, knowing not at allWhom Fate decreed the victim.