Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother's breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
Morn in the wake of the morning starCame furrowing all the orient into gold.We rose, and each by other drest with careDescended to the court that lay three partsIn shadow, but the Muses' heads were touchedAbove the darkness from their native East.There while we stood beside the fount, and watchedOr seemed to watch the dancing bubble, approachedMelissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep,Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyesThe circled Iris of a night of tears;'And fly,' she cried, 'O fly, while yet you may!My mother knows:' and when I asked her 'how,''My fault' she wept 'my fault! and yet not mine;Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me.My mother, 'tis her wont from night to nightTo rail at Lady Psyche and her side.She says the Princess should have been the Head,Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms;And so it was agreed when first they came;But Lady Psyche was the right hand now,And the left, or not, or seldom used;Hers more than half the students, all the love.And so last night she fell to canvass you:Hercountrywomen! she did not envy her."Who ever saw such wild barbarians?Girls?—more like men!" and at these words the snake,My secret, seemed to stir within my breast;And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheekBegan to burn and burn, and her lynx eyeTo fix and make me hotter, till she laughed:"O marvellously modest maiden, you!Men! girls, like men! why, if they had been menYou need not set your thoughts in rubric thusFor wholesale comment." Pardon, I am shamedThat I must needs repeat for my excuseWhat looks so little graceful: "men" (for stillMy mother went revolving on the word)"And so they are,—very like men indeed—And with that woman closeted for hours!"Then came these dreadful words out one by one,"Why—these—are—men:" I shuddered: "and you know it.""O ask me nothing," I said: "And she knows too,And she conceals it." So my mother clutchedThe truth at once, but with no word from me;And now thus early risen she goes to informThe Princess: Lady Psyche will be crushed;But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly;But heal me with your pardon ere you go.''What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush?'Said Cyril: 'Pale one, blush again: than wearThose lilies, better blush our lives away.Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven'He added, 'lest some classic Angel speakIn scorn of us, "They mounted, Ganymedes,To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn."But I will melt this marble into waxTo yield us farther furlough:' and he went.Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thoughtHe scarce would prosper. 'Tell us,' Florian asked,'How grew this feud betwixt the right and left.''O long ago,' she said, 'betwixt these twoDivision smoulders hidden; 'tis my mother,Too jealous, often fretful as the windPent in a crevice: much I bear with her:I never knew my father, but she says(God help her) she was wedded to a fool;And still she railed against the state of things.She had the care of Lady Ida's youth,And from the Queen's decease she brought her up.But when your sister came she won the heartOf Ida: they were still together, grew(For so they said themselves) inosculated;Consonant chords that shiver to one note;One mind in all things: yet my mother stillAffirms your Psyche thieved her theories,And angled with them for her pupil's love:She calls her plagiarist; I know not what:But I must go: I dare not tarry,' and light,As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled.Then murmured Florian gazing after her,'An open-hearted maiden, true and pure.If I could love, why this were she: how prettyHer blushing was, and how she blushed again,As if to close with Cyril's random wish:Not like your Princess crammed with erring pride,Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow.''The crane,' I said, 'may chatter of the crane,The dove may murmur of the dove, but IAn eagle clang an eagle to the sphere.My princess, O my princess! true she errs,But in her own grand way: being herselfThree times more noble than three score of men,She sees herself in every woman else,And so she wears her error like a crownTo blind the truth and me: for her, and her,Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mixThe nectar; but—ah she—whene'er she movesThe Samian Herè rises and she speaksA Memnon smitten with the morning Sun.'So saying from the court we paced, and gainedThe terrace ranged along the Northern front,And leaning there on those balusters, highAbove the empurpled champaign, drank the galeThat blown about the foliage underneath,And sated with the innumerable rose,Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither cameCyril, and yawning 'O hard task,' he cried;'No fighting shadows here! I forced a wayThrough opposition crabbed and gnarled.Better to clear prime forests, heave and thumpA league of street in summer solstice down,Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman.I knocked and, bidden, entered; found her thereAt point to move, and settled in her eyesThe green malignant light of coming storm.Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oiled,As man's could be; yet maiden-meek I prayedConcealment: she demanded who we were,And why we came? I fabled nothing fair,But, your example pilot, told her all.Up went the hushed amaze of hand and eye.But when I dwelt upon your old affiance,She answered sharply that I talked astray.I urged the fierce inscription on the gate,And our three lives. True—we had limed ourselvesWith open eyes, and we must take the chance.But such extremes, I told her, well might harmThe woman's cause. "Not more than now," she said,"So puddled as it is with favouritism."I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befallMelissa, knowing, saying not she knew:Her answer was "Leave me to deal with that."I spoke of war to come and many deaths,And she replied, her duty was to speak,And duty duty, clear of consequences.I grew discouraged, Sir; but since I knewNo rock so hard but that a little waveMay beat admission in a thousand years,I recommenced; "Decide not ere you pause.I find you here but in the second place,Some say the third—the authentic foundress you.I offer boldly: we will seat you highest:Wink at our advent: help my prince to gainHis rightful bride, and here I promise youSome palace in our land, where you shall reignThe head and heart of all our fair she-world,And your great name flow on with broadening timeFor ever." Well, she balanced this a little,And told me she would answer us today,meantime be mute: thus much, nor more I gained.'He ceasing, came a message from the Head.'That afternoon the Princess rode to takeThe dip of certain strata to the North.Would we go with her? we should find the landWorth seeing; and the river made a fallOut yonder:' then she pointed on to whereA double hill ran up his furrowy forksBeyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale.Agreed to, this, the day fled on through allIts range of duties to the appointed hour.Then summoned to the porch we went. She stoodAmong her maidens, higher by the head,Her back against a pillar, her foot on oneOf those tame leopards. Kittenlike he rolledAnd pawed about her sandal. I drew near;I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure cameUpon me, the weird vision of our house:The Princess Ida seemed a hollow show,Her gay-furred cats a painted fantasy,Her college and her maidens, empty masks,And I myself the shadow of a dream,For all things were and were not. Yet I feltMy heart beat thick with passion and with awe;Then from my breast the involuntary sighBrake, as she smote me with the light of eyesThat lent my knee desire to kneel, and shookMy pulses, till to horse we got, and soWent forth in long retinue following upThe river as it narrowed to the hills.I rode beside her and to me she said:'O friend, we trust that you esteemed us notToo harsh to your companion yestermorn;Unwillingly we spake.' 'No—not to her,'I answered, 'but to one of whom we spakeYour Highness might have seemed the thing you say.''Again?' she cried, 'are you ambassadressesFrom him to me? we give you, being strange,A license: speak, and let the topic die.'I stammered that I knew him—could have wished—'Our king expects—was there no precontract?There is no truer-hearted—ah, you seemAll he prefigured, and he could not seeThe bird of passage flying south but longedTo follow: surely, if your Highness keepYour purport, you will shock him even to death,Or baser courses, children of despair.''Poor boy,' she said, 'can he not read—no books?Quoit, tennis, ball—no games? nor deals in thatWhich men delight in, martial exercise?To nurse a blind ideal like a girl,Methinks he seems no better than a girl;As girls were once, as we ourself have been:We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with them:We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it,Being other—since we learnt our meaning here,To lift the woman's fallen divinityUpon an even pedestal with man.'She paused, and added with a haughtier smile'And as to precontracts, we move, my friend,At no man's beck, but know ourself and thee,O Vashti, noble Vashti! Summoned outShe kept her state, and left the drunken kingTo brawl at Shushan underneath the palms.''Alas your Highness breathes full East,' I said,'On that which leans to you. I know the Prince,I prize his truth: and then how vast a workTo assail this gray preëminence of man!You grant me license; might I use it? think;Ere half be done perchance your life may fail;Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan,And takes and ruins all; and thus your painsMay only make that footprint upon sandWhich old-recurring waves of prejudiceResmooth to nothing: might I dread that you,With only Fame for spouse and your great deedsFor issue, yet may live in vain, and miss,Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due,Love, children, happiness?'And she exclaimed,'Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild!What! though your Prince's love were like a God's,Have we not made ourself the sacrifice?You are bold indeed: we are not talked to thus:Yet will we say for children, would they grewLike field-flowers everywhere! we like them well:But children die; and let me tell you, girl,Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die;They with the sun and moon renew their lightFor ever, blessing those that look on them.Children—that men may pluck them from our hearts,Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves—O—children—there is nothing upon earthMore miserable than she that has a sonAnd sees him err: nor would we work for fame;Though she perhaps might reap the applause of Great,Who earns the one POU STO whence after-handsMay move the world, though she herself effectBut little: wherefore up and act, nor shrinkFor fear our solid aim be dissipatedBy frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been,In lieu of many mortal flies, a raceOf giants living, each, a thousand years,That we might see our own work out, and watchThe sandy footprint harden into stone.'I answered nothing, doubtful in myselfIf that strange Poet-princess with her grandImaginations might at all be won.And she broke out interpreting my thoughts:'No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you;We are used to that: for women, up till thisCramped under worse than South-sea-isle taboo,Dwarfs of the gynæceum, fail so farIn high desire, they know not, cannot guessHow much their welfare is a passion to us.If we could give them surer, quicker proof—Oh if our end were less achievableBy slow approaches, than by single actOf immolation, any phase of death,We were as prompt to spring against the pikes,Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it,To compass our dear sisters' liberties.'She bowed as if to veil a noble tear;And up we came to where the river slopedTo plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocksA breadth of thunder. O'er it shook the woods,And danced the colour, and, below, stuck outThe bones of some vast bulk that lived and roaredBefore man was. She gazed awhile and said,'As these rude bones to us, are we to herThat will be.' 'Dare we dream of that,' I asked,'Which wrought us, as the workman and his work,That practice betters?' 'How,' she cried, 'you loveThe metaphysics! read and earn our prize,A golden brooch: beneath an emerald planeSits Diotima, teaching him that diedOf hemlock; our device; wrought to the life;She rapt upon her subject, he on her:For there are schools for all.' 'And yet' I said'Methinks I have not found among them allOne anatomic.' 'Nay, we thought of that,'She answered, 'but it pleased us not: in truthWe shudder but to dream our maids should apeThose monstrous males that carve the living hound,And cram him with the fragments of the grave,Or in the dark dissolving human heart,And holy secrets of this microcosm,Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest,Encarnalize their spirits: yet we knowKnowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs:Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty,Nor willing men should come among us, learnt,For many weary moons before we came,This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourselfWould tend upon you. To your question now,Which touches on the workman and his work.Let there be light and there was light: 'tis so:For was, and is, and will be, are but is;And all creation is one act at once,The birth of light: but we that are not all,As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that,And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and makeOne act a phantom of succession: thusOur weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time;But in the shadow will we work, and mouldThe woman to the fuller day.'She spakeWith kindled eyes; we rode a league beyond,And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, cameOn flowery levels underneath the crag,Full of all beauty. 'O how sweet' I said(For I was half-oblivious of my mask)'To linger here with one that loved us.' 'Yea,'She answered, 'or with fair philosophiesThat lift the fancy; for indeed these fieldsAre lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns,Where paced the Demigods of old, and sawThe soft white vapour streak the crownèd towersBuilt to the Sun:' then, turning to her maids,'Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward;Lay out the viands.' At the word, they raisedA tent of satin, elaborately wroughtWith fair Corinna's triumph; here she stood,Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek,The woman-conqueror; woman-conquered thereThe bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns,And all the men mourned at his side: but weSet forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril keptWith Psyche, with Melissa Florian, IWith mine affianced. Many a little handGlanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks,Many a light foot shone like a jewel setIn the dark crag: and then we turned, we woundAbout the cliffs, the copses, out and in,Hammering and clinking, chattering stony namesOf shales and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff,Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the SunGrew broader toward his death and fell, and allThe rosy heights came out above the lawns.
The splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
'There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun,If that hypothesis of theirs be sound'Said Ida; 'let us down and rest;' and weDown from the lean and wrinkled precipices,By every coppice-feathered chasm and cleft,Dropt through the ambrosial gloom to where belowNo bigger than a glow-worm shone the tentLamp-lit from the inner. Once she leaned on me,Descending; once or twice she lent her hand,And blissful palpitations in the blood,Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell.But when we planted level feet, and diptBeneath the satin dome and entered in,There leaning deep in broidered down we sankOur elbows: on a tripod in the midstA fragrant flame rose, and before us glowedFruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold.Then she, 'Let some one sing to us: lightlier moveThe minutes fledged with music:' and a maid,Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang.
'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.'Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.'Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.'Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.'
She ended with such passion that the tear,She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearlLost in her bosom: but with some disdainAnswered the Princess, 'If indeed there hauntAbout the mouldered lodges of the PastSo sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men,Well needs it we should cram our ears with woolAnd so pace by: but thine are fancies hatchedIn silken-folded idleness; nor is itWiser to weep a true occasion lost,But trim our sails, and let old bygones be,While down the streams that float us each and allTo the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,Throne after throne, and molten on the wasteBecomes a cloud: for all things serve their timeToward that great year of equal mights and rights,Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the endFound golden: let the past be past; let beTheir cancelled Babels: though the rough kex breakThe starred mosaic, and the beard-blown goatHang on the shaft, and the wild figtree splitTheir monstrous idols, care not while we hearA trumpet in the distance pealing newsOf better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burnsAbove the unrisen morrow:' then to me;'Know you no song of your own land,' she said,'Not such as moans about the retrospect,But deals with the other distance and the huesOf promise; not a death's-head at the wine.'Then I remembered one myself had made,What time I watched the swallow winging southFrom mine own land, part made long since, and partNow while I sang, and maidenlike as farAs I could ape their treble, did I sing.
'O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.'O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,And dark and true and tender is the North.'O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and lightUpon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.'O were I thou that she might take me in,And lay me on her bosom, and her heartWould rock the snowy cradle till I died.'Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,Delaying as the tender ash delaysTo clothe herself, when all the woods are green?'O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,But in the North long since my nest is made.'O tell her, brief is life but love is long,And brief the sun of summer in the North,And brief the moon of beauty in the South.'O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.'
I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each,Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time,Stared with great eyes, and laughed with alien lips,And knew not what they meant; for still my voiceRang false: but smiling 'Not for thee,' she said,'O Bulbul, any rose of GulistanShall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, maid,Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crakeGrate her harsh kindred in the grass: and thisA mere love-poem! O for such, my friend,We hold them slight: they mind us of the timeWhen we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men,That lute and flute fantastic tenderness,And dress the victim to the offering up,And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise,And play the slave to gain the tyranny.Poor soul! I had a maid of honour once;She wept her true eyes blind for such a one,A rogue of canzonets and serenades.I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead.So they blaspheme the muse! But great is songUsed to great ends: ourself have often triedValkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dashedThe passion of the prophetess; for songIs duer unto freedom, force and growthOf spirit than to junketing and love.Love is it? Would this same mock-love, and thisMock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats,Till all men grew to rate us at our worth,Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babesTo be dandled, no, but living wills, and spheredWhole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough!But now to leaven play with profit, you,Know you no song, the true growth of your soil,That gives the manners of your country-women?'She spoke and turned her sumptuous head with eyesOf shining expectation fixt on mine.Then while I dragged my brains for such a song,Cyril, with whom the bell-mouthed glass had wrought,Or mastered by the sense of sport, beganTo troll a careless, careless tavern-catchOf Moll and Meg, and strange experiencesUnmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him,I frowning; Psyche flushed and wanned and shook;The lilylike Melissa drooped her brows;'Forbear,' the Princess cried; 'Forbear, Sir' I;And heated through and through with wrath and love,I smote him on the breast; he started up;There rose a shriek as of a city sacked;Melissa clamoured 'Flee the death;' 'To horse'Said Ida; 'home! to horse!' and fled, as fliesA troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk,When some one batters at the dovecote-doors,Disorderly the women. Alone I stoodWith Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart,In the pavilion: there like parting hopesI heard them passing from me: hoof by hoof,And every hoof a knell to my desires,Clanged on the bridge; and then another shriek,'The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head!'For blind with rage she missed the plank, and rolledIn the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom:There whirled her white robe like a blossomed branchRapt to the horrible fall: a glance I gave,No more; but woman-vested as I wasPlunged; and the flood drew; yet I caught her; thenOaring one arm, and bearing in my leftThe weight of all the hopes of half the world,Strove to buffet to land in vain. A treeWas half-disrooted from his place and stoopedTo wrench his dark locks in the gurgling waveMid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught,And grasping down the boughs I gained the shore.There stood her maidens glimmeringly groupedIn the hollow bank. One reaching forward drewMy burthen from mine arms; they cried 'she lives:'They bore her back into the tent: but I,So much a kind of shame within me wrought,Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes,Nor found my friends; but pushed alone on foot(For since her horse was lost I left her mine)Across the woods, and less from Indian craftThan beelike instinct hiveward, found at lengthThe garden portals. Two great statues, ArtAnd Science, Caryatids, lifted upA weight of emblem, and betwixt were valvesOf open-work in which the hunter ruedHis rash intrusion, manlike, but his browsHad sprouted, and the branches thereuponSpread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates.A little space was left between the horns,Through which I clambered o'er at top with pain,Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks,And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue,Now poring on the glowworm, now the star,I paced the terrace, till the Bear had wheeledThrough a great arc his seven slow suns.A stepOf lightest echo, then a loftier formThan female, moving through the uncertain gloom,Disturbed me with the doubt 'if this were she,'But it was Florian. 'Hist O Hist,' he said,'They seek us: out so late is out of rules.Moreover "seize the strangers" is the cry.How came you here?' I told him: 'I' said he,'Last of the train, a moral leper, I,To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, returned.Arriving all confused among the restWith hooded brows I crept into the hall,And, couched behind a Judith, underneathThe head of Holofernes peeped and saw.Girl after girl was called to trial: eachDisclaimed all knowledge of us: last of all,Melissa: trust me, Sir, I pitied her.She, questioned if she knew us men, at firstWas silent; closer prest, denied it not:And then, demanded if her mother knew,Or Psyche, she affirmed not, or denied:From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her,Easily gathered either guilt. She sentFor Psyche, but she was not there; she calledFor Psyche's child to cast it from the doors;She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face;And I slipt out: but whither will you now?And where are Psyche, Cyril? both are fled:What, if together? that were not so well.Would rather we had never come! I dreadHis wildness, and the chances of the dark.''And yet,' I said, 'you wrong him more than IThat struck him: this is proper to the clown,Though smocked, or furred and purpled, still the clown,To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shameThat which he says he loves: for Cyril, howe'erHe deal in frolic, as tonight—the songMight have been worse and sinned in grosser lipsBeyond all pardon—as it is, I holdThese flashes on the surface are not he.He has a solid base of temperament:But as the waterlily starts and slidesUpon the level in little puffs of wind,Though anchored to the bottom, such is he.'Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk nearTwo Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 'Names:'He, standing still, was clutched; but I beganTo thrid the musky-circled mazes, windAnd double in and out the boles, and raceBy all the fountains: fleet I was of foot:Before me showered the rose in flakes; behindI heard the puffed pursuer; at mine earBubbled the nightingale and heeded not,And secret laughter tickled all my soul.At last I hooked my ankle in a vine,That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne,And falling on my face was caught and known.They haled us to the Princess where she satHigh in the hall: above her drooped a lamp,And made the single jewel on her browBurn like the mystic fire on a mast-head,Prophet of storm: a handmaid on each sideBowed toward her, combing out her long black hairDamp from the river; and close behind her stoodEight daughters of the plough, stronger than men,Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and rain,And labour. Each was like a Druid rock;Or like a spire of land that stands apartCleft from the main, and wailed about with mews.Then, as we came, the crowd dividing cloveAn advent to the throne: and therebeside,Half-naked as if caught at once from bedAnd tumbled on the purple footcloth, layThe lily-shining child; and on the left,Bowed on her palms and folded up from wrong,Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs,Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche erectStood up and spake, an affluent orator.'It was not thus, O Princess, in old days:You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips:I led you then to all the Castalies;I fed you with the milk of every Muse;I loved you like this kneeler, and you meYour second mother: those were gracious times.Then came your new friend: you began to change—I saw it and grieved—to slacken and to cool;Till taken with her seeming opennessYou turned your warmer currents all to her,To me you froze: this was my meed for all.Yet I bore up in part from ancient love,And partly that I hoped to win you back,And partly conscious of my own deserts,And partly that you were my civil head,And chiefly you were born for something great,In which I might your fellow-worker be,When time should serve; and thus a noble schemeGrew up from seed we two long since had sown;In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd,Up in one night and due to sudden sun:We took this palace; but even from the firstYou stood in your own light and darkened mine.What student came but that you planed her pathTo Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise,A foreigner, and I your countrywoman,I your old friend and tried, she new in all?But still her lists were swelled and mine were lean;Yet I bore up in hope she would be known:Then came these wolves:theyknew her:theyendured,Long-closeted with her the yestermorn,To tell her what they were, and she to hear:And me none told: not less to an eye like mineA lidless watcher of the public weal,Last night, their mask was patent, and my footWas to you: but I thought again: I fearedTo meet a cold "We thank you, we shall hear of itFrom Lady Psyche:" you had gone to her,She told, perforce; and winning easy graceNo doubt, for slight delay, remained among usIn our young nursery still unknown, the stemLess grain than touchwood, while my honest heatWere all miscounted as malignant hasteTo push my rival out of place and power.But public use required she should be known;And since my oath was ta'en for public use,I broke the letter of it to keep the sense.I spoke not then at first, but watched them well,Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done;And yet this day (though you should hate me for it)I came to tell you; found that you had gone,Ridden to the hills, she likewise: now, I thought,That surely she will speak; if not, then I:Did she? These monsters blazoned what they were,According to the coarseness of their kind,For thus I hear; and known at last (my work)And full of cowardice and guilty shame,I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies;And I remain on whom to wreak your rage,I, that have lent my life to build up yours,I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time,And talent, I—you know it—I will not boast:Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan,Divorced from my experience, will be chaffFor every gust of chance, and men will sayWe did not know the real light, but chasedThe wisp that flickers where no foot can tread.'She ceased: the Princess answered coldly, 'Good:Your oath is broken: we dismiss you: go.For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child)Our mind is changed: we take it to ourself.'Thereat the Lady stretched a vulture throat,And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile.'The plan was mine. I built the nest' she said'To hatch the cuckoo. Rise!' and stooped to updragMelissa: she, half on her mother propt,Half-drooping from her, turned her face, and castA liquid look on Ida, full of prayer,Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung,A Niobëan daughter, one arm out,Appealing to the bolts of Heaven; and whileWe gazed upon her came a little stirAbout the doors, and on a sudden rushedAmong us, out of breath as one pursued,A woman-post in flying raiment. FearStared in her eyes, and chalked her face, and wingedHer transit to the throne, whereby she fellDelivering sealed dispatches which the HeadTook half-amazed, and in her lion's moodTore open, silent we with blind surmiseRegarding, while she read, till over browAnd cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloomAs of some fire against a stormy cloud,When the wild peasant rights himself, the rickFlames, and his anger reddens in the heavens;For anger most it seemed, while now her breast,Beaten with some great passion at her heart,Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heardIn the dead hush the papers that she heldRustle: at once the lost lamb at her feetSent out a bitter bleating for its dam;The plaintive cry jarred on her ire; she crushedThe scrolls together, made a sudden turnAs if to speak, but, utterance failing her,She whirled them on to me, as who should say'Read,' and I read—two letters—one her sire's.'Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way,We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt,We, conscious of what temper you are built,Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fellInto his father's hands, who has this night,You lying close upon his territory,Slipt round and in the dark invested you,And here he keeps me hostage for his son.'The second was my father's running thus:'You have our son: touch not a hair of his head:Render him up unscathed: give him your hand:Cleave to your contract: though indeed we hearYou hold the woman is the better man;A rampant heresy, such as if it spreadWould make all women kick against their LordsThrough all the world, and which might well deserveThat we this night should pluck your palace down;And we will do it, unless you send us backOur son, on the instant, whole.'So far I read;And then stood up and spoke impetuously.'O not to pry and peer on your reserve,But led by golden wishes, and a hopeThe child of regal compact, did I breakYour precinct; not a scorner of your sexBut venerator, zealous it should beAll that it might be: hear me, for I bear,Though man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs,From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a lifeLess mine than yours: my nurse would tell me of you;I babbled for you, as babies for the moon,Vague brightness; when a boy, you stooped to meFrom all high places, lived in all fair lights,Came in long breezes rapt from inmost southAnd blown to inmost north; at eve and dawnWith Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods;The leader wildswan in among the starsWould clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glowworm lightThe mellow breaker murmured Ida. Now,Because I would have reached you, had you beenSphered up with Cassiopëia, or the enthronedPersephonè in Hades, now at length,Those winters of abeyance all worn out,A man I came to see you: but indeed,Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue,O noble Ida, to those thoughts that waitOn you, their centre: let me say but this,That many a famous man and woman, townAnd landskip, have I heard of, after seenThe dwarfs of presage: though when known, there grewAnother kind of beauty in detailMade them worth knowing; but in you I foundMy boyish dream involved and dazzled downAnd mastered, while that after-beauty makesSuch head from act to act, from hour to hour,Within me, that except you slay me here,According to your bitter statute-book,I cannot cease to follow you, as they sayThe seal does music; who desire you moreThan growing boys their manhood; dying lips,With many thousand matters left to do,The breath of life; O more than poor men wealth,Than sick men health—yours, yours, not mine—but halfWithout you; with you, whole; and of those halvesYou worthiest; and howe'er you block and barYour heart with system out from mine, I holdThat it becomes no man to nurse despair,But in the teeth of clenched antagonismsTo follow up the worthiest till he die:Yet that I came not all unauthorizedBehold your father's letter.'On one kneeKneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dashedUnopened at her feet: a tide of fierceInvective seemed to wait behind her lips,As waits a river level with the damReady to burst and flood the world with foam:And so she would have spoken, but there roseA hubbub in the court of half the maidsGathered together: from the illumined hallLong lanes of splendour slanted o'er a pressOf snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes,And rainbow robes, and gems and gemlike eyes,And gold and golden heads; they to and froFluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale,All open-mouthed, all gazing to the light,Some crying there was an army in the land,And some that men were in the very walls,And some they cared not; till a clamour grewAs of a new-world Babel, woman-built,And worse-confounded: high above them stoodThe placid marble Muses, looking peace.Not peace she looked, the Head: but rising upRobed in the long night of her deep hair, soTo the open window moved, remaining thereFixt like a beacon-tower above the wavesOf tempest, when the crimson-rolling eyeGlares ruin, and the wild birds on the lightDash themselves dead. She stretched her arms and calledAcross the tumult and the tumult fell.'What fear ye, brawlers? am not I your Head?On me, me, me, the storm first breaks:IdareAll these male thunderbolts: what is it ye fear?Peace! there are those to avenge us and they come:If not,—myself were like enough, O girls,To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights,And clad in iron burst the ranks of war,Or, falling, promartyr of our cause,Die: yet I blame you not so much for fear:Six thousand years of fear have made you thatFrom which I would redeem you: but for thoseThat stir this hubbub—you and you—I knowYour faces there in the crowd—tomorrow mornWe hold a great convention: then shall theyThat love their voices more than duty, learnWith whom they deal, dismissed in shame to liveNo wiser than their mothers, household stuff,Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame,Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown,The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time,Whose brains are in their hands and in their heelsBut fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum,To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour,For ever slaves at home and fools abroad.'She, ending, waved her hands: thereat the crowdMuttering, dissolved: then with a smile, that lookedA stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff,When all the glens are drowned in azure gloomOf thunder-shower, she floated to us and said:'You have done well and like a gentleman,And like a prince: you have our thanks for all:And you look well too in your woman's dress:Well have you done and like a gentleman.You saved our life: we owe you bitter thanks:Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood—Then men had said—but now—What hinders meTo take such bloody vengeance on you both?—Yet since our father—Wasps in our good hive,You would-be quenchers of the light to be,Barbarians, grosser than your native bears—O would I had his sceptre for one hour!You that have dared to break our bound, and gulledOur servants, wronged and lied and thwarted us—Iwed with thee!Ibound by precontractYour bride, your bondslave! not though all the goldThat veins the world were packed to make your crown,And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir,Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us:I trample on your offers and on you:Begone: we will not look upon you more.Here, push them out at gates.'In wrath she spake.Then those eight mighty daughters of the ploughBent their broad faces toward us and addressedTheir motion: twice I sought to plead my cause,But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands,The weight of destiny: so from her faceThey pushed us, down the steps, and through the court,And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates.We crossed the street and gained a petty moundBeyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard the voices murmuring.While I listened, cameOn a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt:I seemed to move among a world of ghosts;The Princess with her monstrous woman-guard,The jest and earnest working side by side,The cataract and the tumult and the kingsWere shadows; and the long fantastic nightWith all its doings had and had not been,And all things were and were not.This went byAs strangely as it came, and on my spiritsSettled a gentle cloud of melancholy;Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubtsAnd sudden ghostly shadowings I was oneTo whom the touch of all mischance but cameAs night to him that sitting on a hillSees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sunSet into sunrise; then we moved away.