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A  Book  of

 

VICTORIAN  NARRATIVE

 

VERSE

 

 

Chosen  by

 

CHARLES  WILLIAMS

 

 

OXFORD

At  the  Clarendon  Press

PREFACE

ONE of the most interesting things about the Victorian age, which is at last taking on the full aspect of the past, is the honour paid to, and the terms used of, George Eliot. A novelist, ranking certainly very high among the writers of the period, was ranked by them with the greatest names of antiquity, with Sophocles, with Homer, with Dante. So general an agreement argues that all found in her something they recognized and admired. Is it to epigrammatize too recklessly to call that quality nobility?

All genius, at the moments of its full exercise, becomes symbolical not so much of the age in which it is produced as of the universal life of man. It is not therefore in the greater but in the lesser writings of the Victorians that their characteristics are most clearly seen, in Romola rather than in Adam Bede. It is still more in the casual phrases of a hundred novels, of minor verse and almost unnecessary essays, that the aim of the period is to be most clearly discerned. Between the two romantic ages which preceded and followed it the Victorian seems to aim, like the thirteenth century and the Augustan age, at establishing a sort of stability. But where the thirteenth century sought to base its stability on an assumed supernatural basis, and the eighteenth within accepted rational limitations of the mind, the Victorian seems rather to have settled its stability upon conduct. To Matthew Arnold, certainly not the most Victorian writer, ‘conduct was three-fourths of life’; to Tennyson and Carlyle and Thackeray, to Froude and Trollope and Gladstone, it was almost the whole. George Eliot, far more than the Queen who gave her name to the period, symbolized that pre-occupation, and was unconsciously recognized as so symbolizing it.

Since conduct was to be the basis of their desired stability a particular kind of conduct was their aim. The Victorian age, like the Augustan desiring a balance of the forces of the world and a steady possession of their mental selves, retired from and disliked extremes. Sanctity and sadism were words alike unknown to it. Enthusiasm, in the earlier technical sense of the word, was an abnormal and alarming thing, a thing as alien to, say Kingsley, as to the author of that eighteenth-century tract which was entitled The Twelve Apostles not Enthusiasts. The famous quarrel between Kingsley and Newman might almost be described in the terms of ‘enthusiasm’. To Newman a man who always had to tell the entire truth was an extremist of a dangerous and impossible kind. But though in practice Kingsley would have agreed with him, in theory he differed. For telling the truth was exactly a part of that nobility of conduct which Kingsley with all his heart admired, and from which he would not allow that there could be any diversion. He was endeavouring, in vain, to include an enthusiastic and romantic extreme of theory in a balanced and classic stability of conduct, and it was the ill-constructed bridge between them which the guns of Newman shattered.

If Romola is a manageable type of high nobility of conduct, Tennyson’s King Arthur is an example of nobility become unmanageable, and wavering between nobility and mere pomposity. No great poet has ever been betrayed into a more disastrous episode than that in which Tennyson presented Arthur deploring and exhorting the prostrate form of Guinevere; and this, not because what Arthur seems to mean is necessarily wrong or stupid or selfish, but because it is nobility become conscious of itself, and nobility cannot afford to be conscious of itself. The mortal pathos, the immortal symbolism of Arthur are lost in such words as ‘I am thy husband, not a smaller soul’, and others wherein the King ‘mouths out his hollow o’s and a’s’. Tennyson recovered himself in those great and famous lines which describe the King’s departure, but it was because Arthur had left off being noble, and was in process of doing something. He had forgotten conduct and was occupied with action.

For perhaps the chief trouble about Victorian literature—and certainly the chief trouble about those now somewhat underrated poems of Tennyson, the Idylls of the King—was that its metaphysic could not present nor its withdrawing poetic imagination conceive an end sufficient to the means. To do one’s duty was a noble thing, but the only reason for doing it was that it was one’s duty. This indeed is a great enough theme for a great poet, if such duty is unmistakable and if tragedy follows upon its fulfilment. But the Victorian mind, though it accepted the first condition—the subtleties of exploration, the illusions of which duty is prolific, were not for that age—rejected the second. Duty faithfully followed and therefore inevitably producing tragedy—interior as well as exterior—would have been one of those extremes of the imagination from which ages which desire a stable mind instinctively recoil. The optimism of the Victorians was an accidental result of their desire for balance; it was certainly a subdued optimism, by no means so hearty as is sometimes thought, but cheerful enough to exclude intense tragedy, though not pathos. A few witnesses—the Mill on the Floss, and pre-eminently the Ring and the Book—testified against optimism; and the Ring and the Book even abandoned nobility. Pompilia and Caponsacchi in that very great poem are too young, too innocent, too helpless, too ‘enthusiastic’ to be called noble; the black household of Guido and the slavering obscenities of the Fisc are too vile even to be called ignoble.

But in the Idylls Arthur is presented as the soul; and the purpose, the end, of the soul is to do its duty. The King does not reject the Quest of the Graal merely from an artistic necessity, but from the necessity of an inadequate metaphysic. The high Prince Galahad passes across the stage and is gone, and the poem is uneasy in his presence. In that pursuit all the ordinary rules of conduct seem to be left behind; the bridges break down behind the chosen knight as he runs on to the city far out on the waste. It is merely apart from Camelot and the Table; it is merely apart from Arthur and the soul of man. Conduct without any adequate end, duty without interior and eternal significance, morals without metaphysics—these are the guardian angels of the Victorian chivalry and of the King. Lancelot mourns in Tennyson, ‘not knowing he should die a holy man’. But in the end of the older story he dies, not necessarily holy but priestly; ‘and a twelvemonth he sang mass’, and so is assumed into mystery.

The weakness therefore of the Victorian age, as of the Idylls, is in its concern with conduct but its failure artistically to suggest an adequate significance in conduct. When, however, it had subjects which came within its scope, when the centre of a poem became no longer an exhortation but a story, when, in short, conduct became simply action, the weakness was no longer felt. Then the greatness of the time appeared, and a score of figures in high moments of triumph or disaster were presented in poignant or exalted verse. Hardly since Chaucer had stories been so well told, and our own period, though in some things it surpasses, in this has scarcely rivalled its predecessor. Mr. Kipling, Mr. Masefield, Mr. Chesterton—these and a few others—have told us stories, and told them well, but many contemporary poets are too agitated or too dull for the art. In demanding significance they set out to impose significance; Mr. Hardy and Mr. Chesterton answer one another from opposite hills of doctrine, and are equally eclectic in their choice of tales, though perhaps Mr. Chesterton would admit the eclecticism more willingly than his peer.

The poems which follow are drawn from that great period of narrative, and are all concerned chiefly with one thing—telling a story. In one or two of them a flavour of exhortation or instruction is to be distinguished—Browning’s Donald is the worst example. But the moral there is worked into such an admirable verbal climax that it may easily be excused. Apart from such moments the poems suggest themselves as being at once the continuance and the close of a great tradition. Here, by the chance of the selection, are many of the names of the heroes—Arthur and Olaf, Balder and Rustum, Perseus and Tristram; of dukes and kings, princes of faery and of fact, myths to which the Victorians willingly submitted themselves. Nobility in action and unconscious of itself, seems to be visible in most of these poems; and where it is not, the variations are characteristic of all that which eventually broke up the Victorian repose. The two possibilities which chiefly disturbed it were malice and ecstasy (say Samuel Butler and Francis Thompson); and except in the Witch’s Ballad, of William Bell Scott, neither of these appear until the admirable Christina’s Goblin Market. Their presence determines the departure of nobility which is, in itself, incapable of either. The ‘noble’ hero cannot be rapt out of himself into a supernatural abandonment or betrayed into a sub-human hate. Lok, in Arnold’s Balder Dead, is hardly convincing in his hostility; he is part of the necessity of a story which is defended by its sub-title of ‘An Episode’. The old duchess in Browning’s poem is not so much malicious as tyrannical and greedy; and apart from these two figures the catastrophes with which the heroes variously contend are rather of the nature of inevitable destiny. The day on which the Round Table was dissolved in battle and death was a day of thick mist; the fatal duel between Sohrab and Rustum is a strife between two unknowns; Balder dies by the destined forgetfulness of his mother as well as by the hate of Lok; in Conary the faery minstrels mislead the king’s men who leave their lord to his doom; the vengeance of the gods pursues Andromeda, as the love of a goddess for Perseus saves her. The gipsy woman who lures the Duchess from her home is ‘of another nature’ than she at first appeared. In Morris’s Son of Croesus the doom which Croesus labours in vain to avert from his son is foreshown in a dream. ‘The sea hath no king but God alone’, is the refrain of Rossetti’s White Ship.

For at its best the nobility of the Victorians contended with great adversaries, with time and the nature of the gods and fate. Around it existed, as it very well knew, ‘darkness and cruel habitations’. It was heroic and steadfast, and when at last, as in the King’s Tragedy or Heather Ale, its doom came to it, it passed as strongly as it had lived. To explore the darkness, whether in philosophy or poetry, it did not primarily hold to be its business. Herbert Spencer called those other modes of being ‘the Unknowable’, but the name was rather an indication of the Victorian temper than philosophically sound. In the Witch’s Ballad and Judas Iscariot some sort of imaginative exodus into the unknown is attempted, something of the strangeness of the magical dance or the seas above the sky is conveyed, as in Goblin Market is something of the sub-human malice of the elves.

The only incomplete poem in the book is the extract from Swinburne. Swinburne was nearly incapable of telling a story directly; in this, and almost in this alone, he differed from the other great Victorians. It is true that he reversed their code of conduct, and praised the things that they blamed; physical love and revolution and tyrannicide. But this reversal did not alter his central concern, which was as much conduct as George Eliot’s was, and lacked a satisfactory metaphysic as much as did Tennyson’s. He did however, reversing the code, reverse the attitude, and nobility is not the virtue which chiefly distinguishes his characters. They are praised for the abandonment with which they give themselves to their experiences; they are praised for their conduct, but the significance of conduct is not greatly conveyed. The opening of Tristram is magnificent, but it does not suggest the intense interest and importance of love as much as certain Jacobean lyrics. So the magnificence of the lines given here does not succeed in presenting Palamede as the strange and exalted figure which moves through Malory. Mark lets Iseult go rather, it seems, from a sense of helplessness in the recollection of his promise than from a mad and passionate loyalty to it. But, perhaps by accident, there is also in this episode a suggestion of something beyond the Victorian age. For Palamede refrains from kissing Iseult, not only because of honour and nobility, but because

There flash for a moment in those lines the silver chastity of Britomart and the Lady in Comus.

Nobility is at the moment an unfashionable virtue in literature. Subtlety is preferred to it, and irony, and bitterness; just as allusiveness and the lyric are preferred to the direct narrative style. But as the Victorian age recedes it is taking on the strangeness of any past century. The side-whiskers of Arnold are no more ridiculous than the long curls of Prince Rupert or the formal beards of the Pharaohs. So their characteristic attitude, for all its dangers of pomposity and insincerity, is seen to be a real method of dealing with the crises of experience, whether interior or exterior. These poems are a tribute to its endeavour and its success.

Also, of course, they can be read as stories.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Acknowledgements are due to Mr. H. S. H. Guinness for permission to include Sir Samuel Ferguson’s ‘Conary’; to Mr. John Murray for Browning’s ‘Donald’; to the executors of George MacDonald and to Messrs. Chatto & Windus for ‘The Yerl o’ Waterydeck’; to Messrs. Longmans for W. B. Scott’s ‘The Witch’s Ballad’; to Messrs. Ellis for D. G. Rossetti’s ‘The White Ship’ and ‘The King’s Tragedy’; to Messrs. Macmillan for Sebastian Evans’s ‘Judas Iscariot’s Paradise’; and to Messrs. Chatto & Windus for R. L. Stevenson’s ‘Heather Ale’.

C. W.

            PROLOGUE

O Lady Flora, let me speak:

  A pleasant hour has past away

While, dreaming on your damask cheek,

  The dewy sister-eyelids lay.

As by the lattice you reclined,5

  I went thro’ many wayward moods

To see you dreaming—and, behind,

  A summer crisp with shining woods.

And I too dream’d, until at last

  Across my fancy, brooding warm,10

The reflex of a legend past,

  And loosely settled into form.

And would you have the thought I had,

  And see the vision that I saw,

Then take the broidery-frame, and add15

  A crimson to the quaint Macaw,

And I will tell it. Turn your face,

  Nor look with that too-earnest eye—

The rhymes are dazzled from their place,

  And order’d words asunder fly.20

      THE SLEEPING PALACE

                I

The varying year with blade and sheaf

  Clothes and reclothes the happy plains;

Here rests the sap within the leaf,

  Here stays the blood along the veins.

Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl’d,25

  Faint murmurs from the meadows come,

Like hints and echoes of the world

  To spirits folded in the womb.

                II

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns

  On every slanting terrace-lawn.30

The fountain to his place returns

  Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.

Here droops the banner on the tower,

  On the hall-hearths the festal fires,

The peacock in his laurel bower,35

  The parrot in his gilded wires.

               III

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:

  In these, in those the life is stay’d.

The mantles from the golden pegs

  Droop sleepily: no sound is made,40

Not even of a gnat that sings.

  More like a picture seemeth all

Than those old portraits of old kings,

  That watch the sleepers from the wall.

                IV

Here sits the Butler with a flask45

  Between his knees, half-drain’d; and there

The wrinkled steward at his task,

  The maid-of-honour blooming fair:

The page has caught her hand in his:

  Her lips are sever’d as to speak:50

His own are pouted to a kiss:

  The blush is fix’d upon her cheek.

                V

Till all the hundred summers pass,

  The beams, that thro’ the Oriel shine,

Make prisms in every carven glass,55

  And beaker brimm’d with noble wine.

Each baron at the banquet sleeps,

  Grave faces gather’d in a ring.

His state the king reposing keeps.

  He must have been a jovial king.60

                VI

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows

  At distance like a little wood;

Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,

  And grapes with bunches red as blood;

All creeping plants, a wall of green65

  Close-matted, bur and brake and brier,

And glimpsing over these, just seen,

  High up, the topmost palace-spire.

                VII

When will the hundred summers die,

  And thought and time be born again,70

And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,

  Bring truth that sways the soul of men?

Here all things in their place remain,

  As all were order’d, ages since.

Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain,75

  And bring the fated fairy Prince.

      THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

                I

Year after year unto her feet,

  She lying on her couch alone,

Across the purpled coverlet,

  The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown,80

On either side her tranced form

  Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:

The slumbrous light is rich and warm,

  And moves not on the rounded curl.

                II

The silk star-broider’d coverlid85

  Unto her limbs itself doth mould

Languidly ever; and, amid

  Her full black ringlets downward roll’d,

Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm

  With bracelets of the diamond bright:90

Her constant beauty doth inform

  Stillness with love, and day with light.

               III

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard

  In palace chambers far apart.

The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d95

  That lie upon her charmed heart.

She sleeps: on either hand upswells

  The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:

She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells

  A perfect form in perfect rest.100

           THE ARRIVAL

                I

All precious things, discover’d late,

  To those that seek them issue forth;

For love in sequel works with fate,

  And draws the veil from hidden worth.

He travels far from other skies—105

  His mantle glitters on the rocks—

A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes,

  And lighter-footed than the fox.

                II

The bodies and the bones of those

  That strove in other days to pass,110

Are wither’d in the thorny close,

  Or scatter’d blanching on the grass.

He gazes on the silent dead:

  ‘They perish’d in their daring deeds.’

This proverb flashes thro’ his head,115

  ‘The many fail: the one succeeds.’

               III

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks:

  He breaks the hedge: he enters there:

The colour flies into his cheeks:

  He trusts to light on something fair;120

For all his life the charm did talk

  About his path, and hover near

With words of promise in his walk,

  And whisper’d voices at his ear.

                IV

More close and close his footsteps wind;125

  The Magic Music in his heart

Beats quick and quicker, till he find

  The quiet chamber far apart.

His spirit flutters like a lark,

  He stoops—to kiss her—on his knee.130

‘Love, if thy tresses be so dark,

  How dark those hidden eyes must be!’

          THE REVIVAL

                I

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt.

  There rose a noise of striking clocks,

And feet that ran, and doors that clapt,135

  And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;

A fuller light illumined all,

  A breeze thro’ all the garden swept,

A sudden hubbub shook the hall,

  And sixty feet the fountain leapt.140

               II

The hedge broke in, the banner blew,

  The butler drank, the steward scrawl’d,

The fire shot up, the martin flew,

  The parrot scream’d, the peacock squall’d,

The maid and page renew’d their strife,145

  The palace bang’d, and buzz’d and clackt,

And all the long-pent stream of life

  Dash’d downward in a cataract.

               III

And last with these the king awoke,

  And in his chair himself uprear’d,150

And yawn’d, and rubb’d his face, and spoke,

  ‘By holy rood, a royal beard!

How say you? we have slept, my lords.

  My beard has grown into my lap.’

The barons swore, with many words,155

  ’Twas but an after-dinner’s nap.

                IV

‘Pardy,’ return’d the king, ‘but still

  My joints are something stiff or so.

My lord, and shall we pass the bill

  I mention’d half an hour ago?’160

The chancellor, sedate and vain,

  In courteous words return’d reply:

But dallied with his golden chain,

  And, smiling, put the question by.

         THE DEPARTURE

                I

And on her lover’s arm she leant,165

  And round her waist she felt it fold,

And far across the hills they went

  In that new world which is the old:

Across the hills, and far away

  Beyond their utmost purple rim,170

And deep into the dying day

  The happy princess follow’d him.

                II

‘I’d sleep another hundred years,

  O love, for such another kiss;’

‘O wake for ever, love,’ she hears,175

  ‘O love, ’twas such as this and this.’

And o’er them many a sliding star,

  And many a merry wind was borne,

And, stream’d thro’ many a golden bar,

  The twilight melted into morn.180

               III

‘O eyes long laid in happy sleep!’

  ‘O happy sleep, that lightly fled!’

‘O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!’

  ‘O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!’

And o’er them many a flowing range185

  Of vapour buoy’d the crescent-bark,

And, rapt thro’ many a rosy change,

  The twilight died into the dark.

                IV

‘A hundred summers! can it be?

  And whither goest thou, tell me where?’190

‘O seek my father’s court with me,

  For there are greater wonders there.’

And o’er the hills, and far away

  Beyond their utmost purple rim,

Beyond the night, across the day,195

  Thro’ all the world she follow’d him.

              MORAL

                I

So, Lady Flora, take my lay,

  And if you find no moral there,

Go, look in any glass and say,

  What moral is in being fair.200

Oh, to what uses shall we put

  The wildweed-flower that simply blows?

And is there any moral shut

  Within the bosom of the rose?

                II

But any man that walks the mead,205

  In bud or blade, or bloom, may find,

According as his humours lead,

  A meaning suited to his mind.

And liberal applications lie

  In Art like Nature, dearest friend;210

So ’twere to cramp its use, if I

  Should hook it to some useful end.

             L’ENVOI

                I

You shake your head. A random string

  Your finer female sense offends.

Well—were it not a pleasant thing215

  To fall asleep with all one’s friends;

To pass with all our social ties

  To silence from the paths of men;

And every hundred years to rise

  And learn the world, and sleep again;220

To sleep thro’ terms of mighty wars,

  And wake on science grown to more,

On secrets of the brain, the stars,

  As wild as aught of fairy lore;

And all that else the years will show,225

  The Poet-forms of stronger hours,

The vast Republics that may grow,

  The Federations and the Powers;

Titanic forces taking birth

  In divers seasons, divers climes;230

For we are Ancients of the earth,

  And in the morning of the times.

                II

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep

  Thro’ sunny decads new and strange,

Of gay quinquenniads^[1] would we reap235

  The flower and quintessence of change.

               III

Ah, yet would I—and would I might!

  So much your eyes my fancy take—

Be still the first to leap to light

  That I might kiss those eyes awake!240

For, am I right or am I wrong,

  To choose your own you did not care;

You’d have my moral from the song,

  And I will take my pleasure there:

And, am I right or am I wrong,245

  My fancy, ranging thro’ and thro’,

To search a meaning for the song,

  Perforce will still revert to you;

Nor finds a closer truth than this

  All-graceful head, so richly curl’d,250

And evermore a costly kiss

  The prelude to some brighter world.

                IV

For since the time when Adam first

  Embraced his Eve in happy hour,

And every bird of Eden burst255

  In carol, every bud to flower,

What eyes, like thine, have waken’d hopes?

  What lips, like thine, so sweetly join’d?

Where on the double rosebud droops

  The fullness of the pensive mind;260

Which all too dearly self-involved,

  Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me;

A sleep by kisses undissolved,

  That lets thee neither hear nor see:

But break it. In the name of wife,265

  And in the rights that name may give,

Are clasp’d the moral of thy life,

  And that for which I care to live.

                EPILOGUE

So, Lady Flora, take my lay,

  And, if you find a meaning there,270

O whisper to your glass, and say,

  ‘What wonder, if he thinks me fair?’

What wonder I was all unwise,

  To shape the song for your delight

Like long-tail’d birds of Paradise,275

  That float thro’ Heaven, and cannot light?

Or old-world trains, upheld at court

  By Cupid-boys of blooming hue—

But take it—earnest wed with sport,

  And either sacred unto you.280

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d

Among the mountains by the winter sea;

Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,

Had fall’n in Lyonnesse about their Lord,

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,5

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,

A broken chancel with a broken cross,

That stood on a dark strait of barren land.10

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one

Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

‘The sequel of to-day unsolders all

The goodliest fellowship of famous knights15

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep

They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we

Shall never more, at any future time,

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,

Walking about the gardens and the halls20

Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

I perish by this people which I made,—

Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again

To rule once more—but let what will be, be,

I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm25

That without help I cannot last till morn.

Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,

Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,30

Clothed in white samite^[1], mystic, wonderful,

Holding the sword—and how I row’d across

And took it, and have worn it, like a king:

And wheresoever I am sung or told

In aftertime, this also shall be known:35

But now delay not: take Excalibur,

And fling him far into the middle mere:

Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.’

  To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:

‘It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,40

Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm.

A little thing may harm a wounded man.

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,

Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.’

  So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept45

And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down

By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,50

Came on the shining levels of the lake.

  There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,

And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth

And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:55

For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work

Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long

That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,

This way and that dividing the swift mind,60

In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d

Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d

There in the many-knotted waterflags,

That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

So strode he back slow to the wounded King.65

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

‘Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?

What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

‘I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,70

And the wild water lapping on the crag.’

  To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:

‘Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name,

Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d

Thy fëalty, nor like a noble knight:75

For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,

Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.

This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again

As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing80

I had thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.’

  Then went Sir Bedivere the second time

Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought;

But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,85

How curiously and strangely chased, he smote

His palms together, and he cried aloud,

  ‘And if indeed I cast the brand away,

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,90

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand95

An act unprofitable, against himself?

The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

What record, or what relic of my lord

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,100

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

Some one might show it at a joust of arms,

Saying, “King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps105

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.”

So might some old man speak in the aftertime

To all the people, winning reverence.

But now much honour and much fame were lost.’

  So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,110

And hid Excalibur the second time,

And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:

‘What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:115

‘I heard the water lapping on the crag,

And the long ripple washing in the reeds.’

  To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:

‘Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,

Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!120

Authority forgets a dying king,

Laid widow’d of the power in his eye

That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,

For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,

In whom should meet the offices of all,125

Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:130

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,

I will arise and slay thee with my hands.’

  Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,

And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged

Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,135

And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand

Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,

And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,

Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,

Seen where the moving isles of winter shock140

By night, with noises of the northern sea.

So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him145

Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

And lightly went the other to the King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:

‘Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.

Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?’150

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

‘Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems

Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,

Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,

Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,155

So great a miracle as yonder hilt.

Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;

But when I look’d again, behold an arm,

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him160

Three times, and drew him under in the mere.’

  And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

‘My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone.

Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,

And bear me to the margin; yet I fear165

My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.’

  So saying, from the pavement he half rose,

Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,

And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes

As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere170

Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,

And would have spoken, but he found not words,

Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,

O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,

And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.175

  But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,

Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed

When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,

Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘Quick, quick!

I fear it is too late, and I shall die.’180

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d,

Larger than human on the frozen hills.

He heard the deep behind him, and a cry

Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.185

Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves

And barren chasms, and all to left and right

The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based

His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang

Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—190

And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,

And the long glories of the winter moon.

  Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

Beneath them; and descending they were ware195

That all the decks were dense with stately forms

Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these

Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose

A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,

And, as it were one voice, an agony200

Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills

All night in a waste land, where no one comes,

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

  Then murmur’d Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge,’

And to the barge they came. There those three Queens205

Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

But she, that rose the tallest of them all

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,

And call’d him by his name, complaining loud,210

And dropping bitter tears against his brow

Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white

And colourless, and like the wither’d moon

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

And all his greaves^[2] and cuisses^[3] dash’d with drops215

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—

That made his forehead like a rising sun

High from the dais-throne—were parch’d with dust;

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.220

So like a shatter’d column lay the King;

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

From spur to plume a star of tournament,

Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.225

  Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,

‘Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?

Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?

For now I see the true old times are dead,

When every morning brought a noble chance,230

And every chance brought out a noble knight.

Such times have been not since the light that led

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved

Which was an image of the mighty world;235

And I, the last, go forth companionless,

And the days darken round me, and the years,

Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’

  And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new,240

And God fulfils Himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

May He within Himself make pure! but thou,245

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats250

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.255

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,260

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns

And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’

  So said he, and the barge with oar and sail265

Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

With, swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull270

Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away.

                   Alfred Tennyson, 1809-92.

(From The Saga of King Olaf).

            XVII

KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD

Loudly the sailors cheered

Svend of the Forkèd Beard,

As with his fleet he steered

  Southward to Vendland;

Where with their courses hauled5

All were together called,

Under the Isle of Svald

  Near to the mainland.

After Queen Gunhild’s death,

So the old Saga saith,10

Plighted King Svend his faith

  To Sigrid the Haughty;

And to avenge his bride,

Soothing her wounded pride,

Over the waters wide15

  King Olaf sought he.

Still on her scornful face,

Blushing with deep disgrace,

Bore she the crimson trace

  Of Olaf’s gauntlet;20

Like a malignant star,

Blazing in heaven afar,

Red shone the angry scar

  Under her frontlet.

Oft to King Svend she spake,25

‘For thine own honour’s sake

Shalt thou swift vengeance take

  On the vile coward!’

Until the King at last,

Gusty and overcast,30

Like a tempestuous blast

  Threatened and lowered.

Soon as the Spring appeared,

Svend of the Forkèd Beard

High his red standard reared,35

  Eager for battle;

While every warlike Dane,

Seizing his arms again,

Left all unsown the grain,

  Unhoused the cattle.40

Likewise the Swedish King

Summoned in haste a Thing,

Weapons and men to bring

  In aid of Denmark;

Eric the Norseman, too,45

As the war-tidings flew,

Sailed with a chosen crew

  From Lapland and Finmark.

So upon Easter day

Sailed the three kings away,50

Out of the sheltered bay,

  In the bright season;

With them Earl Sigvald came,

Eager for spoil and fame;

Pity that such a name55

  Stooped to such treason!

Safe under Svald at last,

Now were their anchors cast,

Safe from the sea and blast,

  Plotted the three kings;60

While, with a base intent,

Southward Earl Sigvald went,

On a foul errand bent,

  Unto the Sea-kings.

Thence to hold on his course,65

Unto King Olaf’s force,

Lying within the hoarse

  Mouths of Stet-haven;

Him to ensnare and bring

Unto the Danish king,70

Who his dead corse would fling

  Forth to the raven!

            XVIII

KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD

On the gray sea-sands

King Olaf stands,

Northward and seaward75

He points with his hands.

With eddy and whirl

The sea-tides curl,

Washing the sandals

Of Sigvald the Earl.80

The mariners shout,

The ships swing about,

The yards are all hoisted,

The sails flutter out.

The war-horns are played,85

The anchors are weighed,

Like moths in the distance

The sails flit and fade.

The sea is like lead,

The harbour lies dead,90

As a corse on the sea-shore,

Whose spirit has fled!

On that fatal day,

The histories say,

Seventy vessels95

Sailed out of the bay.

But soon scattered wide

O’er the billows they ride,

While Sigvald and Olaf

Sail side by side.100

Cried the Earl: ‘Follow me!

I your pilot will be,

For I know all the channels

Where flows the deep sea!’

So into the strait105

Where his foes lie in wait,

Gallant King Olaf

Sails to his fate!

Then the sea-fog veils

The ships and their sails;110

Queen Sigrid the Haughty,

Thy vengeance prevails!

               XIX

      KING OLAF’S WAR-HORNS

‘Strike the sails!’ King Olaf said;

‘Never shall men of mine take flight;

Never away from battle I fled,115

Never away from my foes!

    Let God dispose

Of my life in the fight!’

‘Sound the horns!’ said Olaf the King;

And suddenly through the drifting brume120

The blare of the horns began to ring,

Like the terrible trumpet shock

    Of Regnarock,

On the Day of Doom!

Louder and louder the war-horns sang125

Over the level floor of the flood;

All the sails came down with a clang,

And there in the mist overhead

    The sun hung red

As a drop of blood.130

Drifting down on the Danish fleet

Three together the ships were lashed,

So that neither should turn and retreat;

In the midst, but in front of the rest

    The burnished crest135

Of the Serpent flashed.

King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck,

With bow of ash and arrows of oak,

His gilded shield was without a fleck,

His helmet inlaid with gold,140

    And in many a fold

Hung his crimson cloak.

On the forecastle Ulf the Red

Watched the lashing of the ships;

‘If the Serpent lie so far ahead,145

We shall have hard work of it here,’

    Said he with a sneer

On his bearded lips.

King Olaf laid an arrow on string,

‘Have I a coward on board?’ said he.150

‘Shoot it another way, O King!’

Sullenly answered Ulf,

    The old sea-wolf;

‘You have need of me!’

In front came Svend, the King of the Danes,155

Sweeping down with his fifty rowers;

To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes;

And on board of the Iron Beard

    Earl Eric steered

To the left with his oars.160

‘These soft Danes and Swedes’, said the King,

‘At home with their wives had better stay,

Than come within reach of my Serpent’s sting:

But where Eric the Norseman leads

    Heroic deeds165

Will be done to-day!’

Then as together the vessels crashed,

Eric severed the cables of hide,

With which King Olaf’s ships were lashed,

And left them to drive and drift170

    With the currents swift

Of the outward tide.

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl

Sharper the dragons bite and sting!

Eric the son of Hakon Jarl175

A death-drink salt as the sea

    Pledges to thee,

Olaf the King!

            XX

    EINAR TAMBERSKELVER

It was Einar Tamberskelver

  Stood beside the mast;180

From his yew-bow, tipped with silver,

  Flew the arrows fast;

Aimed at Eric unavailing,

  As he sat concealed,

Half behind the quarter-railing,185

  Half behind his shield.

First an arrow struck the tiller,

  Just above his head;

‘Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,’

  Then Earl Eric said.190

‘Sing the song of Hakon dying,

  Sing his funeral wail!’

And another arrow flying

  Grazed his coat of mail.

Turning to a Lapland yeoman,195

  As the arrow passed,

Said Earl Eric, ‘Shoot that bowman

  Standing by the mast.’

Sooner than the word was spoken

  Flew the yeoman’s shaft;200

Einar’s bow in twain was broken,

  Einar only laughed.

‘What was that?’ said Olaf, standing

  On the quarter-deck.

‘Something heard I like the stranding205

  Of a shattered wreck.’

Einar then, the arrow taking

  From the loosened string,

Answered, ‘That was Norway breaking

  From thy hand, O King!’210

‘Thou art but a poor diviner,’

  Straightway Olaf said;

‘Take my bow, and swifter, Einar,

  Let thy shafts be sped.’

Of his bows the fairest choosing,215

  Reached he from above;

Einar saw the blood-drops oozing

  Through his iron glove.

But the bow was thin and narrow;

  At the first assay,220

O’er its head he drew the arrow,

  Flung the bow away;

Said, with hot and angry temper

  Flushing in his cheek,

‘Olaf! for so great a Kämper225

  Are thy bows too weak!’

Then, with smile of joy defiant

  On his beardless lip,

Scaled he, light and self-reliant,

  Eric’s dragon-ship.230

Loose his golden locks were flowing,

  Bright his armour gleamed;

Like Saint Michael overthrowing

  Lucifer he seemed.

            XXI

  KING OLAF’S DEATH-DRINK

All day has the battle raged,235

All day have the ships engaged,

But not yet is assuaged

  The vengeance of Eric the Earl.

The decks with blood are red,

The arrows of death are sped,240

The ships are filled with the dead,

  And the spears the champions hurl.

They drift as wrecks on the tide,

The grappling irons are plied,

The boarders climb up the side,245

  The shouts are feeble and few.

Ah! never shall Norway again

See her sailors come back o’er the main;

They all lie wounded or slain,

  Or asleep in the billows blue!250

On the deck stands Olaf the King,

Around him whistle and sing

The spears that the foemen fling,

  And the stones they hurl with their hands.

In the midst of the stones and the spears,255

Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears,

His shield in the air he uprears,

  By the side of King Olaf he stands.

Over the slippery wreck

Of the Long Serpent’s deck260

Sweeps Eric with hardly a check,

  His lips with anger are pale;

He hews with his axe at the mast,

Till it falls, with the sails overcast,

Like a snow-covered pine in the vast265

  Dim forests of Orkadale.

Seeking King Olaf then,

He rushes aft with his men,

As a hunter into the den

  Of the bear, when he stands at bay.270

‘Remember Jarl Hakon!’ he cries;

When lo! on his wondering eyes,

Two kingly figures arise,

  Two Olafs in warlike array!

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear275

Of King Olaf a word of cheer,

In a whisper that none may hear,

  With a smile on his tremulous lip;

Two shields raised high in the air,

Two flashes of golden hair,280

Two scarlet meteors’ glare,

  And both have leaped from the ship.

Earl Eric’s men in the boats

Seize Kolbiorn’s shield as it floats,

And cry, from their hairy throats,285

  ‘See! it is Olaf the King!’

While far on the opposite side

Floats another shield on the tide,

Like a jewel set in the wide

  Sea-current’s eddying ring.290

There is told a wonderful tale,

How the King stripped off his mail,

Like leaves of the brown sea-kale,

  As he swam beneath the main;

But the young grew old and gray,295

And never, by night or by day,

In his kingdom of Norroway

  Was King Olaf seen, again!

        Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-82.

Introductory Note.

  Full peace was Erin’s under Conary,

Till—though his brethren by the tender tie

Of fosterage—Don Dessa’s lawless sons,

Fer-ger, Fer-gel, and vengeful Fergobar,

For crimes that justly had demanded death,5

By judgement mild he sent in banishment;

Yet wrung his own fraternal heart the while,

Whose brothers, Ferragon and Lomna Druth,

Drawn by affection’s ties, and thinking scorn

To stay behind while others led the way10

To brave adventure, in their exile joined.

  Banished the land of Erin, on the sea

They roamed, and, roaming, with the pirate-hordes

Of British Ingcel leagued; and this their pact:

The spoil of Britain’s and of Alba’s coasts15

To fall to them; and Erin’s counter-spoil

To fall to Ingcel. Britain’s borders first

They ravaged; and in one pernicious raid

Of sack and slaughter indiscriminate,

Ingcel’s own father and his brethren seven20

By chance sojourning with the victims, slew.

Then, Alba sack’d, said Ingcel, ‘Steer we now

For Erin, and the promised counter-spoil.’

  ‘ ’Tis just; and welcome to our souls as well

For outrage unavenged,’ said Fergobar.25

‘ ’Tis just: it is thy right,’ said Ferragon.

‘ ’Tis just, and woe it is!’ said Lomna Druth.

  ’Twas then that Conary from strife composed

By kingly counsel, ’twixt contending lords

Of distant Thomond, held his journey home.30

But, when in sight of Tara, lo, the sky

On every side reflected rising flame

And gleam of arms. ‘What this?’ cried Conary.

  A certain Druid was there in the train

Who answered, ‘Often did I warn thee, King,35

This journey at this season was ill-timed,

As made in violation of the gaysh^[1]

That King of Tara shall not judge a cause

Except in Tara’s proper judgement hall

From Beltane-day to May-day.’

                         ‘Yea, in truth,40

I do remember now,’ said Conary,

‘Amongst my prohibitions that is one,

Which thoughtlessly I’ve broken. Strange it is

That act for speedy justice and for peace

Accomplished, should, with God, be disesteem’d.45

But, since Religion’s awful voice forbids,

I pray forgiveness of offended Heaven,

Whose anger at my fault too plain I see,

And vow atonement at thy own award.

But, which way now?’

                 ‘Ride northward to the track50

Where Street Midluachra and Street Cualann join;

There, choice of highway waits us, north or south.’

Northward they rode. ‘What be these moving brakes

Before us? Nay, ’tis but a running drove

Of antlered stags. Whence come they? and whence come55

These darkening flights of fowl above our heads?’

  ‘These the wild brood of Clane-Milcarna’s dens:’

Replied the druid. ‘It is another gaysh

For Tara’s King to see them leave their lairs

After mid-day; and ill will come of it.’60

  ‘Omens of evil gather round my path,

Though thought of evil in my breast is none,’

Said Conary, and heaved a heavy sigh;

‘Yet, since I reign by law, and holy men

Charged with the keeping of the law, declare65

Thou shalt not so-and-so, at such a time

Do or leave undone, it beseems not me

To question for what end the law is so:

Though, were it but a human ordinance,

’Twere, haply, counted childish: but, go to,70

I own another violated gaysh;

I pray forgiveness of offended Heaven;

And, since some fierce invading enemy—

Misguided brothers, that it be not you!—

Bars our approach to Tara, let us choose75

Cualann highroad; for Cualann-ward there dwells

One whom I once befriended; and I know

His home will give me shelter for to-night,

Knew I aright the way that leads to it.’

  ‘Name of the man, oh King?’ demanded Cecht80

(Fly ye, foes all, fly ye before the face

Of Cecht, the battle-sidesman of the King!),

The biggest man yet gentlest-countenanced

Of all that rode in Conary’s company.

‘Da-Derga he,’ said Conary.

                      ‘Ride on,’85

Said Cecht. ‘Street Cualann whereon now we are

Leads straight to Bru’n-Da-Derga, and leads straight

Through and beyond it. ’Tis a house of rest

For all that come and go; where ready still

The traveller finds the wind-dried fuel stack’d,90

The cauldron slung, the ale-vat on the floor.

A strong, fast mansion. Seven good doors it has,

And seven good benches betwixt door and door

And seven good couches spread ’twixt bench and bench.

All that attend thee now, and all that come—95

See where they come along Midluachra track,

The host of Emain, in good time I judge,

Journeying south—shall nothing want for room.

I shall go forward: for my duty it is

To enter first at nightfall, when my king100

Comes to his lodging; and with flint and steel

Kindle the fire whose flame shall guide him home.’

Then forth, at gallop of his steeds, went Cecht;

While, slower following, Conary was aware

Of three that rode before them on the way.105

Red were their coursers and their mantles red,

Red, too, their caps, blood-red—

                          ‘Another gaysh,’

Said Conary. ‘I also call to mind

Amid my prohibitions this is one,

To follow three red riders on the way;110

Injunction idle, were it not divine.

After them, Ferflath; stay them till we pass.’

Then the light lad young Ferflath, Conary’s son,

Sprang forth at gallop on the red men’s track,

And called his message shrilly from behind,115

But failed to overtake them. He who rode

Last of the triad sang him back a lay—

  ‘Water, oh youth, oh slight swift-riding youth,

On back, on neck, on shoulder lightly borne,

Water will quench: fire burn; and shocks of hair120

At horrid tidings, upon warriors’ heads

Bristle as reeds in water; water; ho!’

  Ferflath returned, and told to Conary

The lay the red man sang; ‘and sir,’ he said,

‘I rode, I think, as seemly as himself,125

And know not what he meant: but sure I am

These are not men of mankind, as we are,

But fairy men and ministers of ill.’

  ‘Now then,’ said Conary, ‘let every gaysh

That dread Religion with hard-knotting hand130

Binds on the King of Tara, for to-day

Be broken! Let them go. They may precede;

May tie their red steeds at the great hall door,

And choose their seats within; and I, the King,

May follow, and accept the traveller’s place135

Last to attain the inn. Well, be it so:

Respect departs with fortune’s one-day change,

But, friends, despond not, you. Though few we be

In midst of these marauders (oh, my heart

Forbid the rising thought that these be they!)140

Yet shall we soon be many; for they come,

They whom on Street Midluachra late we saw,

Now following on Street Cualann. In good time

They join us; for, be sure such chariot-throng

Leaves not the borders of the warlike North,145

But champions good come with it. Let us in.’

  While thus fared Conary, the pirates’ scouts

Who watched the coast, put off to where the fleet,

Stay’d on the heaving ridges of the main,

Lay off Ben-Edar. Ingcel’s galley reached,150

High on the prow they found him looking forth,

As from a crag o’er-hanging grassy lands

Where home-bred cattle graze, the lion glares

A-hungered; and, behind, as meaner beasts

That wait the lion’s onset for their share,155

Outlaw’d and reprobate of many a land,

The ravening crew. Beside him, right and left,

Stood Lomna, Ferragon, and Fergobar;

Which Lomna in the closure of his cloak

Wore a gold brooch embossed with flashing gems160

Choicest by far of all their spoils yet won:

And Ingcel thus demanded of the spies—

  ‘What saw ye, say?’

               ‘A chariot-cavalcade

Along Street Cualann moving from the north.

Splendid the show of lofty-pacing steeds165

And glittering war-cars: chariots seventeen

We counted. In the first were reverend men,

Poets, belike, or judges. After these

Heralds, it seem’d, or high apparitors

That give the world to know a great one comes.170

He in the third car rode; an aged man,

Full-grey, majestical, of face serene,

Followed by household numerous and strong,

Cooks, butlers, door-wards, cup-bearers, and grooms.’

  ‘What heard ye?’

             ‘From a vast hall’s open doors175

The stroke of steel on flint at kindling fire;

And every stroke so sounded as the arm

That gave it were a giant’s, and every shower

Of sparks it shed—as if a summer sky

Lightened at eve—illumined the dusk around.’180

  ‘What this, good Ferragon, who best of all

Knowest Erin, hill and valley, things and men?’

Said Ingcel. Ferragon made answer slow,

(For, first, his soul said this within himself,

‘Oh, royal brother, that it be not thou!’)—185

  ‘I know not what may be this open hall

With fire at hand unless, belike, it be

Da-Derga’s guest-house, which, for all who come

By Cualann Street, stands open, wherein still

Firewood stands stack’d and brazen cauldron hangs190

Slung ready, and clear water running through;

Bruidin-Da-Derga.’

             ‘And the man who strikes

The flint and steel to kindle fire therein?’

  ‘I know not if it be not that he be

Some king’s fore-runner, sent before a king195

To kindle fire ere yet the king himself

And royal household reach their resting-place.’

  ‘And he who in the thirdmost chariot rode,

He who is grey, serene, majestical?’

  ‘I know not if it be not that he be200

Some king of Erin’s sub-kings who, to-night,

Rests in Da-Derga’s hospitable hall.’

  ‘Up sail! To shore!’ cried Ingcel; and the fleet,

As flight of wild-geese startled from a fen,

Displayed their wings of white, and made the land.205

  ’Twas at Troy Furveen, and the sun was down;

But, from Da-Derga’s hall so streamed the light,

It shone at distance as a ruddy star;

And thitherward the host o’er moor and fell

Marched straight: but when behind a sheltering knoll210

Hard by, but still concealed, the ranks were drawn,

‘Make now our carn,’ said Ingcel, and the host

Defiling past him, cast, each man, his stone

All in one heap.

            ‘When this night’s work is done,’

Said Ingcel, ‘he who shall return alive215

Shall take his stone again. Who not returns,

His stone shall here remain his monument.

And now, before we make the trial of who

Returns, and who stays yonder, let us send

Scout Milscoth—for he bears the boast of sight220

And far-off hearing far above us all—

To spy the house and bring us speedy word

Of all he sees and hears, outside and in:

So shall we judge how best to win the same.’

  Forth went the spy: they waited by their carn,225

Till, gliding as a shadow, he returned:

And round him, as he came, they drew a ring,

Round him and Ingcel and Don Dessa’s sons,

And round their destined stones of memory.

  ‘What sawest thou outward?’

                          ‘Outward of the house230

I saw, drawn up at every guarded door,

Full seventeen chariots; and, between the spokes,

Spying, I saw, to rings of iron tied,

At end and side wall, thrice a hundred steeds

Groom’d sleek, ear-active, eating corn and hay.’235

  ‘What means this concourse, think’st thou, Ferragon?’

  ‘I know not if it be not that a host

Resorting, it may be, to games or fair

At Tara or at Taltin, rest to-night

In the great guest-house. ’Twill be heavier cost240

Of blows and blood to win it than it seem’d.’

  ‘A guest-house, whether many within or few,

Is as the travellers’ temple, and esteemed

In every civil land a sanctuary.

’Twere woe to sack the inn,’ said Lomna Druth.245

  ‘Lomna,’ said Ingcel, ‘when we swore our oaths

We made not reservation of the inn:

And, for their numbers, fear not, Ferragon;

The more, the more the spoil. Say on, and tell

What heard’st thou?’

                ‘Through the open doors I heard250

A hum as of a crowd of feasting men.

Princely the murmur, as when voices strong

Of far-heard captains on the front of war

Sink low and sweet in company of queens.’

  ‘What think’st thou, Ferragon?’

                          ‘The gentlest speech255

Within doors gives the loudest cheer afield.

Methinks to spoil this house will try our strength.’

  ‘And it shall try it: and our strength shall bear

That and worse trial. Say, what sawest thou next

Within the house? Begin from the right hand.’260

  ‘To rightward of the great door in the midst

A bench I saw: ten warriors sat thereon.

The captain of the ten was thus. His brow

Thick and high arching o’er a grey clear eye:

A face long-oval, broader-boned above:265

A man whose look bespoke adventure past

And days of danger welcome yet to come,

Though sadden’d somewhat, haply by remorse

For blood ill-spilt or broken vows or both.

His mantle green, his brooch and sword-hilt gold,’270

  ‘What captain this, conceiv’st thou, Ferragon?’

  ‘I know him; verily a man of might;

A man of name renown’d in field and hall;

Cormac Condlongas, long the banish’d son

Of Conor son of Nessa. When his sire275

Through love of Deirdre broke his guarantees

Pledged to his step-sire, Fergus son of Roy,

For Usnach’s sons’ safe-conduct, Cormac, he,

Through love of Fergus and through stronger love

Of kingly-plighted honour undefiled,280

Abjured his father’s councils and his court,

And in the hostile halls of western Maeve

Spent many a year of heart-corroding care,

And many a man of Ulster, many a man

Of his own kin, in alien service, slew.285

If he be there, methinks to-night’s assault

Will leave the stones of some here unremoved.’

  Said Ingcel, ‘I shall know him, when I see

That pale remorseful visage by and by,

And that same brooch and sword-hilt shall be mine.290

What of the nine?’

             ‘The nine he sat among

Were men of steadfast looks, that at his word,

So seemed it me, would stay not to inquire

Whose kindred were they he might bid them slay.’

  ‘Knowest thou, oh friend, the serviceable nine?’295

  ‘I know them also,’ answered Ferragon.

‘Of them ’tis said they never slew a man

For evil deed, and never spared a man

For good deed; but, as ordered, duteous, slew

Or slew not. Shun that nine, unless your heads300

Be cased in casquets made of adamant;

Else shall the corpse of many a valiant man

Now present, on Da-Derga’s threshold lie.’

  ‘Nine for his nine!’ said Ingcel. ‘Think not thou

By tongue-drawn dangers and deterrent phrase305

Exaggerate, to shake my settled soul

From that which is my right. Say on: what next?’

  ‘A bench of three: thick-hair’d, and equal-long

The hair on poll and brow. Black cloaks they wore,

Black their sword-sheaths, their hafted lances black;310

Fair men, withal, themselves, and ruddy-brown.’

  ‘Who these, oh Ferragon?’

                      ‘I know not, I,

Unless, it may be, these be of the Picts

Exiled from Alba, who in Conor’s house

Have shelter; and, if these indeed be they,315

Three better out of Alba never came

Or sturdier to withstand the brunt of blows.’

  ‘Blows they shall have,’ said Ingcel; ‘and their home,

Rid of their presence well, shall not again

Have need to doom them to a new exile.320

What further sawest thou?’

                     ‘On the bench beside

I saw three slender, three face-shaven men,

Robed in red mantles and with caps of red.

No swords had they, nor bore they spear or shield,

But each man on his knees a bagpipe held325

With jewelled chanter flashing as he moved,

And mouth-piece ready to supply the wind.’

  ‘What pipers these?’

                 ‘These pipers of a truth,

If so it be that I mistake them not,

Appear not often in men’s halls of glee;330

Men of the Sidhs^[2] they are; and I have heard

When strife fell out in Tara Luachra’s hall

Around Cuchullin and the butchering bands

Of treacherous Maeve and Ailill, they were there.’

  ‘To-night their pipes shall play us to our ships335

With strains of triumph; or their fingers’ ends

Shall never close the stops of music more,’

So Ingcel; but again said Ferragon,

  ‘Men of the Sidhs they are: to strike at them

Is striking at a shadow. If ’tis they,340

Shun this assault; for I have also heard

At the first tuning of these elvish pipes

Nor crow nor cormorant round all the coasts

But hastens to partake the flesh of men.’

  ‘Flesh ye shall have, of Ingcel’s enemies,345

All fowl that hither flap the wing to-night!

And music too at table, as it seems.

What further sawest thou?’

                     ‘On a broader bench

Three vast-proportioned warriors, by whose side

The slender pipers showed as small as wrens.350

In their first greyness they; grey-dark their robes,

Grey-dark their swords enormous, of an edge

To slice the hair on water. He who sits

The midmost of the three grasps with both hands

A spear of fifty rivets, and so sways355

And swings the weapon as a man might think

The very thing had life, and struggled strong

To dash itself at breasts of enemies:

A cauldron at his feet, big as the vat

Of a king’s kitchen; in that vat a pool,360

Hideous to look upon, of liquor black:

Therein he dips and cools the blade by times.’

  ‘Resolve us who be these three, Ferragon.’

  ‘Not hard to tell; though hard, perchance to hear

For those who listen, and who now must know365

What foes their fortunes dooms them cope withal,

If this assault be given while these be here.

These three are Sencha son of Olioll,

Called “Half-the-battle” by admiring men;

Duftach, for fierceness named the Addercop;370

And Govnan son of Luignech; and the spear

In hands of Duftach is the famous “lann^[3]”

Of Keltar son of Utechar, which erst

A wizard of the Tuath De Danaan brought

To battle at Moy Tury, and there lost:375

Found after. And these motions of the spear,

And sudden sallies hard to be restrained,

Affect it, oft as blood of enemies

Is ripe for spilling; and a cauldron then

Full of witch-brewage needs must be at hand,380

To quench it, when the homicidal act

Is by its blade expected; quench it not,

It blazes up, even in the holder’s hand,

And through the holder, and the door-planks through,

Flies forth to sate itself in massacre.385

Ours is the massacre it now would make:

Our blood it maddens for: sirs, have a care

How ye assault where champions such as these

Armed with the lann of Keltar, wait within.’

  ‘I have a certain blade,’ said Ingcel, ‘here;390

Steel’d by Smith Wayland in a Lochlann cave

Whose temper has not failed me; and I mean

To cut the foul head off this Addercop,

And snap his gadding spear across my knee.

Go on, and say what more thou sawest within.’395

  ‘A single warrior on a separate bench

I saw. Methinks no man was ever born

So stately-built, so perfect of his limbs,

So hero-like as he. Fair-haired he is

And yellow-bearded, with an eye of blue.400

He sits apart and wears a wistful look,

As if he missed some friend’s companionship.’

  Then Ferragon, not waiting question, cried,

‘Gods! all the foremost, all the valiantest

Of Erin’s champions, gathered in one place405

For our destruction, are assembled here!

That man is Conall Carnach; and the friend

He looks for vainly with a wistful eye

Is great Cuchullin: he no more shall share

The upper bench with Conall; since the tomb410

Holds him, by hand of Conall well avenged.

The foremost this, the mightiest champion this

Left of the Red Branch, since Cuchullin’s fall.

Look you, as thick as fragments are of ice

When one night’s frost is crackled underfoot,415

As thick as autumn leaves, as blades of grass,

Shall the lopp’d members and the cloven half-heads

Of them that hear me, be, by break of day,

Before Da-Derga’s doors, if this assault

Be given, while Conall Carnach waits within!’420

  ‘Pity to slay that man,’ said Lomna Druth.

‘That is the man who, matched at fords of Clane,

With maimed Mesgedra, though no third was near,

Tied up his own right hand, to fight him fair.

A man both mild and valiant, frank and wise,425

A friend of men of music and of song,

Loved of all women: were there only one

Such hero in the house, for that one’s sake

Forgo this slaughter!’

                 ‘Lomna,’ Ingcel said,

‘Not without reason do men call thee fool;430

And, Ferragon, think not that fear of man

The bravest ever born on Irish soil

Shall make its shameful entrance in the breast

Of one of all who hear us. Spy, say on,

What further sawest thou?’

                     ‘Three brave youths I saw;435

Three brothers, as I judge. Their mantles wide

Were all of Syrian silk; and needle-work

Of gold on every hem. With ivory combs

They smoothed the shining ridges of their hair

That spread and rippled to their shoulder-tips,440

And moved with every motion of their brows.

A slender, tender boy beside them slept,

His head in one attendant’s lap, his feet

In lap of other one; and, couched beside,

A hound I saw, and heard him “Ossar” called.’445

  ‘Whose be these Syrian silks shall soon be mine.

O Ferragon? and wherefore weep’st thou, say?’

  ‘Alas, too well I know them; and I weep

To think that where they are, he must be near,

Their father, Conary, himself, the king:450

And woe it is that he whose infant lips

Suck’d the same breast as ours, should now be there!’

  ‘What, Conary, the arch-king of the realm

Of Erin here? Say, sawest thou there a king?’

  ‘I know not if a king; but one I saw455

Seated apart: before his couch there hung

A silver broidered curtain; grey he was,

Of aspect mild, benevolent, composed.

A cloak he wore of colour like the haze

Of a May morning when the sun shines warm460

On dewy meads and fresh-ploughed tillage land,

Variously beautiful, with border broad

Of golden woof that glittered to his knee

A stream of light. Before him on the floor

A juggler played his feats: nine balls he had,465

And flung them upward, eight in air at once,

And one in hand: like swarm of summer bees

They danced and circled, till his eye met mine;

Then he could catch no more; but down they fell

And rolled upon the floor. “An evil eye470

Has seen me,” said the juggler; and the child

Who slept beside, awoke, and cried aloud,

“Ossar! good dog, hie forth and chase the thieves!”

Then judged I longer to remain were ill,

But, ere I left, discharged a rapid glance475

Around the house, beholding many a band

Of able guardsmen corsleted and helm’d,

Of captains, carriers, farriers, charioteers,

Horseboys and laqueys, all in order set,

All good men of their hands, and weapon’d well.’480

  Said Ferragon, ‘If my advice were given,

’Twould be to leave this onset unessayed.’

  ‘Pity to slay this king,’ said Lomna Druth:

‘Since he has reigned there has not fallen a year

Of dearth, or plague, or murrain on the land:485

The dew has never left the blade of grass

One day of Conary’s time, before the noon;

Nor harsh wind ruffled hair upon the side

Of grazing beast. Since he began his reign,

From mid-spring to mid-autumn, cloud nor storm490

Has dimm’d the daily-shining, bounteous sun;

But each good year has seen its harvests three,

Of blade, of ear, of fruit, apple and nut.

Peace until now in all his realm has reigned,

And terror of just laws kept men secure.495

What though, by love constrained, in passion’s hour,

I joined my fortunes to the desperate fates

Of hapless kinsmen, I repent it now,

And wish that rigorous law had had its course

Sooner than this good king should now be slain.’500

  ‘Not spoken like a brother,’ Ingcel said,

‘Nor one who feels for brothers by the side

Of a grey father butchered, as I feel.’

  ‘ ’Twas blind chance-medley, and we knew them not,

For kin of thine,’ said Ferragon; ‘but he,505

This king, is kin of ours; and that thou knowest

With seasonable warning: it were woe

To slay him.’

         ‘Woe it were, perchance, to thee;

To me, ’twere joy to slay both him and them;

’Twere blood for blood, and what my soul desires.510

My father was a king: my brethren seven

Were princely nurtured. Think’st thou I for them

Feel not compassion? nourish not desire

Of vengeance? No. I stand upon the oaths

Ye swore me; I demand my spoil for spoil,515

My blood for blood.’

                ‘ ’Tis just,’ said Fergobar,

‘We promised and will make the bargain good.’

  ‘Yet take the spoil we own to be thy right

Elsewhere,’ said Ferragon; ‘not here nor now.

We gave thee licence, and we grant it still,520

To take a plunder: look around and choose

What trading port, what dealers’ burgh ye will,

We give it, and will help you to the gain.’

  ‘We gave thee licence,’ Lomna said,—‘and I

Grieve that we gave it, yea, or took the like,—525

To take a plunder; but we gave thee not

Licence to take the life, the soul itself

Of our whole nation, as you now would do.

For, slay our reverend sages of the law,

Slay him who puts the law they teach in act;530

Slay our sweet poets, and our sacred bards,

Who keep the continuity of time

By fame perpetual of renowned deeds;

Slay our experienced captains who prepare

The youth for martial manhood, and the charge535

Of public freedom, as befits a state

Self-governed, self-sufficing, self-contained;

Slay all that minister our loftier life,

Now by this evil chance assembled here,

You leave us but the carcass of a state,540

A rabble ripe to rot, and yield the land

To foreign masters and perpetual shame.’

  Said Ingcel, ‘This night’s plunder is my own,

And paid for. I shall take it here and now.

I heed not Lomna’s airy rhetoric;545

But this I say, and mark it, Ferragon:

Let him who would turn craven, if he will,

Take up his stone and go: and take withal

Contempt of valiant men.’

                     Said Lomna Druth,

‘He is no craven, Ingcel; nor am I.550

His heart misgives him, not because he fears

To match himself in manly feat of arms

With any champion, but because he fears

To do an impious act, as I too fear.’

  ‘I own it true,’ said Ferragon, ‘my heart555

Is full of anguish and remorseful love

Towards him, my sovereign, who did never wrong,

Save in not meting justice to the full

Against these violators of his law,

Who now repay his clemency with death.’560

  ‘Call it not clemency,’ said Fergobar:

‘He drove us naked from ancestral homes

To herd with outlaws and with desperate men.’

  ‘Outlaws we are; and so far desperate,’

Said Ingcel, ‘that we mean to sack this house,565

And for the very reason that he says,

Because the richest jewels, both of men

And gold, the land affords, are gathered there.’

  Then Lomna from his mantle took the brooch,

And said, ‘Oh Ingcel, this and whatso else570

Of other plunder fallen to my share

Lies in the ships, I offer. Take it all,

But leave this house unsack’d.’

                          Said Ferragon,

  ‘Take also all my share; but spare the king.’

  But Ingcel roughly pushed the brooch away,575

And said, ‘Have done. The onset shall be given.’

  ‘The onset shall be given, unless the earth

Open and swallow us!’ said Fergobar.

  ‘The onset shall be given, unless the heavens

Fall solid on us!’ answered Ger and Gel.580

  ‘The onset shall be given!’ replied they all.

  Then Lomna,—laying his brooch upon the heap,—

‘Who first returns—but I shall not return—

To take his stone again, take also this;

And, for the rest of what my sword has gained,585

Share it among you. I forgive you all,

And bid you all farewell; for nothing now

Remains for me but death:’ and with the word

He struck his dagger in his heart, and fell.

  ‘Kings, lords, and men of war,’ said Ferragon,590

‘Comrades till now, the man whose body lies

Before us, though we used to call him fool

Because his heart was softer and his speech

More delicate than ours, I now esteem

Both wise and brave, and noble in his death.595

He spoke me truly, for he knew my heart

Unspoken, when he said ’twas not through fear

Of death I spoke dissuading; but through fear

Of conscience: but your hearts I better knew

Leaving unspoken what was in my own;600

For well indeed I knew how vain it were

To talk of pity, love, or tenderness

To bloody-minded and to desperate men.

Therefore I told you, and I told you true

What loss to reckon of your wretched lives,605

Entering this dragons’ den; but did not tell

The horror and the anguish sharp as death

In my own bosom entering as I knew

The pictured presence of each faithful friend,

And of that sire revered, ye now consign610

To massacre and bloody butchery.

And that ’twas love that swayed me, and not fear,

Take this for proof:’ and drew and slew himself.

  ‘Comrades and valiant partners,’ Ingcel cried,

‘Stand not to pause to wonder or lament615

These scrupulous companions; rest them well!

But set your spirits to achieve the end

That brought us hither. Now that they are gone

And nothing hinders, are we all agreed

To give this onset bravely and at once?’620

  ‘I speak for all,’ said Fergobar. ‘Agreed!

Ready we are and willing, and I myself,

Having my proper vows of vengeance,

Will lead you, and be foremost of you all.’

  They raised the shout of onset: from his seat625

Leaped Cecht, leaped Cormac, Conall Carnach leaped,

And Duftach from the cauldron drew his spear;

But Conary with countenance serene

Sat on unmoved. ‘We are enough,’ he said,

‘To hold the house, though thrice our number came;630

And little think they, whosoe’er they are,

(Grant, gracious ones of Heaven, it be not they!)

That such a welcome waits them at the hands

Of Erin’s choicest champions. Door-keepers,

Stand to your posts, and strike who enters down!’635

  The shout came louder, and at every door

At once all round the house, the shock began

Of charging hosts and battery of blows;

And through the door that fronted Conary’s seat

A man burst headlong, reeling, full of wounds,640

But dropped midway, smote by the club of Cecht.

‘What, thou? oh Fergobar!’ cried Conary;

‘Say, ere thou diest, that thou art alone—

That Ferragon and Lomna whom I love

Are not among you.’

                  ‘King,’ said Fergobar,645

‘I die without the vengeance that I vowed.

Thou never lovedst me: but the love thou gavest

My hapless brothers, well have they returned,

And both lie outside, slain by their own hands

Rather than join in this cause with me.’650

‘The gods between us judge,’ said Conary.

‘Cast not his body forth. I loved him once,

And burial he shall have, when, by and by,

These comrades of his desperate attempt

Are chased away.’

                But swiftly answered Cecht,655

‘King, they bring fire without: and, see, the stream

Runs dry before our feet, damm’d off above.’

  ‘Then, truly, lords,’ said Conary, ‘we may deign

To put our swords to much unworthy use.

Cormac Condlongas, take a troop with thee,660

And chase them from the house; and, strangers, ye

Who rode before me without licence asked;

I see ye be musicians; take your pipes

And sound a royal pibroch, one of you,

Before the chief.’

             ‘Yea, mighty king,’ said one,665

‘The strain I play ye shall remember long,’

And put the mouthpiece to his lips. At once—

It seemed as earth and sky were sound alone,

And every sound a maddening battle-call,

So spread desire of fight through breast and brain,670

And every arm to feat of combat strung.

Forth went the sallying hosts: the hosts within

Heard the enlarging tumult from their doors

Roll outward; and the clash and clamour heard

Of falling foes before; and, over it,675

The yelling pibroch; but, anon, the din

Grew distant and more distant; and they heard

Instead, at every door new onset loud,

And cry of ‘Fire! Bring fire!’

                         ‘Behoves us make

A champion-circuit of the house at large,’680

Said Conary. ‘Thou, Duftach, who, I see,

Can’st hardly keep the weapon in thy hand

From flying on these caitiffs of itself,

Lead thou, and take two cohorts of the guard,

And let another piper play you on.’685

  ‘I fear them, these red pipers,’ said the boy.

  ‘Peace, little Ferflath, thou art but a child,’

Said Duftach. ‘Come, companions (—patience, spear!—),

Blow up the pibroch; warriors, follow me!’

  And forth they went, and with them rushed amain690

Senchad and Govnan and the thick-hair’d three

Of Pictland with a shout; and all who heard

Deemed that the spear of Keltar shouted too

The loudest and the fiercest of them all.

So issued Duftach’s band: the hosts within695

Heard the commotion and the hurtling rout

Half round the house, and heard the mingling scream

Of pipes and death-cries far into the night;

But distant and more distant grew the din,

And Duftach came not back: but thronging back700

Came the assailants, and at every door

Joined simultaneous battle once again.

Then Conall Carnach, who, at door and door,

Swift as a shuttle from a weaver’s hand,

Divided help, cried,

                 ‘King, our friends are lost705

Unless another sally succour them!’

  ‘Take then thy troop,’ said Conary; ‘and thou,

Red-capp’d companion, see thou play a strain

So loud our comrades straying in the dark

May hear and join you.’

                    ‘Evil pipes are theirs.710

Trust not these pipers. I am but a child,’

Said Ferflath; ‘but I know they are not men

Of mankind, and will pipe you all to harm.’

  ‘Peace, little prince,’ said Conall. ‘Trust in me:

I shall but make one circuit of the house,715

And presently be with thee; come, my men,

Give me the Brierin Conaill, and my spear,

And sound Cuchullin’s onset for the breach.’

And issuing, as a jet of smoke and flame

Bursts from a fresh replenished furnace mouth,720

He and his cohort sallied: they within

Heard the concussion and the spreading shock

Through thick opposing legions overthrown,

As, under hatches, men on shipboard hear

The dashing and the tumbling waves without,725

Half round the house; no more: clamour and scream

Grew fainter in the distance; and the hosts

Gazed on each other with misgiving eyes,

And reckoned who were left: alack, but few!

  ‘Gods! can it be,’ said Conary, ‘that my chiefs730

Desert me in this peril!’

                     ‘King,’ said Cecht,

‘Escape who will, we here desert thee not.’

  ‘Oh, never will I think that Conall fled,’

Said Ferflath. ‘He is brave and kind and true,

And promised me he would return again.735

It is these wicked sprites of fairy-land

Who have beguiled the chiefs away from us.’

‘Alack,’ the druid cried; ‘he speaks the truth:

He has the seër’s insight which the gods

Vouchsafe to eyes of childhood. We are lost;740

And for thy fault, O Conary, the gods

Have given us over to the spirits who dwell

Beneath the earth.’

                 ‘Deserted I may be,

Not yet disheartened, nor debased in soul,’

Said Conary. ‘My sons are with me still,745

And thou, my faithful sidesman, and you all

Companions and partakers of my days

Of glory and of power munificent,

I pray the gods forgiveness if in aught,

Weighty or trifling, I have done amiss;750

But here I stand, and will defend my life,

Let come against me power of earth or hell,

All but the gods themselves the righteous ones,

Whom I revere.’

              ‘My king,’ said Cecht, ‘the knaves

Swarm thick as gnats at every door again.755

Behoves us make a circuit, for ourselves,

Around the house; for so our fortune stands

That we have left us nothing else to choose

But, out of doors, to beat them off, or burn

Within doors; for they fire the house anew.’760

  Then uprose kingly Conary himself

And put his helmet on his sacred head,

And took his good sharp weapon in his hand,

And braced himself for battle long disused.

Uprose his three good sons, and doff’d their cloaks765

Of Syrian purple, and assumed their arms

Courageously and princely, and uprose

Huge Cecht at left-hand of the king, and held

His buckler broad in front. From every side,

Thinn’d though they were, guardsman and charioteer,770

Steward and butler, cupbearer and groom,

Thronged into martial file, and forth they went

Right valiantly and royally. The band

They left behind them, drawing freer breath,—

As sheltering shepherds in a cave who hear775

The rattle and the crash of circling thunder,—

Heard the king’s onset and his hearty cheer,

The tumult, and the sounding strokes of Cecht,

Three times go round the house, and every time

Through overthrow of falling enemies,780

And all exulted in the kindling hope

Of victory and rescue, till again

The sallying host returned; all hot they were;

And Conary in the doorway entering last

Exclaimed, ‘A drink, a drink!’ and cast himself785

Panting upon his couch.

                   ‘Ye cupbearers,’

Cried Cecht, ‘be nimble: fetch the king a drink:

Well has he earned this thirst.’ The cupbearers

Ran hither, thither; every vat they tried,

And every vessel—timber, silver, gold,—790

But drink was nowhere found, nor wine nor ale

Nor water. ‘All has gone to quench the fire.

There is not left of liquor in the house

One drop; nor runs there water, since the stream

Was damm’d and turned aside by Ingcel’s men,795

Nearer than Tiprad-Casra; and the way

Thither is long and rugged, and the foe

Swarms thick between.’

                   ‘Who now among you here

Will issue forth, and fetch your king a drink?’

Said Cecht. One answered,

                      ‘Wherefore not thyself?’800

  ‘My place is here,’ said Cecht, ‘by my king’s side:

His sidesman I.’

              ‘Good papa Cecht, a drink,

A drink, or I am sped!’ cried Conary.

  ‘Nay then,’ said Cecht, ‘it never shall be said

My royal master craved a drink in vain,805

And water in a well, and life in me.

Swear ye to stand around him while ye live

And I with but the goblet in one hand,

And this good weapon in the other, will forth

And fetch him drink;—alone, or say, with whom?’810

  None answered but the little Ferflath; he

Cried, ‘Take me with thee, papa Cecht, take me!’

Then Cecht took up the boy and set him high

On his left shoulder with the golden cup

Of Conary in his hand; he raised his shield815

High up for the protection of the child,

And forth the great door, as a loosened rock

(Fly ye, foes all, fly ye before the face

Of Cecht, the battle-sidesman of the king!)

That from a hill-side shoots into a brake,820

Went through and through them with a hunter’s bound;

And with another, and another, reached

The outer rim of darkness, past their ken.

Then down he set the lad, and hand in hand,

They ran together till they reached the well825

And filled the cup.

                ‘My little son, stay here,’

Said Cecht, ‘and I will carry, if I may,

His drink to Conary.’

                   ‘Oh, papa Cecht,

Leave me not here,’ said Ferflath; ‘I shall run

Beside thee, and shall follow in the lane,830

Thou’lt make me through them.’

                    ‘Come then,’ answered Cecht,

‘Bear thou the cup, and see it spill not: come!’

But ere they ran a spear-throw, Ferflath cried,

‘Ah me, I’ve stumbled, and the water’s spilt.’

‘Alas,’ said Cecht, ‘re-fill, and let me bear.’835

  But ere they ran another spear-throw, Cecht

Cried, ‘Woe is me; this ground is all too rough

For hope that, running, we shall ever effect

Our errand; and the time is deadly short.’

  Again they filled the cup, and through the dawn840

Slow breaking, with impatient careful steps

Held back their course, Cecht in his troubled mind

Revolving how the child might bear his charge

Behind him, when his turn should come for use

Of both his hands to clear and keep that lane;845

When, in the faint light of the growing dawn,

Casting his eyes to seaward, lo, the fleet

Of Ingcel had set sail; and, gazing next

Up the dim slope before him, on the ridge

Between him and Da-Derga’s mansion, saw850

Rise into view a chariot-cavalcade

And Conall Carnach in the foremost car.

Behind him Cormac son of Conor came

And Duftach bearing now a drooping spear,

At head of all their sallying armament.855

Wild, pale, and shame-faced were the looks of all,

As men who doubted did they dream or wake,

Or were they honest to be judged, or base.

  ‘Cecht, we are late,’ said Conall, ‘we and thou.

He needs no more of drink who rides within.’860

  ‘Is the king here?’

               ‘ ’Tis here that was the king.

We found him smothered under heaps of slain

In middle floor.’

              ‘Thou, Ferflath, take the cup

And hold it to thy father’s lips,’ said Cecht.

  The child approached the cup; the dying king865

Felt the soft touch and smiled, and drew a sigh;

And, as they raised him in the chariot, died.

  ‘A gentle and a generous king is gone,’

Said Cecht, and wept. ‘I take to witness all

Here present, that I did not leave his side870

But by his own command. But how came ye,

Choice men and champions of the warlike North,

Tutors of old and samplars to our youth

In loyalty and duty, how came ye

To leave your lawful king alone to die?’875

  ‘Cecht,’ answered Conall, ‘and thou, Ferflath,

    know,—

For these be things concern both old and young—

We live not of ourselves. The heavenly Gods

Who give to every man his share of life

Here in this sphere of objects visible880

And things prehensible by hands of men,

Though good and just they are, are not themselves

The only unseen beings of the world.

Spirits there are around us in the air

And elvish creatures of the earth, now seen,885

Now vanishing from sight; and we of these

(But whether with, or whether without the will

Of the just Gods I know not) have to-night

By strong enchantments and prevailing spells,—

Though mean the agents and contemptible,—890

Been fooled and baffled in a darkling maze

And kept abroad despite our better selves,

From succour of our king. We were enough

To have brushed them off as flies; and while we made

Our sallies through them, bursting from the doors,895

We quelled them flat: but when these wicked sprites,—

For now I know, men of the Sidhs they were—

Who played their pipes before us, led us on

Into the outer margin of the night,

No man amongst us all could stay himself,900

Or keep from following; and they kept us there,

As men who walk asleep, in drowsy trance

Listening a sweet pernicious melody,

And following after in an idle round

Till all was finished, and the plunderers gone.905

Haply they hear me, and the words I speak

May bring their malice also upon me

As late it fell on Conary. Yet, now

The spell is off me, and I see the sun,

By all my nation’s swearing-Gods I swear910

I do defy them; and appeal to you

Beings of goodness perfect, and to Thee,

Great unknown Being who hast made them all,

Take Ye compassion on the race of men;

And for this slavery of gaysh and sidh915

Send down some emanation of Yourselves

To rule and comfort us! And I have heard

There come the tidings yet may make us glad

Of such a One new born, or soon to be.

Now, mount beside me, that with solemn rites920

We give the king, at Tara, burial.’

                Sir Samuel Ferguson, 1810-86.

The noble King of Brentford

  Was old and very sick,

He summon’d his physicians

  To wait upon him quick;

They stepp’d into their coaches5

  And brought their best physick.

They cramm’d their gracious master

  With potion and with pill;

They drench’d him and they bled him:

  They could not cure his ill.10

‘Go fetch,’ says he, ‘my lawyer,

  I’d better make my will.’

The monarch’s royal mandate

  The lawyer did obey;

The thought of six-and-eightpence15

  Did make his heart full gay.

‘What is’t,’ says he, ‘your Majesty

  Would wish of me to-day?’

‘The doctors have belabour’d me

  With potion and with pill:20

My hours of life are counted,

  O man of tape and quill!

Sit down and mend a pen or two;

  I want to make my will.

‘O’er all the land of Brentford25

  I’m lord, and eke of Kew:

I’ve three per cents and five per cents;

  My debts are but a few;

And to inherit after me

  I have but children two.30

‘Prince Thomas is my eldest son,

  A sober prince is he,

And from the day we breech’d him

  Till now he’s twenty-three,

He never caused disquiet35

  To his poor Mamma or me.

‘At school they never flogg’d him,

  At college, though not fast,

Yet his Little-go and Great-go

  He creditably pass’d,40

And made his year’s allowance

  For eighteen months to last.

‘He never owed a shilling,

  Went never drunk to bed,

He has not two ideas45

  Within his honest head—

In all respects he differs

  From my second son, Prince Ned.

‘When Tom has half his income

  Laid by at the year’s end,50

Poor Ned has ne’er a stiver

  That rightly he may spend,

But sponges on a tradesman,

  Or borrows from a friend.

‘While Tom his legal studies55

  Most soberly pursues,

Poor Ned must pass his mornings

  A-dawdling with the Muse:

While Tom frequents his banker,

  Young Ned frequents the Jews.60

‘Ned drives about in buggies^[1],

  Tom sometimes takes a ’bus;

Ah, cruel fate, why made you

  My children differ thus?

Why make of Tom a dullard,65

  And Ned a genius?’

‘You’ll cut him with a shilling,’

  Exclaimed the man of wits:

‘I’ll leave my wealth,’ said Brentford,

  ‘Sir lawyer, as befits;70

And portion both their fortunes

  Unto their several wits.’

‘Your Grace knows best,’ the lawyer said,

  ‘On your commands I wait.’

‘Be silent, Sir,’ says Brentford,75

  ‘A plague upon your prate!

Come, take your pen and paper,

  And write as I dictate.’

The will as Brentford spoke it

  Was writ and signed and closed;80

He bade the lawyer leave him,

  And turn’d him round and dozed;

And next week in the churchyard

  The good old King reposed.

Tom, dress’d in crape and hatband,85

  Of mourners was the chief;

In bitter self-upbraidings

  Poor Edward showed his grief:

Tom hid his fat white countenance

  In his pocket-handkerchief.90

Ned’s eyes were full of weeping,

  He falter’d in his walk;

Tom never shed a tear,

  But onwards he did stalk,

As pompous, black, and solemn95

  As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford—

  That gentle King and just—

With bell and book and candle

  Were duly laid in dust,100

‘Now, gentlemen,’ says Thomas,

  ‘Let business be discussed.

‘When late our sire belovèd

  Was taken deadly ill,

Sir Lawyer, you attended him105

  (I mean to tax your bill);

And, as you signed and wrote it,

  I prithee read the will.’

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,

  And drew the parchment out;110

And all the Brentford family

  Sat eager round about:

Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,

  But Tom had ne’er a doubt.

‘My son, as I make ready115

  To seek my last long home,

Some cares I had for Neddy,

  But none for thee, my Tom:

Sobriety and order

  You ne’er departed from.120

‘Ned hath a brilliant genius,

  And thou a plodding brain;

On thee I think with pleasure,

  On him with doubt and pain.’

(‘You see, good Ned,’ says Thomas,125

  ‘What he thought about us twain.’)

‘Though small was your allowance,

  You saved a little store;

And those who save a little

  Shall get a plenty more.’130

As the lawyer read this compliment,

  Tom’s eyes were running o’er.

‘The tortoise and the hare, Tom,

  Set out, at each his pace;

The hare it was the fleeter,135

  The tortoise won the race;

And since the world’s beginning

  This ever was the case.

‘Ned’s genius, blithe and singing,

  Steps gaily o’er the ground;140

As steadily you trudge it,

  He clears it with a bound;

But dullness has stout legs, Tom,

  And wind that’s wondrous sound.

‘O’er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,145

  You pass with plodding feet;

You heed not one nor t’other,

  But onwards go your beat,

While genius stops to loiter

  With all that he may meet;150

‘And ever as he wanders,

  Will have a pretext fine

For sleeping in the morning,

  Or loitering to dine,

Or dozing in the shade,155

  Or basking in the shine.

‘Your little steady eyes, Tom,

  Though not so bright as those

That restless round about him

  Your flashing genius throws,160

Are excellently suited

  To look before your nose.

‘Thank Heaven, then, for the blinkers

  It placed before your eyes;

The stupidest are steadiest,165

  The witty are not wise;

Oh, bless your good stupidity,

  It is your dearest prize!

‘And though my lands are wide,

  And plenty is my gold,170

Still better gifts from Nature,

  My Thomas, do you hold—

A brain that’s thick and heavy,

  A heart that’s dull and cold.

‘Too dull to feel depression,175

  Too hard to heed distress,

Too cold to yield to passion

  Or silly tenderness.

March on—your road is open

  To wealth, Tom, and success.180

‘Ned sinneth in extravagance,

  And you in greedy lust.’

(‘I’ faith,’ says Ned, ‘our father

  Is less polite than just.’)

‘In you, son Tom, I’ve confidence,185

  But Ned I cannot trust.

‘Wherefore my lease and copyholds,

  My lands and tenements,

My parks, my farms, and orchards,

  My houses and my rents,190

My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,

  My five and three per cents;

‘I leave to you, my Thomas’

  (‘What, all?’ poor Edward said;

‘Well, well, I should have spent them195

  And Tom’s a prudent head’)—

‘I leave to you, my Thomas,—

  To you IN TRUST for Ned.’

The wrath and consternation

  What poet e’er could trace200

That at this fatal passage

  Came o’er Prince Tom his face;

The wonder of the company,

  And honest Ned’s amaze!

‘ ’Tis surely some mistake,’205

  Good-naturedly cries Ned;

The lawyer answered gravely,

  ‘ ’Tis even as I said;

’Twas thus his gracious Majesty

  Ordain’d on his death-bed.210

‘See, here the will is witness’d,

  And here’s his autograph;’

‘In truth, our father’s writing,’

  Says Edward, with a laugh;

‘But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,215

  We’ll share it half and half.’

‘Alas! my kind young gentleman,

  This sharing cannot be;

’Tis written in the testament

  That Brentford spoke to me,220

“I do forbid Prince Ned to give

  Prince Tom a halfpenny.

‘ “He hath a store of money,

  But ne’er was known to lend it;

He never help’d his brother;225

  The poor he ne’er befriended;

He hath no need of property

  Who knows not how to spend it.

‘ “Poor Edward knows but how to spend,

  And thrifty Tom to hoard;230

Let Thomas be the steward then,

  And Edward be the lord;

And as the honest labourer

  Is worthy his reward,

‘ “I pray Prince Ned, my second son,235

  And my successor dear,

To pay to his intendant

  Five hundred pounds a year;

And to think of his old father,

  And live and make good cheer.” ’240

Such was old Brentford’s honest testament,

  He did devise his moneys for the best,

  And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.

Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;

  But his good sire was wrong, it is confess’d,245

To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.

  He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,

And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured

  O’er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;250

But of extravagance he ne’er was cured.

  And when both died, as mortal men will do,

’Twas commonly reported that the steward

  Was very much the richer of the two.

            William Makepeace Thackeray, 1811-63.

I

You’re my friend:

I was the man the Duke spoke to;

I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too;

So, here’s the tale from beginning to end,

My friend!5

II

Ours is a great wild country:

If you climb to our castle’s top,

I don’t see where your eye can stop;

For when you’ve passed the corn-field country,

Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed,10

And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract,

And cattle-tract to open-chase,

And open-chase to the very base

Of the mountain, where, at a funeral pace,

Round about, solemn and slow,15

One by one, row after row,

Up and up the pine-trees go,

So, like black priests up, and so

Down the other side again

To another greater, wilder country,20

That’s one vast red drear burnt-up plain,

Branched through and through with many a vein

Whence iron’s dug, and copper’s dealt;

Look right, look left, look straight before,—

Beneath they mine, above they smelt,25

Copper-ore and iron-ore,

And forge and furnace mould and melt,

And so on, more and ever more,

Till, at the last, for a bounding belt,

Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore,30

—And the whole is our Duke’s country!

III

I was born the day this present Duke was—

(And O, says the song, ere I was old!)

In the castle where the other Duke was—

(When I was happy and young, not old!)35

I in the Kennel, he in the Bower:

We are of like age to an hour.

My father was Huntsman in that day;

Who has not heard my father say

That, when a boar was brought to bay,40

Three times, four times out of five,

With his huntspear he’d contrive

To get the killing-place transfixed,

And pin him true, both eyes betwixt?

And that’s why the old Duke would rather45

He lost a salt-pit than my father,

And loved to have him ever in call;

That’s why my father stood in the hall

When the old Duke brought his infant out

To show the people, and while they passed50

The wondrous bantling round about,

Was first to start at the outside blast

As the Kaiser’s courier blew his horn,

Just a month after the babe was born.

‘And,’ quoth the Kaiser’s courier, ‘since55

The Duke has got an Heir, our Prince

Needs the Duke’s self at his side:’

The Duke looked down and seemed to wince,

But he thought of wars o’er the world wide,

Castles a-fire, men on their march,60

The toppling tower, the crashing arch;

And up he looked, and awhile he eyed

The row of crests and shields and banners,

Of all achievements after all manners,

And ‘ay,’ said the Duke with a surly pride.65

The more was his comfort when he died

At next year’s end, in a velvet suit,

With a gilt glove on his hand, and his foot

In a silken shoe for a leather boot,

Petticoated like a herald,70

In a chamber next to an ante-room,

Where he breathed the breath of page and groom,

What he called stink, and they, perfume:

—They should have set him on red Berold,

Mad with pride, like fire to manage!75

They should have got his cheek fresh tannage

Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine!

Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin^[1]!

(Hark, the wind’s on the heath at its game!

Oh for a noble falcon-lanner^[2]80

To flap each broad wing like a banner,

And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!)

Had they broached a cask of white beer from Berlin!

—Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine

Put to his lips when they saw him pine,85

A cup of our own Moldavia fine,

Cotnar, for instance, green as May sorrel,

And ropy with sweet,—we shall not quarrel.

IV

So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess

Was left with the infant in her clutches,90

She being the daughter of God knows who:

And now was the time to revisit her tribe,

So, abroad and afar they went, the two,

And let our people rail and gibe

At the empty Hall and extinguished fire,95

As loud as we liked, but ever in vain,

Till after long years we had our desire,

And back came the Duke and his mother again.

V

And he came back the pertest little ape

That ever affronted human shape;100

Full of his travel, struck at himself.

You’d say, he despised our bluff old ways?

—Not he! For in Paris they told the elf

That our rough North land was the Land of Lays,

The one good thing left in evil days;105

Since the Mid-Age was the heroic Time,

And only in wild nooks like ours

Could you taste of it yet as in its prime,

And see true castles, with proper towers,

Young-hearted women, old-minded men,110

And manners now as manners were then.

So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it,

This Duke would fain know he was, without being it;

’Twas not for the joy’s self, but the joy of his showing it,

Nor for the pride’s self, but the pride of our seeing it,115

He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out,

The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them

    torn-out:

And chief in the chase his neck he perilled,

On a lathy horse, all legs and length,

With blood for bone, all speed, no strength;120

—They should have set him on red Berold,

With the red eye slow consuming in fire,

And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire!

VI

Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard:

And out of a convent, at the word,125

Came the Lady, in time of spring.

—Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling!

That day, I know, with a dozen oaths

I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes

Fit for the chase of urox^[3] or buffle^[4]130

In winter-time when you need to muffle.

But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure,

And so we saw the Lady arrive:

My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger!

She was the smallest Lady alive,135

Made, in a piece of Nature’s madness,

Too small, almost, for the life and gladness

That over-filled her, as some hive

Out of the bears’ reach on the high trees

Is crowded with its safe merry bees:140

In truth, she was not hard to please!

Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead,

Straight at the castle, that’s best indeed

To look at from outside the walls:

As for us, styled the ‘serfs and thralls,’145

She as much thanked me as if she had said it,

(With her eyes, do you understand?)

Because I patted her horse while I led it;

And Max, who rode on her other hand,

Said, no bird flew past but she inquired150

What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired—

If that was an eagle she saw hover,

And the green and grey bird on the field was the plover.

When suddenly appeared the Duke:

And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed155

On to my hand,—as with a rebuke,

And as if his backbone were not jointed,

The Duke stepped rather aside than forward,

And welcomed her with his grandest smile;

And, mind you, his mother all the while160

Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor’ward;

And up, like a weary yawn, with its pullies

Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis;

And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies,

The Lady’s face stopped its play,165

As if her first hair had grown grey—

For such things must begin some one day!

VII

In a day or two she was well again;

As who should say, ‘You labour in vain!

This is all a jest against God, who meant170

I should ever be, as I am, content

And glad in His sight; therefore, glad I will be!’

So, smiling as at first went she.

VIII

She was active, stirring, all fire—

Could not rest, could not tire—175

To a stone she might have given life!

(I myself loved once, in my day)

—For a Shepherd’s, Miner’s, Huntsman’s wife,

(I had a wife, I know what I say)

Never in all the world such an one!180

And here was plenty to be done,

And she that could do it, great or small,

She was to do nothing at all.

There was already this man in his post,

This in his station, and that in his office,185

And the Duke’s plan admitted a wife, at most,

To meet his eye, with the other trophies,

Now outside the Hall, now in it,

To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen,

At the proper place in the proper minute,190

And die away the life between.

And it was amusing enough, each infraction

Of rule (but for after-sadness that came)

To hear the consummate self-satisfaction

With which the young Duke and the old Dame195

Would let her advise, and criticize,

And, being a fool, instruct the wise,

And child-like parcel out praise or blame:

They bore it all in complacent guise,

As though an artificer, after contriving200

A wheel-work image as if it were living,

Should find with delight it could motion to strike him!

So found the Duke, and his mother like him:

The Lady hardly got a rebuff—

That had not been contemptuous enough,205

With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause,

And kept off the old mother-cat’s claws.

IX

So, the little Lady grew silent and thin,

  Paling and ever paling,

As the way is with a hid chagrin;210

  And the Duke perceived that she was ailing,

And said in his heart, ‘ ’Tis done to spite me,

But I shall find in my power to right me!’

Don’t swear, friend—the Old One, many a year,

Is in Hell, and the Duke’s self . . . you shall hear.215

X

Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning,

When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning,

A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice,

That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice,

Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold,220

And another and another, and faster and faster,

Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled:

Then it so chanced that the Duke our master

Asked himself what were the pleasures in season,

And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty,225

He should do the Middle Age no treason

In resolving on a hunting-party.

Always provided, old books showed the way of it!

What meant old poets by their strictures?

And when old poets had said their say of it,230

How taught old painters in their pictures?

We must revert to the proper channels,

Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels,

And gather up Woodcraft’s authentic traditions:

Here was food for our various ambitions,235

As on each case, exactly stated,

—To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup,

Or best prayer to St. Hubert on mounting your stirrup—

We of the household took thought and debated.

Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin240

His sire was wont to do forest-work in;

Blesseder he who nobly sunk ‘ohs’

And ‘ahs’ while he tugged on his grandsire’s trunk-hose;

What signified hats if they had no rims on,

Each slouching before and behind like the scallop,245

And able to serve at sea for a shallop^[5],

Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson?

So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on’t,

What with our Venerers, Prickers, and Verderers,

Might hope for real hunters at length, and not murderers,250

And oh, the Duke’s tailor—he had a hot time on’t!

XI

Now you must know, that when the first dizziness

Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided,

The Duke put this question, ‘The Duke’s part provided,

Had not the Duchess some share in the business?’255

For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses

Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses:

And, after much laying of heads together,

Somebody’s cap got a notable feather

By the announcement with proper unction260

That he had discovered the lady’s function;

Since ancient authors gave this tenet,

‘When horns wind a mort^[6] and the deer is at siege^[7],

Let the dame of the Castle prick forth on her jennet,

And with water to wash the hands of her liege265

In a clean ewer with a fair toweling,

Let her preside at the disemboweling.’

Now, my friend, if you had so little religion

As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner,

And thrust her broad wings like a banner270

Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon;

And if day by day, and week by week,

You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes,

And clipped her wings, and tied her beak,

Would it cause you any great surprise275

If, when you decided to give her an airing,

You found she needed a little preparing?

—I say, should you be such a curmudgeon,

If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon?

Yet when the Duke to his lady signified,280

Just a day before, as he judged most dignified,

In what a pleasure she was to participate,—

And, instead of leaping wide in flashes,

Her eyes just lifted their long lashes,

As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate,285

And duly acknowledged the Duke’s forethought,

But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught,

Of the weight by day and the watch by night,

And much wrong now that used to be right,

So, thanking him, declined the hunting,—290

Was conduct ever more affronting?

With all the ceremony settled—

With the towel ready, and the sewer

Polishing up his oldest ewer,

And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald,295

Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-ball’d,—

No wonder if the Duke was nettled!

And when she persisted nevertheless,—

Well, I suppose here’s the time to confess

That there ran half round our Lady’s chamber300

A balcony none of the hardest to clamber;

And that Jacynth the tire-woman^[8], ready in waiting,

Stayed in call outside, what need of relating?

And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a fervent

Adorer of Jacynth, of course, was your servant;305

And if she had the habit to peep through the casement,

How could I keep at any vast distance?

And so, as I say, on the Lady’s persistence,

The Duke, dumb-stricken with amazement,

Stood for a while in a sultry smother,310

And then, with a smile that partook of the awful,

Turned her over to his yellow mother

To learn what was decorous and lawful;

And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct,

As her cheek quick whitened thro’ all its quince-tinct.315

Oh, but the Lady heard the whole truth at once!

What meant she?—Who was she?—Her duty

    and station,

The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once,

Its decent regard and its fitting relation—

In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free320

And turn them out to carouse in a belfry,

And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon,

And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on!

Well, somehow or other it ended at last

And, licking her whiskers, out she passed;325

And after her,—making (he hoped) a face

Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin,

Stalked the Duke’s self with the austere grace

Of ancient hero or modern paladin,

From door to staircase—oh, such a solemn330

Unbending of the vertebral column!

XII

However, at sunrise our company mustered;

And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel,

And there ’neath his bonnet the pricker blustered,

With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel;335

For the court-yard’s four walls were filled with fog

You might cut as an axe chops a log.

Like so much wool for colour and bulkiness;

And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness,

Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily,340

And a sinking at the lower abdomen

Begins the day with indifferent omen.

And lo, as he looked around uneasily,

The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder

This way and that from the valley under;345

And, looking through the court-yard arch,

Down in the valley, what should meet him

But a troop of Gipsies on their march,

No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him.

XIII

Now, in your land, Gipsies reach you, only350

After reaching all lands beside;

North they go, South they go, trooping or lonely,

And still, as they travel far and wide,

Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there,

That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there.355

But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground,

And nowhere else, I take it, are found

With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned;

Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on

The very fruit they are meant to feed on.360

For the earth—not a use to which they don’t turn it,

The ore that grows in the mountain’s womb,

Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb,

They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it—

Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle365

With side-bars never a brute can baffle;

Or a lock that’s a puzzle of wards within wards;

Or, if your colt’s fore-foot inclines to curve inwards,

Horseshoes they’ll hammer which turn on a swivel

And won’t allow the hoof to shrivel.370

Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle,

That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle;

But the sand—they pinch and pound it like otters;

Commend me to Gipsy glass-makers and potters!

Glasses they’ll blow you, crystal-clear,375

Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear,

As if in pure water you dropped and let die

A bruise-black-blooded mulberry;

And that other sort, their crowning pride,

With long white threads distinct inside,380

Like the lake-flower’s fibrous roots which dangle

Loose such a length and never tangle,

Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters,

And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters:

Such are the works they put their hand to,385

And the uses they turn and twist iron and sand to.

And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally

Towards his castle from out of the valley,

Men and women, like new-hatched spiders,

Come out with the morning to greet our riders.390

And up they wound till they reached the ditch,

Whereat all stopped save one, a witch,

That I knew, as she hobbled from the group,

By her gait, directly, and her stoop,

I, whom Jacynth was used to importune395

To let that same witch tell us our fortune.

The oldest Gipsy then above ground;

And, so sure as the autumn season came round,

She paid us a visit for profit or pastime,

And every time, as she swore, for the last time.400

And presently she was seen to sidle

Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle,

So that the horse of a sudden reared up

As under its nose the old witch peered up

With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes405

Of no use now but to gather brine,

And began a kind of level whine

Such as they used to sing to their viols

When their ditties they go grinding

Up and down with nobody minding:410

And, then as of old, at the end of the humming

Her usual presents were forthcoming

—A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles,

(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,)

Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end,—415

And so she awaited her annual stipend.

But this time the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe

A word in reply; and in vain she felt

With twitching fingers at her belt

For the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt,420

Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe,—

Till, either to quicken his apprehension,

Or possibly with an after-intention,

She was come, she said, to pay her duty

To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty.425

No sooner had she named his Lady,

Than a shine lit up the face so shady,

And its smirk returned with a novel meaning—

For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning;

If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow,430

She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow;

And who so fit a teacher of trouble

As this sordid crone bent wellnigh double?

So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture,

(If such it was, for they grow so hirsute435

That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit)

He was contrasting, ’twas plain from his gesture,

The life of the Lady so flower-like and delicate

With the loathsome squalor of this helicat^[9].

I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned440

From out of the throng, and while I drew near

He told the crone, as I since have reckoned

By the way he bent and spoke into her ear

With circumspection and mystery,

The main of the Lady’s history,445

Her frowardness and ingratitude;

And for all the crone’s submissive attitude

I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening,

And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening.

As though, she engaged with hearty goodwill450

Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil,

And promised the Lady a thorough frightening.

And so, just giving her a glimpse

Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps^[10]

The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw^[11],455

He bade me take the Gipsy mother

And set her telling some story or other

Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw^[12],

To while away a weary hour

For the Lady left alone in her bower,460

Whose mind and body craved exertion

And yet shrank from all better diversion.

XIV

Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter,

Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo

Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor,465

And back I turned and bade the crone follow.

And what makes me confident what’s to be told you

Had all along been of this crone’s devising,

Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you,

There was a novelty quick as surprising:470

For first, she had shot up a full head in stature,

And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered,

As if age had foregone its usurpature,

And the ignoble mien was wholly altered,

And the face looked quite of another nature,475

And the change reached too, whatever the

    change meant,

Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak’s arrangement:

For where its tatters hung loose like sedges,

Gold coins were glittering on the edges,

Like the band-roll strung with tomans^[13]480

Which proves the veil a Persian woman’s:

And under her brow, like a snail’s horns newly

Come out as after the rain he paces,

Two unmistakable eye-points duly

Live and aware looked out of their places.485

So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry

Of the Lady’s chamber standing sentry;

I told the command and produced my companion,

And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one,

For since last night, by the same token,490

Not a single word had the Lady spoken:

They went in both to the presence together,

While I in the balcony watched the weather.

XV

And now, what took place at the very first of all,

I cannot tell, as I never could learn it:495

Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall

On that little head of hers and burn it,

If she knew how she came to drop so soundly

Asleep of a sudden and there continue

The whole time sleeping as profoundly500

As one of the boars my father would pin you

’Twixt the eyes where the life holds garrison,

—Jacynth forgive me the comparison!

But where I begin my own narration

Is a little after I took my station505

To breathe the fresh air from the balcony,

And, having in those days a falcon eye,

To follow the hunt thro’ the open country,

From where the bushes thinlier crested

The hillocks, to a plain where’s not one tree.510

When, in a moment, my ear was arrested

By—was it singing, or was it saying,

Or a strange musical instrument playing

In the chamber?—and to be certain

I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain,515

And there lay Jacynth asleep,

Yet as if a watch she tried to keep,

In a rosy sleep along the floor

With her head against the door;

While in the midst, on the seat of state,520

Was a queen—the Gipsy woman late,

With head and face downbent

On the Lady’s head and face intent:

For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease,

The Lady sat between her knees525

And o’er them the Lady’s clasped hands met,

And on those hands her chin was set,

And her upturned face met the face of the crone

Wherein the eyes had grown and grown

As if she could double and quadruple530

At pleasure the play of either pupil

—Very like, by her hands, slow fanning,

As up and down like a gor-crow’s^[14] flappers

They moved to measure, or bell clappers.

I said, is it blessing, is it banning,535

Do they applaud you or burlesque you—

Those hands and fingers with no flesh on?

But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue,

At once I was stopped by the Lady’s expression:

For it was life her eyes were drinking540

From the crone’s wide pair above unwinking,

—Life’s pure fire received without shrinking,

Into the heart and breast whose heaving

Told you no single drop they were leaving,

—Life, that filling her, passed redundant545

Into her very hair, back swerving

Over each shoulder, loose and abundant,

As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving,

And the very tresses shared in the pleasure,

Moving to the mystic measure,550

Bounding as the bosom bounded.

I stopped short, more and more confounded,

As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened,

And she listened and she listened:

When all at once a hand detained me,555

And the selfsame contagion gained me,

And I kept time to the wondrous chime,

Making out words and prose and rhyme,

Till it seemed that the music furled

Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped560

From under the words it first had propped,

And left them midway in the world,

And word took word as hand takes hand,

I could hear at last, and understand,

And when I held the unbroken thread,565

The Gipsy said:—

‘And so at last we find my tribe,

And so I set thee in the midst,

And to one and all of them describe

What thou saidst and what thou didst,570

Our long and terrible journey through,

And all thou art ready to say and do

In the trials that remain:

I trace them the vein and the other vein

That meet on thy brow and part again,575

Making our rapid and mystic mark;

And I bid my people prove and probe

Each eye’s profound and glorious globe

Till they detect the kindred spark

In those depths so dear and dark,580

Like the spots that snap and burst and flee,

Circling over the midnight sea.

And on that round young cheek of thine

I make them recognize the tinge,

As when of the costly scarlet wine585

They drip so much as will impinge

And spread in a thinnest scale afloat

One thick gold drop from the olive’s coat

Over a silver plate whose sheen

Still thro’ the mixture shall be seen.590

For so I prove thee, to one and all,

Fit, when my people ope their breast,

To see the sign, and hear the call,

And take the vow, and stand the test

Which adds one more child to the rest—595

When the breast is bare and the arms are wide,

And the world is left outside.

For there is probation to decree,

And many and long must the trials be

Thou shalt victoriously endure,600

If that brow is true and those eyes are sure;

Like a jewel-finder’s fierce assay

Of the prize he dug from its mountain tomb,—

Let once the vindicating ray

Leap out amid the anxious gloom,605

And steel and fire have done their part

And the prize falls on its finder’s heart;

So, trial after trial past,

Wilt thou fall at the very last

Breathless, half in trance610

With the thrill of the great deliverance,

Into our arms for evermore;

And thou shalt know, those arms once curled

About thee, what we knew before,

How love is the only good in the world.615

Henceforth be loved as heart can love,

Or brain devise, or hand approve!

Stand up, look below,

It is our life at thy feet we throw

To step with into light and joy;620

Not a power of life but we’ll employ

To satisfy thy nature’s want;

Art thou the tree that props the plant,

Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree—

Canst thou help us, must we help thee?625

If any two creatures grew into one,

They would do more than the world has done;

Though each apart were never so weak,

Yet vainly through the world should ye seek

For the knowledge and the might630

Which in such union grew their right:

So, to approach, at least, that end,

And blend,—as much as may be, blend

Thee with us or us with thee,

As climbing-plant or propping-tree,635

Shall some one deck thee, over and down,

Up and about, with blossoms and leaves?

Fix his heart’s fruit for thy garland-crown,

Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves,

Die on thy boughs and disappear640

While not a leaf of thine is sere?

Or is the other fate in store,

And art thou fitted to adore,

To give thy wondrous self away,

And take a stronger nature’s sway?645

I foresee and I could foretell

Thy future portion, sure and well—

But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true,

And let them say what thou shalt do!

Only, be sure thy daily life,650

In its peace, or in its strife,

Never shall be unobserved;

We pursue thy whole career,

And hope for it, or doubt, or fear,—

Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved,655

We are beside thee, in all thy ways,

With our blame, with our praise,

Our shame to feel, our pride to show,

Glad, angry—but indifferent, no!

Whether it is thy lot to go,660

For the good of us all, where the haters meet

In the crowded city’s horrible street;

Or thou step alone through the morass

Where never sound yet was

Save the dry quick clap of the stork’s bill,665

For the air is still, and the water still,

When the blue breast of the dripping coot

Dives under, and all is mute.

So at the last shall come old age,

Decrepit as befits that stage;670

How else wouldst thou retire apart

With the hoarded memories of thy heart,

And gather all to the very least

Of the fragments of life’s earlier feast,

Let fall through eagerness to find675

The crowning dainties yet behind?

Ponder on the entire Past

Laid together thus at last,

When the twilight helps to fuse

The first fresh, with the faded hues,680

And the outline of the whole,

As round eve’s shades their framework roll,

Grandly fronts for once thy soul.

And then as, ’mid the dark, a gleam

Of yet another morning breaks,685

And like the hand which ends a dream,

Death, with the might of his sunbeam

Touches the flesh and the soul awakes,

Then—’

    Ay, then, indeed, something would happen!

But what? For here her voice changed like a bird’s;690

There grew more of the music and less of the words;

Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen

To paper and put you down every syllable

With those clever clerkly fingers,

All that I’ve forgotten as well as what lingers695

In this old brain of mine that’s but ill able

To give you even this poor version

Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering

—More fault of those who had the hammering

Of prosody into me and syntax,700

And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks!

But to return from this excursion,—

Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest,

The peace most deep and the charm completest,

There came, shall I say, a snap—705

And the charm vanished!

And my sense returned, so strangely banished,

And, starting as from a nap,

I knew the crone was bewitching my lady,

With Jacynth asleep; and but one spring made I,710

Down from the casement, round to the portal,

Another minute and I had entered,—

When the door opened, and more than mortal

Stood, with a face where to my mind centred

All beauties I ever saw or shall see,715

The Duchess—I stopped as if struck by palsy.

She was so different, happy and beautiful,

I felt at once that all was best,

And that I had nothing to do, for the rest,

But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful.720

Not that, in fact, there was any commanding,

—I saw the glory of her eye,

And the brow’s height and the breast’s expanding,

And I was hers to live or to die.

As for finding what she wanted,725

You know God Almighty granted

Such little signs should serve his wild creatures

To tell one another all their desires,

So that each knows what its friend requires,

And does its bidding without teachers.730

I preceded her; the crone

Followed silent and alone;

I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered

In the old style; both her eyes had slunk

Back to their pits; her stature shrunk;735

In short, the soul in its body sunk

Like a blade sent home to its scabbard,

We descended, I preceding;

Crossed the court with nobody heeding;

All the world was at the chase,740

The court-yard like a desert-place,

The stable emptied of its small fry;

I saddled myself the very palfrey

I remember patting while it carried her,

The day she arrived and the Duke married her.745

And, do you know, though it’s easy deceiving

Oneself in such matters, I can’t help believing

The Lady had not forgotten it either,

And knew the poor devil so much beneath her

Would have been only too glad for her service750

To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise,

But unable to pay proper duty where owing it

Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it:

For though the moment I began setting

His saddle on my own nag of Berold’s begetting,755

(Not that I meant to be obtrusive)

She stopped me, while his rug was shifting,

By a single rapid finger’s lifting,

And, with a gesture kind but conclusive,

And a little shake of the head, refused me,—760

I say, although she never used me,

Yet when she was mounted, the Gipsy behind her,

And I ventured to remind her,

I suppose with a voice of less steadiness

Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me,765

—Something to the effect that I was in readiness

Whenever God should please she needed me,—

Then, do you know, her face looked down on me

With a look that placed a crown on me,

And she felt in her bosom,—mark, her bosom—770

And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom,

Dropped me . . . ah, had it been a purse

Of silver, my friend, or gold that’s worse,

Why, you see, as soon as I found myself

So understood,—that a true heart so may gain775

Such a reward,—I should have gone home again,

Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself!

It was a little plait of hair

Such as friends in a convent make

To wear, each for the other’s sake,—780

This, see, which at my breast I wear,

Ever did (rather to Jacynth’s grudgement),

And ever shall, till the Day of Judgement.

And then,—and then,—to cut short,—this is idle,

These are feelings it is not good to foster,—785

I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle,

And the palfrey bounded,—and so we lost her.

XVI

When the liquor’s out, why clink the cannakin?

I did think to describe you the panic in

The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin,790

And what was the pitch of his mother’s yellowness,

How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib

Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib,

When she heard, what she called, the flight of the feloness

—But it seems such child’s play,795

What they said and did with the Lady away!

And to dance on, when we’ve lost the music,

Always made me—and no doubt makes you—sick.

Nay, to my mind, the world’s face looked so stern

As that sweet form disappeared through the postern,800

She that kept it in constant good humour,

It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do

    more.

But the world thought otherwise and went on,

And my head’s one that its spite was spent on:

Thirty years are fled since that morning,805

And with them all my head’s adorning.

Nor did the old Duchess die outright,

As you expect, of suppressed spite,

The natural end of every adder

Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder:810

But she and her son agreed, I take it,

That no one should touch on the story to wake it,

For the wound in the Duke’s pride rankled fiery,

So, they made no search and small inquiry—

And when fresh Gipsies have paid us a visit, I’ve815

Noticed the couple were never inquisitive,

But told them they’re folks the Duke don’t want here,

And bade them make haste and cross the frontier.

Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it,

And the old one was in the young one’s stead,820

And took, in her place, the household’s head,

And a blessed time the household had of it!

And were I not, as a man might say, cautious

How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous,

I could favour you with sundry touches825

Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess

Heightened the mellowness of her cheek’s yellowness

(To get on faster) until at last her

Cheek grew to be one master-plaster

Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse830

In short, she grew from scalp to udder

Just the object to make you shudder.

XVII

You’re my friend—

What a thing friendship is, world without end!

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up835

As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet^[15],

And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit,

Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup,

Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids—

Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids;840

Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs,

Gives your life’s hour-glass a shake when the thin sand

    doubts

Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees

Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease.

I have seen my little Lady once more,845

Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and the rest of it,

For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before;

I always wanted to make a clean breast of it:

And now it is made—why, my heart’s-blood, that went

    trickle,

Trickle, but anon, in such muddy dribblets,850

Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle,

And genially floats me about the giblets.

I’ll tell you what I intend to do:

I must see this fellow his sad life through—

He is our Duke, after all,855

And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall.

My father was born here, and I inherit

His fame, a chain he bound his son with:

Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it,

But there’s no mine to blow up and get done with,860

So, I must stay till the end of the chapter.

For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter,

Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on,

Some day or other, his head in a morion^[16],

And breast in a hauberk^[17], his heels he’ll kick up,865

Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup.

And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust,

And its leathern sheath lie o’ergrown with a blue crust,

Then, I shall scrape together my earnings;

For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes,870

And our children all went the way of the roses:

It’s a long lane that knows no turnings.

One needs but little tackle to travel in;

So, just one stout cloak shall I indue:

And for a staff, what beats the javelin875

With which his boars my father pinned you?

And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently,

Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinfull,

I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly!

Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful.880

What’s a man’s age? He must hurry more, that’s all;

Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold:

When we mind labour, then only, we’re too old—

What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul?

And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees,885

(Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil)

I hope to get safely out of the turmoil

And arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies,

And find my Lady, or hear the last news of her

From some old thief and son of Lucifer,890

His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop,

Sunburned all over like an Aethiop.

And when my Cotnar begins to operate

And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate,

And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent,895

I shall drop in with—as if by accident—

‘You never knew then, how it all ended,

What fortunes good or bad attended

The little Lady your Queen befriended?’

—And when that’s told me, what’s remaining?900

This world’s too hard for my explaining.

The same wise judge of matters equine

Who still preferred some slim four-year-old

To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold,

And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine,905

He also must be such a Lady’s scorner!

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau:

Now up, now down, the world’s one see-saw.

—So, I shall find out some snug corner

Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight,910

Turn myself round and bid the world good night;

And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet’s blowing

Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen)

To a world where will be no further throwing

Pearls before swine that can’t value them. Amen!915

‘Will you hear my story also,

  Huge Sport, brave adventure in plenty?’

The boys were a band from Oxford,

  The oldest of whom was twenty.

The bothy^[1] we held a carouse in5

  Was bright with fire and candle;

Tale followed tale like a merry-go-round

  Whereof Sport turned the handle.

In our eyes and noses—turf-smoke:

  In our ears a tune from the trivet,10

When ‘Boiling, boiling’, the kettle sang,

  ‘And ready for fresh Glenlivet.’

So, feat capped feat, with a vengeance:

  Truths, though,—the lads were loyal:

‘Grouse, five score brace to the bag!15

  Deer, ten hours’ stalk of the Royal!’

Of boasting, not one bit, boys!

  Only there seemed to settle

Somehow above your curly heads,

  —Plain through the singing kettle,20

Palpable through the cloud,

  As each new-puffed Havanna

Rewarded the teller’s well-told tale,—

  This vaunt ‘To Sport—Hosanna!

‘Hunt, fish, shoot,25

  Would a man fulfil life’s duty!

Not to the bodily frame alone

  Does Sport give strength and beauty

‘But character gains in—courage?

  Ay, Sir, and much beside it!30

You don’t sport, more’s the pity:

  You soon would find, if you tried it,

‘Good sportsman means good fellow,

  Sound-hearted he, to the centre;

Your mealy-mouthed mild milksops35

  —There’s where the rot can enter!

‘There’s where the dirt will breed,

  The shabbiness Sport would banish!

Oh no, Sir, no! In your honoured case

  All such objections vanish.40

‘ ’Tis known how hard you studied:

  A Double-First—what, the jigger!

Give me but half your Latin and Greek,

  I’ll never again touch trigger!

‘Still, tastes are tastes, allow me!45

  Allow, too, where there’s keenness

For Sport, there’s little likelihood

  Of a man’s displaying meanness!’

So, put on my mettle, I interposed.

  ‘Will you hear my story?’ quoth I.50

‘Never mind how long since it happed,

  I sat, as we sit, in a bothy;

‘With as merry a band of mates, too,

  Undergrads all on a level:

(One’s a Bishop, one’s gone to the Bench,55

  And one’s gone—well, to the Devil.)

‘When, lo, a scratching and tapping!

  In hobbled a ghastly visitor.

Listen to just what he told us himself

  —No need of our playing inquisitor!’60

            ———————

Do you happen to know in Ross-shire

  Mount . . . Ben . . . but the name scarce matters:

Of the naked fact I am sure enough,

  Though I clothe it in rags and tatters.

You may recognize Ben by description;65

  Behind him—a moor’s immenseness:

Up goes the middle mount of a range,

  Fringed with its firs in denseness.

Rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind!

  For an edge there is, though narrow;70

From end to end of the range, a stripe

  Of path runs straight as an arrow.

And the mountaineer who takes that path

  Saves himself miles of journey

He has to plod if he crosses the moor75

  Through heather, peat and burnie.

But a mountaineer he needs must be,

  For, look you, right in the middle

Projects bluff Ben—with an end in ich—

  Why planted there, is a riddle:80

Since all Ben’s brothers little and big

  Keep rank, set shoulder to shoulder,

And only this burliest out must bulge

  Till it seems—to the beholder

From down in the gully,—as if Ben’s breast85

  To a sudden spike diminished,

Would signify to the boldest foot

  ‘All further passage finished!’

Yet the mountaineer who sidles on

  And on to the very bending,90

Discovers, if heart and brain be proof,

  No necessary ending.

Foot up, foot down, to the turn abrupt

  Having trod, he, there arriving,

Finds—what he took for a point was breadth,95

  A mercy of Nature’s contriving.

So, he rounds what, when ’tis reached, proves straight,

  From one side gains the other:

The wee path widens—resume the march,

  And he foils you, Ben my brother!100

But Donald—(that name, I hope, will do)—

  I wrong him if I call ‘foiling’

The tramp of the callant^[2], whistling the while

  As blithe as our kettle’s boiling.

He had dared the danger from boyhood up,105

  And now,—when perchance was waiting

A lass at the brig below,—’twixt mount

  And moor would he stand debating?

Moreover this Donald was twenty-five,

  A glory of bone and muscle:110

Did a fiend dispute the right of way,

  Donald would try a tussle.

Lightsomely marched he out of the broad

  On to the narrow and narrow;

A step more, rounding the angular rock,115

  Reached the front straight as an arrow.

He stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood,

  When—whom found he full-facing?

What fellow in courage and wariness too,

  Had scouted ignoble pacing,120

And left low safety to timid mates,

  And made for the dread dear danger,

And gained the height where—who could guess

  He would meet with a rival ranger?

’Twas a gold red stag that stood and stared,125

  Gigantic and magnific,

By the wonder—ay, the peril—struck

  Intelligent and pacific:

For a red deer is no fallow deer

  Grown cowardly through park-feeding;130

He batters you like a thunderbolt

  If you brave his haunts unheeding.

I doubt he could hardly perform volte-face

  Had valour advised discretion:

You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a rope135

  No Blondin makes profession.

Yet Donald must turn, would pride permit,

  Though pride ill brooks retiring:

Each eyed each—mute man, motionless beast—

  Less fearing than admiring.140

These are moments when quite new sense,

  To meet some need as novel,

Springs up in the brain: it inspired resource:

  —‘Nor advance nor retreat but—grovel!’

And slowly, surely, never a whit145

  Relaxing the steady tension

Of eye-stare which binds man to beast,—

  By an inch and inch declension,

Sank Donald sidewise down and down:

  Till flat, breast upwards, lying150

At his six-foot length, no corpse more still.

  —‘If he cross me! The trick’s worth trying.’

Minutes were an eternity;

  But a new sense was created

In the stag’s brain too; he resolves! Slow, sure,155

  With eye-stare unabated,

Feelingly he extends a foot

  Which tastes the way ere it touches

Earth’s solid and just escapes man’s soft,

  Nor hold of the same unclutches160

Till its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk,

  Lands itself no less finely:

So a mother removes a fly from the face

  Of her babe asleep supinely.

And now ’tis the haunch and hind foot’s turn165

  —That’s hard: can the beast quite raise it?

Yes, traversing half the prostrate length,

  His hoof-tip does not graze it.

Just one more lift! But Donald, you see,

  Was a sportsman first, man after:170

A fancy lightened his caution through,

  —He well-nigh broke into laughter.

‘It were nothing short of a miracle!

  Unrivalled, unexampled—

All sporting feats with this feat matched175

  Were down and dead and trampled!’

The last of the legs as tenderly

  Follows the rest: or never

Or now is the time! His knife in reach

  And his right-hand loose—how clever!180

For this can stab up the stomach’s soft,

  While the left-hand grasps the pastern^[3].

A rise on the elbow, and—now’s the time

  Or never: this turn’s the last turn!

I shall dare to place myself by God185

  Who scanned—for he does—each feature

Of the face thrown up in appeal to Him

  By the agonizing creature.

Nay, I hear plain words: ‘Thy gift brings this!’

  Up he sprang, back he staggered,190

Over he fell, and with him our friend

  —At following game no laggard.

Yet he was not dead when they picked next day

  From the gulf’s depth the wreck of him;

His fall had been stayed by the stag beneath195

  Who cushioned and saved the neck of him.

But the rest of his body—why, the doctors said,

  Whatever could break was broken;

Legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toast

  In a tumbler of port-wine soaken.200

‘That your life is left you, thank the stag!’

  Said they when—the slow cure ended—

They opened the hospital door, and thence

  —Strapped, spliced, main fractures mended,

And minor damage left wisely alone,—205

  Like an old shoe clouted and cobbled,

Out—what went in a Goliath well-nigh,—

  Some half of a David hobbled.

‘You must ask an alms from house to house:

  Sell the stag’s head for a bracket,210

With its grand twelve tines^[4]—I’d buy it myself—

  And use the skin for a jacket!’

He was wiser, made both head and hide

  His win-penny; hands and knees on,

Would manage to crawl—poor crab—by the roads215

  In the misty stalking-season.

And if he discovered a bothy like this,

  Why, harvest was sure: folk listened.

He told his tale to the lovers of Sport:

  Lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened.220

And when he had come to the close, and spread

  His spoils for the gazers’ wonder,

With ‘Gentlemen, here’s the skull of the stag

  I was over, thank God, not under!’—

The company broke out in applause;225

  ‘By Jingo, a lucky cripple!

Have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread,

  And a tug, besides, at our tipple!’

And ‘There’s my pay for your pluck!’ cried This,

  ‘And mine for your jolly story!’230

Cried That, while T’other—but he was drunk—

  Hiccupped ‘A trump, a Tory!’

I hope I gave twice as much as the rest;

  For, as Homer would say, ‘within grate

Though teeth kept tongue’, my whole soul growled235

  ‘Rightly rewarded,—Ingrate!’

                  Robert Browning, 1812-89.

O I hae come from far away,

  From a warm land far away,

A southern land across the sea,

With sailor-lads about the mast,

Merry and canny, and kind to me.5

And I hae been to yon town

  To try my luck in yon town;

Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too.

Right braw we were to pass the gate,

Wi’ gowden clasps on girdles blue.10

Mysie smiled wi’ miminy^[1] mouth,

  Innocent mouth, miminy mouth;

Elspie wore a scarlet gown,

Nort’s grey eyes were unco’ gleg^[2].

My Castile comb was like a crown.15

We walk’d abreast all up the street,

  Into the market up the street;

Our hair with marigolds was wound,

Our bodices with love-knots laced,

Our merchandise with tansy^[3] bound.20

Nort had chickens, I had cocks,

  Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks;

Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,—

For a wee groat or a pound;

We lost nae time wi’ gives and takes.25

—Lost nae time, for well we knew,

  In our sleeves full well we knew,

When the gloaming came that night,

Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock

Would be found by candle-light.30

And when our chaffering all was done,

  All was paid for, sold and done,

We drew a glove on ilka hand,

We sweetly curtsied, each to each,

And deftly danced a saraband^[4].35

The market-lassies look’d and laugh’d,

  Left their gear, and look’d and laugh’d;

They made as they would join the game,

But soon their mithers, wild and wud^[5],

With whack and screech they stopp’d the same.40

Sae loud the tongues o’ randies^[6] grew,

  The flytin’^[7] and the skirlin’^[8] grew,

At all the windows in the place,

Wi’ spoons or knives, wi’ needle or awl,

Was thrust out every hand and face.45

And down each stair they throng’d anon,

  Gentle, semple, throng’d anon:

Souter^[9] and tailor, frowsy Nan,

The ancient widow young again,

Simpering behind her fan.50

Without a choice, against their will,

  Doited^[10], dazed, against their will,

The market lassie and her mither,

The farmer and his husbandman,

Hand in hand dance a’ thegither.55

Slow at first, but faster soon,

  Still increasing, wild and fast,

Hoods and mantles, hats and hose,

Blindly doff’d and cast away,

Left them naked, heads and toes.60

They would have torn us limb from limb,

  Dainty limb from dainty limb;

But never one of them could win

Across the line that I had drawn

With bleeding thumb a-widdershin^[11].65

But there was Jeff the provost’s son,

  Jeff the provost’s only son;

There was Father Auld himsel’,

The Lombard frae the hostelry,

And the lawyer Peter Fell.70

All goodly men we singled out,

  Waled^[12] them well, and singled out,

And drew them by the left hand in;

Mysie the priest, and Elspie won

The Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle,75

I mysel’ the provost’s son.

Then, with cantrip^[13] kisses seven,

  Three times round with kisses seven,

Warp’d and woven there spun we

Arms and legs and flaming hair,80

Like a whirlwind on the sea.

Like a wind that sucks the sea,

  Over and in and on the sea,

Good sooth it was a mad delight;

And every man of all the four85

Shut his eyes and laugh’d outright.

Laugh’d as long as they had breath,

  Laugh’d while they had sense or breath;

And close about us coil’d a mist

Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies,90

Like the whirlwind shaft it rist^[14].

Drawn up I was right off my feet,

  Into the mist and off my feet;

And, dancing on each chimney-top,

I saw a thousand darling imps95

Keeping time with skip and hop.

And on the provost’s brave ridge-tile,

  On the provost’s grand ridge-tile,

The Blackamoor first to master me

I saw, I saw that winsome smile,100

The mouth that did my heart beguile,

And spoke the great Word over me,

In the land beyond the sea.

I call’d his name, I call’d aloud,

  Alas! I call’d on him aloud;105

And then he fill’d his hand with stour^[15],

And threw it towards me in the air;

My mouse flew out, I lost my pow’r!

My lusty strength, my power were gone;

  Power was gone, and all was gone.110

He will not let me love him more!

Of bell and whip and horse’s tail

He cares not if I find a store.

But I am proud if he is fierce!

  I am as proud as he is fierce;115

I’ll turn about and backward go,

If I meet again that Blackamoor,

And he’ll help us then, for he shall know

I seek another paramour.

And we’ll gang once more to yon town,120

  Wi’ better luck to yon town;

We’ll walk in silk and cramoisie^[16],

And I shall wed the provost’s son:

My lady of the town I’ll be!

For I was born a crown’d king’s child,125

  Born and nursed a king’s child,

King o’ a land ayont^[17] the sea,

Where the Blackamoor kiss’d me first,

And taught me art and glamourie^[18].

Each one in her wame^[19] shall hide130

  Her hairy mouse, her wary mouse,

Fed on madwort and agramie ^[20],—

Wear amber beads between her breasts,

And blind-worm’s skin about her knee.

The Lombard shall be Elspie’s man,135

  Elspie’s gowden husband-man;

Nort shall take the lawyer’s hand;

The priest shall swear another vow:

We’ll dance again the saraband!

               William Bell Scott, 1812-90.

Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the

    southward,

Dwells in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired Aethiop

    people,

Skilful with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer

    and carver,

Skilful, but feeble of heart; for they know not the lords

    of Olympus,

Lovers of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas

    Athené,5

Teacher of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might

    in the battle;

Share not the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the

    songs of Apollo.

Fearing the stars of the sky, and the roll of the blue salt

    water,

Fearing all things that have life in the womb of the seas

    and the rivers,

Eating no fish to this day, nor ploughing the main, like

    the Phoenics,10

Manful with black-beaked ships, they abide in a

    sorrowful region,

Vexed with the earthquake, and flame, and the

    sea-floods, scourge of Poseidon.

Whelming the dwellings of men, and the toils of the

    slow-footed oxen,

Drowning the barley and flax, and the hard-earned gold

    of the harvest,

Up to the hill-side vines, and the pastures skirting the

    woodland,15

Inland the floods came yearly; and after the

    waters a monster,

Bred of the slime, like the worms which are bred

    from the muds of the Nile-bank,

Shapeless, a terror to see; and by night it swam out to

    the seaward,

Daily returning to feed with the dawn, and devoured of

    the fairest,

Cattle, and children, and maids, till the terrified people

    fled inland.20

  Fasting in sackcloth and ashes they came, both

    the king and his people,

Came to the mountain of oaks, to the house of the

    terrible sea-gods,

Hard by the gulf in the rocks, where of old the

    world-wide deluge

Sank to the inner abyss; and the lake where the fish of

    the goddess

Holy, undying, abide; whom the priests feed daily with

    dainties.25

There to the mystical fish, high-throned in her

    chamber of cedar,

Burnt they the fat of the flock; till the flame shone

    far to the seaward.

Three days fasting they prayed: but the fourth day the

    priests of the goddess,

Cunning in spells, cast lots, to discover the crime of the

    people.

All day long they cast, till the house of the monarch

    was taken,30

Cepheus, king of the land; and the faces of all

    gathered blackness.

Then once more they cast; and Cassiopoeia was

    taken,

Deep-bosomed wife of the king, whom oft far-seeing

    Apollo

Watched well-pleased from the welkin^[1], the fairest of

    Aethiop women:

Fairest, save only her daughter; for down to the ankle

    her tresses35

Rolled, blue-black as the night, ambrosial, joy to

    beholders.

Awful and fair she arose, most like in her coming

    to Here,

Queen before whom the Immortals arise, as she comes

    on Olympus,

Out of the chamber of gold, which her son Hephaestos

    has wrought her.

Such in her stature and eyes, and the broad white light

    of her forehead,40

Stately she came from her place, and she spoke in

    the midst of the people.

  ‘Pure are my hands from blood: most pure this

    heart in my bosom.

Yet one fault I remember this day; one word have I

    spoken;

Rashly I spoke on the shore, and I dread lest the sea

    should have heard it.

Watching my child at her bath, as she plunged in the

    joy of her girlhood,45

Fairer I called her in pride than Atergati, queen of

    the ocean.

Judge ye if this be my sin, for I know none other.’

    She ended;

Wrapping her head in her mantle she stood, and the

    people were silent.

  Answered the dark-browed priests, ‘No word, once

    spoken, returneth,

Even if uttered unwitting. Shall gods excuse our

    rashness?50

That which is done, that abides; and the wrath of

    the sea is against us;

Hers, and the wrath of her brother, the Sun-god,

    lord of the sheepfolds.

Fairer than her hast thou boasted thy daughter? Ah

    folly! for hateful,

Hateful are they to the gods, whoso, impious, liken a

    mortal,

Fair though he be, to their glory; and hateful is that

    which is likened,55

Grieving the eyes of their pride, and abominate,

    doomed to their anger.

What shall be likened to gods? The unknown,

    who deep in the darkness

Ever abide, twyformed, many-handed, terrible,

    shapeless.

Woe to the queen; for the land is defiled, and the people

    accursed.

Take thou her therefore by night, thou ill-starred

    Cassiopoeia,60

Take her with us in the night, when the moon

    sinks low to the westward;

Bind her aloft for a victim, a prey for the gorge of

    the monster,

Far on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges

    for ever;

So may the goddess accept her, and so may the land

    make atonement,

Purged by her blood from its sin: so obey thou the

    doom of the rulers.’65

  Bitter in soul they went out, Cepheus and

    Cassiopoeia,

Bitter in soul; and their hearts whirled round, as

    the leaves in the eddy.

Weak was the queen, and rebelled: but the king, like a

    shepherd of people,

Willed not the land should waste; so he yielded the life

    of his daughter.

  Deep in the wane of the night, as the moon sank low

    to the westward,70

They by the shade of the cliffs, with the horror of

    darkness around them,

Stole, as ashamed, to a deed which became not

    the light of the sunshine,

Slowly, the priests, and the queen, and the virgin bound

    in the galley.

Slowly they rowed to the rocks: but Cepheus far in the

    palace

Sate in the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a

    shepherd of people,75

Choking his woe, dry-eyed, while the slaves

    wailed loudly around him.

They on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the

    surges for ever,

Set her in silence, the guiltless, aloft with her face to

    the eastward.

Under a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped down

    to the water;

There they set Andromeden, most beautiful, shaped like

    a goddess,80

Lifting her long white arms wide-spread to the

    walls of the basalt,

Chaining them, ruthless, with brass; and they

    called on the might of the Rulers.

  ‘Mystical fish of the seas, dread Queen whom

    Aethiops honour,

Whelming the land in thy wrath, unavoidable, sharp as

    the sting-ray^[2],

Thou, and thy brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord of

    the sheepfold,85

Scorching the earth all day, and then resting at

    night in thy bosom,

Take ye this one life for many, appeased by the

    blood of a maiden,

Fairest, and born of the fairest, a queen, most priceless

    of victims.’

  Thrice they spat as they went by the maid: but her

    mother delaying

Fondled her child to the last, heart-crushed; and the

    warmth of her weeping90

Fell on the breast of the maid, as woe broke forth

    into wailing.

  ‘Daughter! my daughter! forgive me! O curse

    not the murderess! Curse not!

How have I sinned, but in love? Do the gods grudge

    glory to mothers?

Loving I bore thee in vain in the fate-cursed bride-bed

    of Cepheus,

Loving I fed thee and tended and loving rejoiced in thy

    beauty,95

Blessing thy limbs as I bathed them, and blessing

    thy locks as I combed them;

Decking thee, ripening to woman, I blest thee: yet

    blessing I slew thee!

How have I sinned, but in love? O swear to me, swear

    to thy mother.

Never to haunt me with curse, as I go to the grave in

    my sorrow,

Childless and lone: may the gods never send me

    another, to slay it!100

See, I embrace thy knees—soft knees, where no

    babe will be fondled—

Swear to me never to curse me, the hapless one,

    not in the death-pang.’

  Weeping she clung to the knees of the maid; and the

    maid low answered—

‘Curse thee! Not in the death-pang!’ The heart of

    the lady was lightened.

Slowly she went by the ledge; and the maid was alone

    in the darkness.105

  Watching the pulse of the oars die down, as her

    own died with them,

Tearless, dumb with amaze she stood, as a

    storm-stunned nestling

Fallen from bough or from eave lies dumb, which the

    home-going herdsman

Fancies a stone, till he catches the light of its terrified

    eyeball.

So through the long long hours the maid stood helpless

    and hopeless,110

Wide-eyed, downward gazing in vain at the black

    blank darkness.

Feebly at last she began, while wild thoughts

    bubbled within her—

‘Guiltless I am: why thus then? Are gods more

    ruthless than mortals?

Have they no mercy for youth? no love for the souls

    who have loved them?

Even as I loved thee, dread sea, as I played by thy

    margin,115

Blessing thy wave as it cooled me, thy wind as it

    breathed on my forehead,

Bowing my head to thy tempest, and opening my

    heart to thy children,

Silvery fish, wreathed shell, and the strange lithe things

    of the water,

Tenderly casting them back, as they gasped on the

    beach in the sunshine,

Home to their mother—in vain! for mine sits childless

    in anguish!120

Oh dread sea! false sea! I dreamed what I

    dreamed of thy goodness;

Dreamed of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the

    plash of thy ripple:

False and devouring thou art, and the great world dark

    and despiteful.’

  Awed by her own rash words she was still: and her

    eyes to the seaward

Looked for an answer of wrath: far off, in the heart of

    the darkness,125

Bright white mists rose slowly; beneath them the

    wandering ocean

Glimmered and glowed to the deepest abyss; and

    the knees of the maiden

Trembled and sank in her fear, as afar, like a dawn in

    the midnight,

Rose from their seaweed chamber the choir of the

    mystical sea-maids.

Onward toward her they came, and her heart beat loud

    at their coming,130

Watching the bliss of the gods, as they wakened

    the cliffs with their laughter.

Onward they came in their joy, and before them

    the roll of the surges

Sank, as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green

    foam-flecked marble,

Awed; and the crags of the cliff, and the pines of the

    mountain were silent.

  Onward they came in their joy, and around them the

    lamps of the sea nymphs,135

Myriad fiery globes, swam panting and heaving;

    and rainbows

Crimson and azure and emerald, were broken in

    star-showers, lighting

Far through the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the

    gardens of Nereus,

Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms

    of the ocean.

  Onward they came in their joy, more white than the

    foam which they scattered,140

Laughing and singing, and tossing and twining,

    while eager, the Tritons

Blinded with kisses their eyes, unreproved, and

    above them in worship

Hovered the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on

    silvery pinions

Echoing softly their laughter; around them the

    wantoning dolphins

Sighed as they plunged, full of love; and the great

    sea-horses which bore them145

Curved up their crests in their pride to the delicate

    arms of the maidens,

Pawing the spray into gems, till a fiery rainfall,

    unharming,

Sparkled and gleamed on the limbs of the nymphs, and

    the coils of the mermen.

  Onward they went in their joy, bathed round with

    the fiery coolness,

Needing nor sun nor moon, self-lighted, immortal: but

    others,150

Pitiful, floated in silence apart; in their bosoms

    the sea-boys,

Slain by the wrath of the seas, swept down by the

    anger of Nereus;

Hapless, whom never again on strand or on quay shall

    their mothers

Welcome with garlands and vows to the temple, but

    wearily pining

Gaze over island and bay for the sails of the sunken;

    they heedless155

Sleep in soft bosoms for ever, and dream of the

    surge and the sea-maids.

  Onward they past in their joy; on their brows

    neither sorrow nor anger;

Self-sufficing, as gods, never heeding the woe of the

    maiden.

She would have shrieked for their mercy: but shame

    made her dumb; and their eyeballs

Stared on her careless and still, like the eyes in the

    house of the idols.160

Seeing they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on

    the murmuring ripple.

  Stunned by the wonder she gazed, wide-eyed,

    as the glory departed.

‘Oh fair shapes! far fairer than I! Too fair to be

    ruthless!

Gladden mine eyes once more with your splendour,

    unlike to my fancies;

You, then, smiled in the sea-gleam, and laughed in the

    plash of the ripple.165

Awful I deemed you and formless; inhuman,

    monstrous as idols;

Lo, when ye came, ye were women, more loving

    and lovelier, only;

Like in all else; and I blest you: why blest ye not me

    for my worship?

Had you no mercy for me, thus guiltless? Ye pitied the

    sea-boys,

Why not me, then, more hapless by far? Does your

    sight and your knowledge170

End with the marge of the waves? Is the world

    which ye dwell in not our world?’

  Over the mountain aloft ran a rush and a roll and a

    roaring;

Downward the breeze came indignant, and leapt with a

    howl to the water,

Roaring in cranny and crag, till the pillars and clefts of

    the basalt

Rang like a god-swept lyre, and her brain grew mad

    with the noises;175

Crashing and lapping of waters, and sighing and

    tossing of weed-beds,

Gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam, while

    thundering surges

Boomed in the wave-worn halls, as they champed at the

    roots of the mountain.

Hour after hour in the darkness the wind rushed fierce

    to the landward,

Drenching the maiden with spray; she shivering, weary

    and drooping,180

Stood with her heart full of thoughts, till the

    foamcrests gleamed in the twilight,

Leaping and laughing around, and the east grew

    red with the dawning.

  Then on the ridge of the hills rose the broad bright

    sun in his glory,

Hurling his arrows abroad on the glittering crests of the

    surges,

Gilding the soft round bosoms of wood, and the downs

    of the coastland,185

Gilding the weeds at her feet, and the foam-laced

    teeth of the ledges,

Showing the maiden her home through the veil of

    her locks, as they floated

Glistening, damp with the spray, in a long black cloud

    to the landward.

High in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from the

    homesteads;

Softly the low of the herds, and the pipe of the outgoing

    herdsman,190

Slid to her ear on the water, and melted her heart

    into weeping.

Shuddering, she tried to forget them; and straining

    her eyes to the seaward,

Watched for her doom, as she wailed, but in vain, to the

    terrible Sun-god.

  ‘Dost thou not pity me, Sun, though thy wild dark

    sister be ruthless,

Dost thou not pity me here, as thou seest me desolate,

    weary,195

Sickened with shame and despair, like a kid torn

    young from its mother?

What if my beauty insult thee, then blight it: but

    me—Oh spare me!

Spare me yet, ere he be here, fierce, tearing,

    unbearable! See me,

See me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless! See

    how I shudder,

Fancying only my doom. Wilt thou shine thus bright,

    when it takes me?200

Are there no deaths save this, great Sun? No fiery

    arrow,

Lightning, or deep-mouthed wave? Why thus?

    What music in shrieking,

Pleasure in warm live limbs torn slowly? And dar’st

    thou behold them!

Oh, thou hast watched worse deeds! All sights are alike

    to thy brightness!

What if thou waken the birds to their song, dost thou

    waken no sorrow;205

Waken no sick to their pain; no captive to wrench

    at his fetters?

Smile on the garden and fold, and on maidens who

    sing at the milking;

Flash into tapestried chambers, and peep in the eyelids

    of lovers,

Showing the blissful their bliss—Dost love, then, the

    place where thou smilest?

Lovest thou cities aflame, fierce blows, and the shrieks

    of the widow?210

Lovest thou corpse-strewn fields, as thou lightest

    the path of the vulture?

Lovest thou these, that thou gazest so gay on my

    tears, and my mother’s,

Laughing alike at the horror of one, and the bliss of

    another?

What dost thou care, in thy sky, for the joys and the

    sorrows of mortals?

Colder art thou than the nymphs: in thy broad bright eye

    is no seeing.215

Hadst thou a soul—as much soul as the slaves in

    the house of my father,

Wouldst thou not save? Poor thralls! they pitied

    me, clung to me weeping,

Kissing my hands and my feet—What, are gods more

    ruthless than mortals?

Worse than the souls which they rule? Let me die: they

    war not with ashes!’

  Sudden she ceased, with a shriek: in the spray, like a

    hovering foam-bow,220

Hung, more fair than the foam-bow, a boy in the

    bloom of his manhood,

Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, ambrosial; over his

    shoulder

Hung for a veil of his beauty the gold-fringed folds of

    the goat-skin,

Bearing the brass of his shield, as the sun flashed clear

    on its clearness.

Curved on his thigh lay a falchion; and under the gleam

    of his helmet225

Eyes more blue than the main shone awful, around

    him Athené

Shed in her love such grace, such state, and

    terrible daring.

Hovering over the water he came, upon glittering

    pinions,

Living, a wonder, outgrown from the tight-laced gold of

    his sandals;

Bounding from billow to billow, and sweeping the

    crests like a sea-gull;230

Leaping the gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in

    the joy of his leaping.

Fair and majestic he sprang to the rock; and the

    maiden in wonder

Gazed for awhile, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave

    of her tresses,

Fearful, the light of her eyes; while the boy (for her

    sorrow had awed him)

Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the

    cliffs at the sunrise.235

Fearful at length she looked forth: he was gone:

    she, wild with amazement,

Wailed for her mother aloud: but the wail of the

    wind only answered.

Sudden he flashed into sight, by her side; in his pity and

    anger

Moist were his eyes; and his breath like a rose-bed, as

    bolder and bolder,

Hovering under her brows, like a swallow that haunts

    by the house-eaves,240

Delicate-handed, he lifted the veil of her hair;

    while the maiden

Motionless, frozen with fear, wept loud; till his

    lips unclosing

Poured from their pearl-strung portal the musical wave

    of his wonder.

  ‘Ah, well spoke she, the wise one, the grey-eyed

    Pallas Athené,—

Known to Immortals alone are the prizes which lie for

    the heroes245

Ready prepared at their feet; for requiring a little,

    the rulers

Pay back the loan tenfold to the man who, careless

    of pleasure,

Thirsting for honour and toil, fares forth on a perilous

    errand

Led by the guiding of gods, and strong in the strength of

    Immortals.

Thus have they led me to thee: from afar, unknowing, I

    marked thee,250

Shining, a snow-white cross on the dark-green

    walls of the sea-cliff;

Carven in marble I deemed thee, a perfect work of

    the craftsman,

Likeness of Amphitrité, or far-famed Queen Cythereia.

Curious I came, till I saw how thy tresses streamed in

    the sea-wind,

Glistening, black as the night, and thy lips moved slow

    in thy wailing.255

Speak again now—Oh speak! For my soul is

    stirred to avenge thee;

Tell me what barbarous horde, without law,

    unrighteous and heartless,

Hateful to gods and to men, thus have bound thee, a

    shame to the sunlight,

Scorn and prize to the sailor: but my prize now; for a

    coward,

Coward and shameless were he, who so finding a

    glorious jewel260

Cast on the wayside by fools, would not win it and

    keep it and wear it,

Even as I will thee; for I swear by the head of my

    father,

Bearing thee over the sea-wave, to wed thee in Argos

    the fruitful,

Beautiful, meed of my toil no less than this head which

    I carry,

Hidden here fearful—Oh speak!’

              But the maid, still dumb with

    amazement,265

Watered her bosom with weeping, and longed for

    her home and her mother.

  Beautiful, eager, he wooed her, and kissed off

    her tears as he hovered,

Roving at will, as a bee, on the brows of a rock

    nymph-haunted,

Garlanded over with vine, and acanthus, and clambering

    roses,

Cool in the fierce still noon, where streams glance clear

    in the mossbeds,270

Hums on from blossom to blossom, and mingles

    the sweets as he tastes them.

Beautiful, eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet

    closer and closer,

Praying her still to speak—

                      ‘Not cruel nor rough did my

    mother

Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths of the

    brass-covered dungeon;

Neither in vain, as I think, have I talked with the

    cunning of Hermes,275

Face unto face, as a friend; or from grey-eyed

    Pallas Athené

Learnt what is fit, and respecting myself, to

    respect in my dealings

Those whom the gods should love; so fear not: to chaste

    espousals

Only I woo thee, and swear, that a queen, and alone

    without rival

By me thou sittest in Argos of Hellas, throne of my

    fathers,280

Worshipped by fair-haired kings: why callest thou

    still on thy mother?

Why did she leave thee thus here? For no foeman

    has bound thee; no foeman

Winning with strokes of the sword such a prize, would

    so leave it behind him.’

  Just as at first some colt, wild-eyed, with quivering

    nostril,

Plunges in fear of the curb, and the fluttering robes of

    the rider;285

Soon, grown bold by despair, submits to the will

    of his master,

Tamer and tamer each hour, and at last, in the

    pride of obedience,

Answers the heel with a curvet, and arches his neck to

    be fondled,

Cowed by the need that maid grew tame; while the hero

    indignant

Tore at the fetters which held her: the brass, too

    cunningly tempered,290

Held to the rock by the nails, deep wedged; till the

    boy, red with anger,

Drew from his ivory thigh, keen flashing, a

    falchion of diamond—

‘Now let the work of the smith try strength with the

    arms of Immortals!’

Dazzling it fell; and the blade, as the vine-hook shears

    off the vine-bough,

Carved through the strength of the brass, till her arms

    fell soft on his shoulder.295

Once she essayed to escape: but the ring of the

    water was round her,

Round her the ring of his arms: and despairing she

    sank on his bosom.

Then, like a fawn when startled, she looked with a

    shriek to the seaward.

  ‘Touch me not, wretch that I am! For accursed, a

    shame and a hissing,

Guiltless, accurst no less, I await the revenge of the

    sea-gods.300

Yonder it comes! Ah go! Let me perish unseen, if I

    perish!

Spare me the shame of thine eyes, when merciless

    fangs must tear me

Piecemeal! Enough to endure by myself in the light of

    the sunshine

Guiltless, the death of a kid!’

                         But the boy still lingered

    around her,

Loath, like a boy, to forgo her, and wakened the cliffs

    with his laughter.305

‘Yon is the foe, then? A beast of the sea? I had

    deemed him immortal;

Titan, or Proteus’ self, or Nereus, foeman of

    sailors:

Yet would I fight with them all, but Poseidon, shaker of

    mountains,

Uncle of mine, whom I fear, as is fit; for he haunts on

    Olympus,

Holding the third of the world; and the gods all rise at

    his coming.310

Unto none else will I yield, god-helped: how then

    to a monster,

Child of the earth and of night, unreasoning,

    shapeless, accursed?’

  ‘Art thou, too, then a god?’

                  ‘No god I,’ smiling he answered,

‘Mortal as thou, yet divine: but mortal the herds of the

    ocean,

Equal to men in that only, and less in all else; for they

    nourish315

Blindly the life of the lips, untaught by the gods,

    without wisdom:

Shame if I fled before such!’

                 In her heart new life was enkindled,

Worship and trust, fair parents of love: but she answered

    him sighing.

  ‘Beautiful, why wilt thou die? Is the light of the sun,

    then, so worthless,

Worthless to sport with thy fellows in flowery glades of

    the forest,320

Under the broad green oaks, where never again

    shall I wander,

Tossing the ball with my maidens, or wreathing

    the altar in garlands,

Careless, with dances and songs, till the glens rang loud

    to our laughter.

Too full of death the great earth is already; the halls full

    of weepers,

Quarried by tombs all cliffs, and the bones gleam white

    on the sea-floor,325

Numberless, gnawn by the herds who attend on

    the pitiless sea-gods,

Even as mine will be soon: and yet noble it seems

    to me, dying,

Giving my life for the people, to save to the arms of

    their lovers

Maidens and youths for awhile: thee, fairest of all, shall

    I slay thee?

Add not thy bones to the many, thus angering idly the

    dread ones!330

Either the monster will crush, or the sea-queen’s

    self overwhelm thee,

Vengeful, in tempest and foam, and the thundering

    walls of the surges.

Why wilt thou follow me down? can we love in the

    black blank darkness?

Love in the realms of the dead, in the land where all is

    forgotten?

Why wilt thou follow me down? is it joy, on the

    desolate oozes,335

Meagre to flit, grey ghosts in the depths of the

    grey salt water?

Beautiful! why wilt thou die, and defraud fair girls

    of thy manhood?

Surely one waits for thee longing, afar in the isles of the

    ocean.

Go thy way; I mine; for the gods grudge pleasure to

    mortals.’

  Sobbing she ended her moan, as her neck, like a

    storm-bent lily,340

Drooped with the weight of her woe, and her

    limbs sank, weary with watching,

Soft on the hard-ledged rock; but the boy, with his

    eye on the monster,

Clasped her, and stood, like a god; and his lips curved

    proud as he answered—

  ‘Great are the pitiless sea-gods: but greater the Lords

    of Olympus;

Greater the Aegis-wielder, and greater is she who

    attends him.345

Clear-eyed Justice her name is, the counsellor,

    loved of Athené;

Helper of heroes, who dare, in the god-given

    might of their manhood

Greatly to do and to suffer, and far in the fens and the

    forests

Smite the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, brood of the

    giants,

Twyformed, strange, without like, who obey not the

    golden-haired Rulers.350

Vainly rebelling they rage, till they die by the

    swords of the heroes,

Even as this must die; for I burn with the wrath of

    my father,

Wandering, led by Athené; and dare whatsoever betides

    me.

Led by Athené I won from the grey-haired terrible

    sisters

Secrets hidden from men, when I found them asleep on

    the sand-hills,355

Keeping their eye and their tooth, till they showed

    me the perilous pathway

Over the waterless ocean, the valley that led to the

    Gorgon.

Her too I slew in my craft, Medusa, the beautiful horror;

Taught by Athené I slew her, and saw not herself, but

    her image,

Watching the mirror of brass, in the shield which a

    goddess had lent me;360

Cleaving her brass-scaled throat, as she lay with

    her adders around her,

Fearless I bore off her head, in the folds of the

    mystical goat-skin,

Hide of Amaltheié, fair nurse of the Aegis-wielder.

Hither I bear it, a gift to the gods, and a death to my

    foemen,

Freezing the seer to stone; so hide thine eyes from the

    horror.365

Kiss me but once, and I go.’

                      Then lifting her neck,

    like a seabird

Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white swells

    of her bosom,

Blushing she kissed him: afar, on the topmost Idalian

    summit

Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the queen

    Aphrodité.

  Loosing his arms from her waist he flew upward,

    awaiting the sea-beast.370

Onward it came from the southward, as bulky and

    black as a galley,

Lazily coasting along, as the fish fled leaping

    before it;

Lazily breasting the ripple, and watching by sandbar

    and headland,

Listening for laughter of maidens at bleaching, or song

    of the fisher,

Children at play on the pebbles, or cattle that pawed on

    the sand-hills.375

Rolling and dripping it came, where bedded in

    glistening purple

Cold on the cold sea-weeds lay the long white

    sides of the maiden,

Trembling, her face in her hands, and her tresses afloat

    on the water.

  As when an osprey aloft, dark-eyebrowed, royally

    crested,

Flags on by creek and by cove, and in scorn of the anger

    of Nereus380

Ranges, the king of the shore; if he see on a

    glittering shallow,

Chasing the bass and the mullet, the fin of a

    wallowing dolphin,

Halting, he wheels round slowly, in doubt at the weight

    of his quarry,

Whether to clutch it alive, or to fall on the wretch like a

    plummet,

Stunning with terrible talon the life of the brain in the

    hindhead:385

Then rushes up with a scream, and stooping the

    wrath of his eyebrows

Falls from the sky, like a star, while the wind

    rattles hoarse in his pinions.

Over him closes the foam for a moment; and then from

    the sand-bed

Rolls up the great fish, dead, and his side gleams white

    in the sunshine.

Thus fell the boy on the beast, unveiling the face of the

    Gorgon;390

Thus fell the boy on the beast; thus rolled up the

    beast in his horror,

Once, as the dead eyes glared into his; then his

    sides, death-sharpened,

Stiffened and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the

    wandering water.

  Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leapt back again to his

    treasure;

Leapt back again, full blest, toward arms spread wide to

    receive him.395

Brimful of honour he clasped her, and brimful of

    love she caressed him,

Answering lip with lip; while above them the

    queen Aphrodité

Poured on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial

    odours,

Givers of longing, and rapture, and chaste content in

    espousals.

Happy whom ere they be wedded anoints she, the Queen

    Aphrodité!400

  Laughing she called to her sister, the chaste

    Tritonid Athené,

‘Seest thou yonder thy pupil, thou maid of the

    Aegis-wielder,

How he has turned himself wholly to love, and caresses

    a damsel,

Dreaming no longer of honour, or danger, or Pallas

    Athené?

Sweeter, it seems, to the young my gifts are; so yield me

    the stripling;405

Yield him me now, lest he die in his prime, like

    hapless Adonis.’

  Smiling she answered in turn, that chaste

    Tritonid Athené:

‘Dear unto me, no less than to thee, is the wedlock of

    heroes;

Dear, who can worthily win him a wife not unworthy;

    and noble,

Pure with the pure to beget brave children, the like of

    their father.410

Happy, who thus stands linked to the heroes who

    were, and who shall be;

Girdled with holiest awe, not sparing of self; for

    his mother

Watches his steps with the eyes of the gods; and his wife

    and his children

Move him to plan and to do in the farm and the camp

    and the council.

Thence comes weal to a nation: but woe upon woe,

    when the people415

Mingle in love at their will, like the brutes, not

    heeding the future.’

  Then from her gold-strung loom, where she

    wrought in her chamber of cedar,

Awful and fair she arose; and she went by the glens of

    Olympus;

Went by the isles of the sea, and the wind never ruffled

    her mantle;

Went by the water of Crete, and the black-beaked fleets

    of the Phoenics;420

Came to the sea-girt rock which is washed by the

    surges for ever,

Bearing the wealth of the gods, for a gift to the

    bride of hero.

There she met Andromeden and Persea, shaped like

    Immortals;

Solemn and sweet was her smile, while their hearts beat

    loud at her coming;

Solemn and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to the pair

    in her wisdom.425

  ‘Three things hold we, the Rulers, who sit by the

    founts of Olympus,

Wisdom, and prowess, and beauty; and freely we

    pour them on mortals;

Pleased at our image in man, as father at his in his

    children.

One thing only we grudge to mankind, when a hero,

    unthankful,

Boasts of our gifts as his own, stiffnecked, and

    dishonours the givers,430

Turning our weapons against us. Him Até follows

    avenging;

Slowly she tracks him and sure, as a

    lyme-hound^[3]; sudden she grips him,

Crushing him, blind in his pride, for a sign and a terror

    to folly.

This we avenge, as is fit; in all else never weary of

    giving.

Come then, damsel, and know if the gods grudge

    pleasure to mortals.’435

  Loving and gentle she spoke: but the maid stood

    in awe, as the goddess

Plaited with soft swift finger her tresses, and

    decked her in jewels,

Armlet and anklet and earbell; and over her shoulders a

    necklace,

Heavy, enamelled, the flower of the gold and the brass of

    the mountain.

Trembling with joy she gazed, so well Hephaistos had

    made it,440

Deep in the forges of Aetna, while Charis his lady

    beside him,

Mingled her grace in his craft, as he wrought for

    his sister Athené.

Then on the brows of the maiden a veil bound Pallas

    Athené;

Ample it fell to her feet, deep-fringed, a wonder of

    weaving.

Ages and ages agone it was wrought on the heights of

    Olympus,445

Wrought in the gold-strung loom, by the finger of

    cunning Athené.

In it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb

    of the ocean;

Nereid, siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy fishes

Glittering round, many-hued, on the flame-red folds of

    the mantle.

In it she wove, too, a town where grey-haired kings sat

    in judgement;450

Sceptre in hand in the market they sat, doing right

    by the people,

Wise: while above watched Justice, and near,

    far-seeing Apollo.

Round it she wove for a fringe all herbs of the earth and

    the water,

Violet, asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and lilies,

Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms

    of the ocean:455

Now from Olympus she bore it, a dower to the

    bride of a hero.

Over the limbs of the damsel she wrapt it: the maid

    still trembled,

Shading her face with her hands; for the eyes of the

    goddess were awful.

  Then, as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds blow

    landward,

Stately she bent to the damsel, and breathed on her:

    under her breathing460

Taller and fairer she grew; and the goddess spoke

    in her wisdom.

  ‘Courage I give thee; the heart of a queen, and

    the mind of Immortals,

Godlike to talk with the gods, and to look on their eyes

    unshrinking;

Fearing the sun and the stars no more, and the blue salt

    water;

Fearing us only, the Lords of Olympus, friends of the

    heroes;465

Chastely and wisely to govern thyself and thy

    house and thy people,

Bearing a god-like race to thy spouse, till dying I

    set thee

High for a star in the heavens, a sign and a hope to the

    seamen,

Spreading thy long white arms all night in the heights of

    the aether,

Hard by thy sire and the hero thy spouse, while near thee

    thy mother470

Sits in her ivory chair, as she plaits ambrosial

    tresses.

All night long thou wilt shine; all day thou wilt

    feast on Olympus,

Happy, the guest of the gods, by thy husband, the

    god-begotten.’

  Blissful, they turned them to go: but the fair-tressed

    Pallas Athené

Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver

    Olympus;475

Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the

    isles and the mainland;

Where no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless

    abysses,

High in the home of the summer, the seats of the happy

    Immortals,

Shrouded in keen deep blaze, unapproachable; there ever

    youthful

Hebé, Harmonié, and the daughter of Jove, Aphrodité,480

Whirled in the white-linked dance with the

    gold-crowned Hours and the Graces,

Hand within hand, while clear piped Phoebe,

    queen of the woodlands.

All day long they rejoiced: but Athené still in her

    chamber

Bent herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud to her

    singing,

Chanting of order and right, and of foresight, warden of

    nations;485

Chanting of labour and craft, and of wealth in the

    port and the garner;

Chanting of valour and fame, and the man who can

    fall with the foremost,

Fighting for children and wife, and the field which his

    father bequeathed him.

Sweetly and solemnly sang she, and planned new

    lessons for mortals:

Happy, who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied

    Athené.490

                  Charles Kingsley, 1819-75.

AN EPISODE

And the first grey of morning fill’d the east,

And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.

But all the Tartar camp along the stream

Was hush’d, and still the men were plunged in sleep:

Sohrab alone, he slept not: all night long5

He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;

But when the grey dawn stole into his tent,

He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,

And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent,

And went abroad into the cold wet fog,10

Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa’s tent.

  Through the black Tartar tents he pass’d, which

    stood

Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand

Of Oxus, where the summer floods o’erflow

When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere:15

Through the black tents he pass’d, o’er that low strand,

And to a hillock came, a little back

From the stream’s brink, the spot where first a boat,

Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.

The men of former times had crown’d the top20

With a clay fort: but that was fall’n; and now

The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa’s tent,

A dome of laths, and o’er it felts were spread.

And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood

Upon the thick-pil’d carpets in the tent,25

And found the old man sleeping on his bed

Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.

And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step

Was dull’d; for he slept light, an old man’s sleep;

And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:—30

  ‘Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn.

Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?’

  But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:—

‘Thou know’st me, Peran-Wisa: it is I.

The sun is not yet risen, and the foe35

Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie

Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.

For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek

Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,

In Samarcand, before the army march’d;40

And I will tell thee what my heart desires.

Thou know’st if, since from Ader-baijan first

I came among the Tartars, and bore arms,

I have still serv’d Afrasiab well, and shown,

At my boy’s years, the courage of a man.45

This too thou know’st, that, while I still bear on

The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world,

And beat the Persians back on every field,

I seek one man, one man, and one alone—

Rustum, my father; who, I hop’d, should greet,50

Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field,

His not unworthy, not inglorious son.

So I long hop’d, but him I never find.

Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask.

Let the two armies rest to-day: but I55

Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords

To meet me, man to man: if I prevail,

Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall—

Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.

Dim is the rumour of a common fight,60

Where host meets host, and many names are sunk:

But of a single combat Fame speaks clear.’

  He spoke: and Peran-Wisa took the hand

Of the young man in his, and sigh’d, and said:—

  ‘O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine!65

Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs,

And share the battle’s common chance with us

Who love thee, but must press for ever first,

In single fight incurring single risk,

To find a father thou hast never seen?70

That were far best, my son, to stay with us

Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war,

And when ’tis truce, then in Afrasiab’s towns.

But, if this one desire indeed rules all,

To seek out Rustum—seek him not through fight:75

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms,

O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son!

But far hence seek him, for he is not here.

For now it is not as when I was young,

When Rustum was in front of every fray:80

But now he keeps apart, and sits at home,

In Seistan, with Zal, his father old.

Whether that his own mighty strength at last

Feels the abhorr’d approaches of old age;

Or in some quarrel with the Persian King.85

There go:—Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes

Danger or death awaits thee on this field.

Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost

To us: fain therefore send thee hence, in peace

To seek thy father, not seek single fights90

In vain:—but who can keep the lion’s cub

From ravening? and who govern Rustum’s son?

Go: I will grant thee what thy heart desires.’

  So said he, and dropp’d Sohrab’s hand, and left

His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay,95

And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat

He pass’d, and tied his sandals on his feet,

And threw a white cloak round him, and he took

In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword;

And on his head he plac’d his sheep-skin cap,100

Black, glossy, curl’d, the fleece of Kara-Kul;

And rais’d the curtain of his tent, and call’d

His herald to his side, and went abroad.

  The sun, by this, had risen, and clear’d the fog

From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands:105

And from their tents the Tartar horsemen fil’d

Into the open plain; so Haman bade;

Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa rul’d

The host, and still was in his lusty prime.

From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream’d:110

As when, some grey November morn, the files,

In marching order spread, of long-neck’d cranes

Stream over Casbin, and the southern slopes

Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries,

Or some frore^[1] Caspian reed-bed, southward bound115

For the warm Persian sea-board: so they stream’d

The Tartars of the Oxus, the King’s guard,

First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears;

Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come

And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares.120

Next the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south,

The Turkas, and the lances of Salore,

And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands;

Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink

The acrid milk of camels, and their wells.125

And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came

From far, and a more doubtful service own’d;

The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks

Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards

And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes130

Who roam o’er Kipchak and the northern waste,

Kalmuks and unkemp’d Kuzzaks, tribes who stray

Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes,

Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere.

These all fil’d out from camp into the plain.135

And on the other side the Persians form’d:

First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem’d,

The Ilyats of Khorassan: and behind,

The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot,

Marshall’d battalions bright in burnish’d steel.140

But Peran-Wisa with his herald came

Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front,

And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks.

And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw

That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back,145

He took his spear, and to the front he came,

And check’d his ranks, and fix’d them where they

    stood.

And the old Tartar came upon the sand

Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:—

  ‘Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear!150

Let there be truce between the hosts to-day.

But choose a champion from the Persian lords

To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.’

  As, in the country, on a morn in June,

When the dew glistens on the pearled ears,155

A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy—

So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said,

A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran

Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they lov’d.

  But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool,160

Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,

That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow;

Winding so high, that, as they mount, they pass

Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow,

Chok’d by the air, and scarce can they themselves165

Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries—

In single file they move, and stop their breath,

For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows—

So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.

  And to Ferood his brother Chiefs came up170

To counsel: Gudurz and Zoarrah came,

And Feraburz, who rul’d the Persian host

Second, and was the uncle of the King:

These came and counsell’d; and then Gudurz said:—

  ‘Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up,175

Yet champion have we none to match this youth.

He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart.

But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits

And sullen, and has pitch’d his tents apart:

Him will I seek, and carry to his ear180

The Tartar challenge, and this young man’s name.

Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight.

Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.’

  So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and said:—

‘Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said.185

Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.’

  He spoke; and Peran-Wisa turn’d, and strode

Back through the opening squadrons to his tent.

But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran,

And cross’d the camp which lay behind, and reach’d,190

Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum’s tents.

Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay,

Just pitch’d: the high pavilion in the midst

Was Rustum’s, and his men lay camp’d around.

And Gudurz enter’d Rustum’s tent, and found195

Rustum: his morning meal was done, but still

The table stood beside him, charg’d with food;

A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread,

And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate

Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist,200

And play’d with it; but Gudurz came and stood

Before him; and he look’d, and saw him stand;

And with a cry sprang up, and dropp’d the bird,

And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said:—

  ‘Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight.205

What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.’

  But Gudurz stood in the tent door, and said:—

‘Not now: a time will come to eat and drink,

But not to-day: to-day has other needs.

The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze:210

For from the Tartars is a challenge brought

To pick a champion from the Persian lords

To fight their champion—and thou know’st his name—

Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid.

O Rustum, like thy might is this young man’s!215

He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart.

And he is young, and Iran’s Chiefs are old,

Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee.

Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose.’

  He spoke: but Rustum answer’d with a smile:—220

‘Go to! if Iran’s Chiefs are old, then I

Am older: if the young are weak, the King

Errs strangely: for the King, for Kai-Khosroo,

Himself is young, and honours younger men,

And lets the agèd moulder to their graves.225

Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young—

The young may rise at Sohrab’s vaunts, not I.

For what care I, though all speak Sohrab’s fame?

For would that I myself had such a son,

And not that one slight helpless girl I have,230

A son so fam’d, so brave, to send to war,

And I to tarry with the snow-hair’d Zal,

My father, whom the robber Afghans vex,

And clip his borders short, and drive his herds,

And he has none to guard his weak old age.235

There would I go, and hang my armour up,

And with my great name fence that weak old man,

And spend the goodly treasures I have got,

And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame,

And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings,240

And with these slaughterous hands draw sword

    no more.’

  He spoke, and smil’d; and Gudurz made reply:—

‘What then, O Rustum, will men say to this,

When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks

Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks,245

Hidest thy face? Take heed, lest men should say,

Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame,

And shuns to peril it with younger men.’

  And, greatly mov’d, then Rustum made reply:—

‘O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words?250

Thou knowest better words than this to say.

What is one more, one less, obscure or fam’d,

Valiant or craven, young or old, to me?

Are not they mortal, am not I myself?

But who for men of naught would do great deeds?255

Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame.

But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms;

Let not men say of Rustum, he was match’d

In single fight with any mortal man.’

  He spoke, and frown’d; and Gudurz turn’d, and ran260

Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy,

Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came.

But Rustum strode to his tent door, and call’d

His followers in, and bade them bring his arms,

And clad himself in steel: the arms he chose265

Were plain, and on his shield was no device,

Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold,

And from the fluted spine atop a plume

Of horsehair wav’d, a scarlet horsehair plume.

So arm’d he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse,270

Follow’d him, like a faithful hound, at heel,

Ruksh, whose renown was nois’d through all the earth,

The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once

Did in Bokhara by the river find

A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home,275

And rear’d him; a bright bay, with lofty crest;

Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider’d green

Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work’d

All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know:

So follow’d, Rustum left his tents, and cross’d280

The camp, and to the Persian host appear’d.

And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts

Hail’d; but the Tartars knew not who he was.

And dear as the wet diver to the eyes

Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore,285

By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf,

Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night,

Having made up his tale of precious pearls,

Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands—

So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came.290

  And Rustum to the Persian front advanc’d,

And Sohrab arm’d in Haman’s tent, and came.

And as afield the reapers cut a swathe

Down through the middle of a rich man’s corn,

And on each side are squares of standing corn,295

And in the midst a stubble, short and bare;

So on each side were squares of men, with spears

Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand.

And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast

His eyes towards the Tartar tents, and saw300

Sohrab come forth, and ey’d him as he came.

  As some rich woman, on a winter’s morn,

Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge

Who with numb blacken’d fingers makes her fire—

At cock-crow, on a starlit winter’s morn,305

When the frost flowers the whiten’d window panes—

And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts

Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum ey’d

The unknown adventurous Youth, who from afar

Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth310

All the most valiant chiefs: long he perus’d

His spirited air, and wonder’d who he was.

For very young he seem’d, tenderly rear’d;

Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight,

Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws315

Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,

By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound—

So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d.

And a deep pity enter’d Rustum’s soul

As he beheld him coming; and he stood,320

And beckon’d to him with his hand, and said:

  ‘O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft,

And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold.

Heaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave.

Behold me: I am vast, and clad in iron,325

And tried; and I have stood on many a field

Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe:

Never was that field lost, or that foe sav’d.

O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?

Be govern’d: quit the Tartar host, and come330

To Iran, and be as my son to me,

And fight beneath my banner till I die.

There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.’

  So he spake, mildly: Sohrab heard his voice,

The mighty voice of Rustum; and he saw335

His giant figure planted on the sand,

Sole, like some single tower, which a chief

Has builded on the waste in former years

Against the robbers; and he saw that head,

Streak’d with its first grey hairs: hope fill’d his soul;340

And he ran forwards and embrac’d his knees,

And clasp’d his hand within his own and said:—

  ‘Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul!

Art thou not Rustum? Speak! art thou not he?’

  But Rustum ey’d askance the kneeling youth,345

And turn’d away, and spoke to his own soul:—

  ‘Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean.

False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys.

For if I now confess this thing he asks,

And hide it not, but say—Rustum is here—350

He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,

But he will find some pretext not to fight,

And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts,

A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way.

And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab’s hall,355

In Samarcand, he will arise and cry—

“I challeng’d once, when the two armies camp’d

Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords

To cope with me in single fight; but they

Shrank; only Rustum dar’d; then he and I360

Chang’d gifts, and went on equal terms away.”

So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud.

Then were the chiefs of Iran sham’d through me.’

  And then he turn’d, and sternly spake aloud:—

‘Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus365

Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call’d

By challenge forth: make good thy vaunt, or yield.

Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight?

Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face and flee.

For well I know, that did great Rustum stand370

Before thy face this day, and were reveal’d,

There would be then no talk of fighting more.

But being what I am, I tell thee this;

Do thou record it in thine inmost soul:

Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield;375

Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds

Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods,

Oxus in summer wash them all away.’

  He spoke: and Sohrab answer’d, on his feet:—

‘Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so.380

I am no girl, to be made pale by words.

Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand

Here on this field, there were no fighting then.

But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here.

Begin: thou art more vast, more dread than I,385

And thou art prov’d, I know, and I am young—

But yet Success sways with the breath of Heaven.

And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure

Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know.

For we are all, like swimmers in the sea,390

Pois’d on the top of a huge wave of Fate,

Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall.

And whether it will heave us up to land,

Or whether it will roll us out to sea,

Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death,395

We know not, and no search will make us know:

Only the event will teach us in its hour.’

  He spoke; and Rustum answer’d not, but hurl’d

His spear: down from the shoulder, down it came,

As on some partridge in the corn a hawk400

That long has tower’d in the airy clouds

Drops like a plummet: Sohrab saw it come,

And sprang aside, quick as a flash: the spear

Hiss’d, and went quivering down into the sand,

Which it sent flying wide:—then Sohrab threw405

In turn, and full struck Rustum’s shield: sharp rang,

The iron plates rang sharp, but turn’d the spear.

And Rustum seiz’d his club, which none but he

Could wield: an unlopp’d trunk it was, and huge,

Still rough; like those which men in treeless plains410

To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers,

Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up

By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time

Has made in Himalayan forests wrack,

And strewn the channels with torn boughs; so huge415

The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck

One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside

Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came

Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s hand.

And Rustum follow’d his own blow, and fell420

To his knees, and with his fingers clutch’d the sand:

And now might Sohrab have unsheath’d his sword,

And pierc’d the mighty Rustum while he lay

Dizzy, and on his knees, and chok’d with sand:

But he look’d on, and smil’d, nor bar’d his sword,425

But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:—

  ‘Thou strik’st too hard: that club of thine will float

Upon the summer floods, and not my bones.

But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I:

No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.430

Thou say’st, thou art not Rustum: be it so.

Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?

Boy as I am, I have seen battles too;

Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,

And heard their hollow roar of dying men;435

But never was my heart thus touch’d before.

Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart?

O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!

Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears,

And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,440

And pledge each other in red wine, like friends,

And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum’s deeds.

There are enough foes in the Persian host

Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;

Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou445

Mayst fight; fight them, when they confront thy spear.

But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!’

  He ceas’d: but while he spake, Rustum had risen,

And stood erect, trembling with rage: his club

He left to lie, but had regain’d his spear,450

Whose fiery point now in his mail’d right-hand

Blaz’d bright and baleful, like that autumn Star,

The baleful sign of fevers: dust had soil’d

His stately crest, and dimm’d his glittering arms.

His breast heav’d; his lips foam’d; and twice his voice455

Was chok’d with rage: at last these words broke way:—

  ‘Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!

Curl’d minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!

Fight; let me hear thy hateful voice no more!

Thou art not in Afrasiab’s gardens now460

With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;

But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance

Of battle, and with me, who make no play

Of war: I fight it out, and hand to hand.

Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine!465

Remember all thy valour: try thy feints

And cunning: all the pity I had is gone:

Because thou hast sham’d me before both the hosts

With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl’s wiles.’

  He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,470

And he too drew his sword: at once they rush’d

Together, as two eagles on one prey

Come rushing down together from the clouds,

One from the east, one from the west: their shields

Dash’d with a clang together, and a din475

Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters

Make often in the forest’s heart at morn,

Of hewing axes, crashing trees: such blows

Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail’d.

And you would say that sun and stars took part480

In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud

Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark’d the sun

Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose

Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain,

And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp’d the pair.485

In gloom they twain were wrapp’d, and they alone;

For both the on-looking hosts on either hand

Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,

And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.

But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes490

And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shield

Which Sohrab held stiff out: the steel-spik’d spear

Rent the tough plates, but fail’d to reach the skin,

And Rustum pluck’d it back with angry groan.

Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum’s helm,495

Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest

He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume

Never till now defil’d, sunk to the dust;

And Rustum bow’d his head; but then the gloom

Grew blacker: thunder rumbled in the air,500

And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse,

Who stood at hand, utter’d a dreadful cry:

No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar

Of some pain’d desert lion, who all day

Has trail’d the hunter’s javelin in his side,505

And comes at night to die upon the sand:—

The two hosts heard that cry, and quak’d for fear,

And Oxus curdled as it cross’d his stream.

But Sohrab heard, and quail’d not, but rush’d on,

And struck again; and again Rustum bow’d510

His head; but this time all the blade, like glass,

Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,

And in his hand the hilt remain’d alone.

Then Rustum rais’d his head: his dreadful eyes

Glar’d, and he shook on high his menacing spear,515

And shouted, Rustum! Sohrab heard that shout,

And shrank amaz’d: back he recoil’d one step,

And scann’d with blinking eyes the advancing Form:

And then he stood bewilder’d; and he dropp’d

His covering shield, and the spear pierc’d his side.520

He reel’d, and staggering back, sunk to the ground.

And then the gloom dispers’d, and the wind fell,

And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all

The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair;

Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,525

And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.

  Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began:—

‘Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill

A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,

And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab’s tent.530

Or else that the great Rustum would come down

Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move

His heart to take a gift, and let thee go.

And then that all the Tartar host would praise

Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame,535

To glad thy father in his weak old age.

Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man!

Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be,

Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.’

  And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:—540

‘Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain.

Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!

No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.

For were I match’d with ten such men as thou,

And I were he who till to-day I was,545

They should be lying here, I standing there.

But that belovèd name unnerv’d my arm—

That name, and something, I confess, in thee,

Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield

Fall; and thy spear transfix’d an unarm’d foe.550

And now thou boastest, and insult’st my fate.

But hear thou this, fierce Man, tremble to hear!

The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!

My father, whom I seek through all the world,

He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!’555

  As when some hunter in the spring hath found

A breeding eagle sitting on her nest,

Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake,

And pierc’d her with an arrow as she rose,

And follow’d her to find her where she fell560

Far off;—anon her mate comes winging back

From hunting, and a great way off descries

His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks

His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps

Circles above his eyry, with loud screams565

Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she

Lies dying, with the arrow in her side,

In some far stony gorge out of his ken,

A heap of fluttering feathers: never more

Shall the lake glass her, flying over it;570

Never the black and dripping precipices

Echo her stormy scream as she sails by:—

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss—

So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood

Over his dying son, and knew him not.575

  But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said:—

‘What prate is this of fathers and revenge?

The mighty Rustum never had a son.’

  And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:—

‘Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I.580

Surely the news will one day reach his ear,

Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,

Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;

And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap

To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee.585

Fierce Man, bethink thee, for an only son!

What will that grief, what will that vengeance be!

Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen!

Yet him I pity not so much, but her,

My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells590

With that old King, her father, who grows grey

With age, and rules over the valiant Koords.

Her most I pity, who no more will see

Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,

With spoils and honour, when the war is done.595

But a dark rumour will be bruited up,

From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;

And then will that defenceless woman learn

That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more;

But that in battle with a nameless foe,600

By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.’

  He spoke; and as he ceas’d he wept aloud,

Thinking of her he left, and his own death.

He spoke; but Rustum listen’d, plung’d in thought.

Nor did he yet believe it was his son605

Who spoke, although he call’d back names he knew;

For he had had sure tidings that the babe,

Which was in Ader-baijan born to him,

Had been a puny girl, no boy at all:

So that sad mother sent him word, for fear610

Rustum should take the boy, to train in arms;

And so he deem’d that either Sohrab took,

By a false boast, the style of Rustum’s son;

Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame.

So deem’d he; yet he listen’d, plung’d in thought;615

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide

Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore

At the full moon: tears gather’d in his eyes;

For he remember’d his own early youth,

And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn,620

The Shepherd from his mountain lodge descries

A far bright City, smitten by the sun,

Through many rolling clouds;—so Rustum saw

His youth; saw Sohrab’s mother, in her bloom;

And that old King, her father, who lov’d well625

His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child

With joy; and all the pleasant life they led,

They three, in that long-distant summer-time—

The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt

And hound, and morn on those delightful hills630

In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth,

Of age and looks to be his own dear son,

Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand,

Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe

Of an unskilful gardener has been cut,635

Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed,

And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,

On the mown, dying grass;—so Sohrab lay,

Lovely in death, upon the common sand.

And Rustum gaz’d on him with grief, and said:—640

  ‘O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son

Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have lov’d!

Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men

Have told thee false;—thou art not Rustum’s son.

For Rustum had no son: one child he had—645

But one—a girl: who with her mother now

Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us—

Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.’

  But Sohrab answer’d him in wrath; for now

The anguish of the deep-fix’d spear grew fierce,650

And he desired to draw forth the steel,

And let the blood flow free, and so to die;

But first he would convince his stubborn foe—

And rising sternly on one arm, he said:—

  ‘Man, who art thou who dost deny my words?655

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men,

And Falsehood, while I liv’d, was far from mine.

I tell thee, prick’d upon this arm I bear

That seal which Rustum to my mother gave,

That she might prick it on the babe she bore.’660

  He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum’s cheeks;

And his knees totter’d, and he smote his hand

Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand,

That the hard iron corslet clank’d aloud:

And to his heart he press’d the other hand,665

And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:—

  ‘Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie.

If thou shew this, then art thou Rustum’s son.’

  Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loos’d

His belt, and near the shoulder bar’d his arm,670

And shew’d a sign in faint vermilion points

Prick’d: as a cunning workman, in Pekin,

Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,

An emperor’s gift—at early morn he paints,

And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp675

Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands:—

So delicately prick’d the sign appear’d

On Sohrab’s arm, the sign of Rustum’s seal.

It was that Griffin, which of old rear’d Zal,

Rustum’s great father, whom they left to die,680

A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks.

Him that kind Creature found, and rear’d, and lov’d—

Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.

And Sohrab bar’d that figure on his arm,

And himself scann’d it long with mournful eyes,685

And then he touch’d it with his hand and said:—

  ‘How say’st thou? Is that sign the proper sign

Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man’s?’

  He spoke: but Rustum gaz’d, and gaz’d, and stood

Speechless; and then he utter’d one sharp cry—690

O Boy—thy Father!—and his voice chok’d there.

And then a dark cloud pass’d before his eyes,

And his head swam, and he sunk down to earth.

But Sohrab crawl’d to where he lay, and cast

His arms about his neck, and kiss’d his lips,695

And with fond faltering fingers strok’d his cheeks,

Trying to call him back to life: and life

Came back to Rustum, and he op’d his eyes,

And they stood wide with horror; and he seiz’d

In both his hands the dust which lay around,700

And threw it on his head, and smirch’d his hair,

His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms:

And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast,

And his sobs chok’d him; and he clutch’d his sword,

To draw it, and for ever let life out.705

But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands,

And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said:—

  ‘Father, forbear: for I but meet to-day

The doom that at my birth was written down

In Heaven, and thou art Heaven’s unconscious hand.710

Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,

When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too,

I know it: but Fate trod those promptings down

Under its iron heel; Fate, Fate engag’d

The strife, and hurl’d me on my father’s spear.715

But let us speak no more of this: I find

My father; let me feel that I have found.

Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take

My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,

And wash them with thy tears, and say, My Son!720

Quick! quick! for number’d are my sands of life,

And swift; for like the lightning to this field

I came, and like the wind I go away—

Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.

But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.’725

  So said he: and his voice releas’d the heart

Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast

His arms round his son’s neck, and wept aloud,

And kiss’d him. And awe fell on both the hosts

When they saw Rustum’s grief: and Ruksh, the horse,730

With his head bowing to the ground, and mane

Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe

First to the one then to the other mov’d

His head, as if inquiring what their grief

Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,735

The big warm tears roll’d down, and cak’d the sand.

But Rustum chid him with a stern voice, and said:—

  ‘Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet

Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints,

When first they bore thy Master to this field.’740

  But Sohrab look’d upon the horse and said:—

‘Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days,

My mother told me of thee, thou brave Steed!

My terrible father’s terrible horse; and said,

That I should one day find thy lord and thee.745

Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane.

O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;

For thou hast gone where I shall never go,

And snuff’d the breezes of my father’s home.

And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan,750

And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake

Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself

Has often strok’d thy neck, and given thee food,

Corn in a golden platter soak’d with wine,

And said—“O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!”—but I755

Have never known my grandsire’s furrow’d face,

Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan,

Nor slak’d my thirst at the clear Helmund stream:

But lodg’d among my father’s foes, and seen

Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand,760

Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,

And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk

The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend,

Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,

The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream—765

The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.’

  And with a heavy groan, Rustum replied:—

‘Oh that its waves were flowing over me!

Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt

Roll tumbling in the current o’er my head!’770

  And with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied:—

‘Desire not that, my father; thou must live.

For some are born to do great deeds, and live,

As some are born to be obscur’d, and die.

Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,775

And reap a second glory in thine age.

Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.

But come: thou seest this great host of men

Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these:

Let me entreat for them: what have they done?780

They follow’d me, my hope, my fame, my star.

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.

But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,

But carry me with thee to Seistan,

And place me on a bed, and mourn for me,785

Thou, and the snow-hair’d Zal, and all thy friends.

And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,

And heap a stately mound above my bones,

And plant a far-seen pillar over all:

That so the passing horseman on the waste790

May see my tomb a great way off, and say—

Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there,

Whom his great father did in ignorance kill—

And I be not forgotten in my grave.’

  And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:—795

‘Fear not; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,

So shall it be: for I will burn my tents,

And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,

And carry thee away to Seistan,

And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,800

With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.

And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,

And heap a stately mound above thy bones,

And plant a far-seen pillar over all:

And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.805

And I will spare thy host: yea, let them go:

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.

What should I do with slaying any more?

For would that all whom I have ever slain

Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes,810

And they who were call’d champions in their time,

And through whose death I won that fame I have;

And I were nothing but a common man,

A poor, mean soldier, and without renown,

So thou mightest live too, my Son, my Son!815

Or rather would that I, even I myself,

Might now be lying on this bloody sand,

Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine,

Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou;

And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan;820

And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;

And say—O son, I weep thee not too sore,

For willingly, I know, thou met’st thine end.—

But now in blood and battles was my youth,

And full of blood and battles is my age;825

And I shall never end this life of blood.’

  Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied:—

‘A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful Man!

But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now:

Not yet: but thou shalt have it on that day,830

When thou shalt sail in a high-masted Ship,

Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo,

Returning home over the salt blue sea,

From laying thy dear Master in his grave.’

  And Rustum gaz’d on Sohrab’s face, and said:—835

‘Soon be that day, my Son, and deep that sea!

Till then, if Fate so wills, let me endure.’

  He spoke; and Sohrab smil’d on him, and took

The spear, and drew it from his side, and eas’d

His wound’s imperious anguish: but the blood840

Came welling from the open gash, and life

Flow’d with the stream: all down his cold white side

The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soil’d,

Like the soil’d tissue of white violets

Left, freshly gather’d, on their native bank,845

By romping children, whom their nurses call

From the hot fields at noon: his head droop’d low,

His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay—

White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,

Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame,850

Convuls’d him back to life, he open’d them,

And fix’d them feebly on his father’s face:

Till now all strength was ebb’d, and from his limbs

Unwillingly the spirit fled away,

Regretting the warm mansion which it left,855

And youth and bloom, and this delightful world.

  So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead.

And the great Rustum drew his horseman’s cloak

Down o’er his face, and sate by his dead son.

As those black granite pillars, once high-rear’d860

By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear

His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps,

Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side—

So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.

And night came down over the solemn waste,865

And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,

And darken’d all; and a cold fog, with night,

Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose,

As of a great assembly loos’d, and fires

Began to twinkle through the fog: for now870

Both armies mov’d to camp, and took their meal:

The Persians took it on the open sands

Southward; the Tartars by the river marge:

And Rustum and his son were left alone.

  But the majestic River floated on,875

Out of the mist and hum of that low land,

Into the frosty starlight, and there mov’d,

Rejoicing, through the hush’d Chorasmian waste,

Under the solitary moon: he flow’d

Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunjè,880

Brimming, and bright, and large: then sands begin

To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,

And split his currents; that for many a league

The shorn and parcell’d Oxus strains along

Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles—885

Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had

In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,

A foil’d circuitous wanderer:—till at last

The long’d-for dash of waves is heard, and wide

His luminous home of waters opens, bright890

And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath’d stars

Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.

An Episode

I

SENDING

  So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round

Lay thickly strewn swords axes darts and spears

Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown

At Balder, whom no weapon pierc’d or clove:

But in his breast stood fixt the fatal bough5

Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave

To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw:

’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm.

And all the Gods and all the Heroes came

And stood round Balder on the bloody floor10

Weeping and wailing; and Valhalla rang

Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries:

And on the tables stood the untasted meats,

And in the horns and gold-rimm’d skulls the wine:

And now would Night have fall’n, and found them yet15

Wailing; but otherwise was Odin’s will:

And thus the Father of the Ages spake:—

  ‘Enough of tears, ye Gods, enough of wail!

Not to lament in was Valhalla made.

If any here might weep for Balder’s death20

I most might weep, his Father; such a son

I lose to-day, so bright, so lov’d a God.

But he has met that doom which long ago

The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun,

And Fate set seal, that so his end must be.25

Balder has met his death, and ye survive:

Weep him an hour; but what can grief avail?

For you yourselves, ye Gods, shall meet your doom,

All ye who hear me, and inhabit Heaven,

And I too, Odin too, the Lord of all;30

But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes,

With woman’s tears and weak complaining cries—

Why should we meet another’s portion so?

Rather it fits you, having wept your hour,

With cold dry eyes, and hearts compos’d and stern,35

To live, as erst, your daily life in Heaven:

By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok,

The Foe, the Accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate,

Be strictly car’d for, in the appointed day.

Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns,40

Bring wood to the seashore to Balder’s ship,

And on the deck build high a funeral pile,

And on the top lay Balder’s corpse, and put

Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea

To burn; for that is what the dead desire.’45

  So having spoke, the King of Gods arose

And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode,

And from the hall of Heaven he rode away

To Lidskialf, and sate upon his throne,

The Mount, from whence his eye surveys the world.50

And far from Heaven he turn’d his shining orbs

To look on Midgard, and the earth, and men:

And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze

Whom antler’d reindeer pull over the snow;

And on the Finns, the gentlest of mankind,55

Fair men, who live in holes under the ground:

Nor did he look once more to Ida’s plain,

Nor towards Valhalla, and the sorrowing Gods;

For well he knew the Gods would heed his word,

And cease to mourn, and think of Balder’s pyre.60

  But in Valhalla all the Gods went back

From around Balder, all the Heroes went;

And left his body stretch’d upon the floor.

And on their golden chairs they sate again,

Beside the tables, in the hall of Heaven;65

And before each the cooks who serv’d them plac’d

New messes of the boar Serimner’s flesh,

And the Valkyries crown’d their horns with mead.

So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes,

Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank,70

While Twilight fell, and sacred Night came on.

  But the blind Hoder left the feasting Gods

In Odin’s hall, and went through Asgard streets,

And past the haven where the Gods have moor’d

Their ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall.75

Though sightless, yet his own mind led the God,

Down to the margin of the roaring sea

He came, and sadly went along the sand

Between the waves and black o’erhanging cliffs

Where in and out the screaming seafowl fly;80

Until he came to where a gully breaks

Through the cliff wall, and a fresh stream runs down

From the high moors behind, and meets the sea.

There in the glen Fensaler stands, the house

Of Frea, honour’d Mother of the Gods,85

And shows its lighted windows to the main

There he went up, and pass’d the open doors:

And in the hall he found those women old,

The Prophetesses, who by rite eterne

On Frea’s hearth feed high the sacred fire90

Both night and day; and by the inner wall

Upon her golden chair the Mother sate,

With folded hands, revolving things to come:

To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said:—

  ‘Mother, a child of bale thou bar’st in me.95

For, first, thou barest me with blinded eyes,

Sightless and helpless, wandering weak in Heaven;

And, after that, of ignorant witless mind

Thou barest me, and unforeseeing soul:

That I alone must take the branch from Lok,100

The Foe, the Accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate,

And cast it at the dear-lov’d Balder’s breast

At whom the Gods in sport their weapons threw—

’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm.

Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly?105

For who will bear my hateful sight in Heaven?—

Can I, O Mother, bring them Balder back?

Or—for thou know’st the Fates, and things allow’d—

Can I with Hela’s power a compact strike,

And make exchange, and give my life for his?’110

  He spoke: the Mother of the Gods replied:—

‘Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son,

Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these?

That one, long portion’d with his doom of death,

Should change his lot, and fill another’s life,115

And Hela yield to this, and let him go!

On Balder Death hath laid her hand, not thee;

Nor doth she count this life a price for that.

For many Gods in Heaven, not thou alone,

Would freely die to purchase Balder back,120

And wend themselves to Hela’s gloomy realm.

For not so gladsome is that life in Heaven

Which Gods and Heroes lead, in feast and fray,

Waiting the darkness of the final times,

That one should grudge its loss for Balder’s sake,125

Balder their joy, so bright, so lov’d a God.

But Fate withstands, and laws forbid this way.

Yet in my secret mind one way I know,

Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail:

But much must still be tried, which shall but fail.’130

  And the blind Hoder answer’d her, and said:—

‘What way is this, O Mother, that thou show’st?

Is it a matter which a God might try?’

  And straight the Mother of the Gods

    replied:—

‘There is a way which leads to Hela’s realm,135

Untrodden, lonely, far from light and Heaven.

Who goes that way must take no other horse

To ride, but Sleipner, Odin’s horse, alone.

Nor must he choose that common path of Gods

Which every day they come and go in Heaven,140

O’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,

Past Midgard Fortress, down to Earth and men;

But he must tread a dark untravell’d road

Which branches from the north of Heaven, and ride

Nine days, nine nights, towards the northern ice,145

Through valleys deep-engulph’d, with roaring streams.

And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge

Which spans with golden arches Giall’s stream,

Not Bifrost, but that bridge a Damsel keeps,

Who tells the passing troops of dead their way150

To the low shore of ghosts, and Hela’s realm.

And she will bid him northward steer his course:

Then he will journey through no lighted land,

Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set;

But he must ever watch the northern Bear155

Who from her frozen height with jealous eye

Confronts the Dog and Hunter in the south,

And is alone not dipt in Ocean’s stream.

And straight he will come down to Ocean’s strand;

Ocean, whose watery ring enfolds the world,160

And on whose marge the ancient Giants dwell.

But he will reach its unknown northern shore,

Far, far beyond the outmost Giant’s home,

At the chink’d fields of ice, the waste of snow:

And he will fare across the dismal ice165

Northward, until he meets a stretching wall

Barring his way, and in the wall a grate.

But then he must dismount, and on the ice

Tighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin’s horse,

And make him leap the grate, and come within.170

And he will see stretch round him Hela’s realm,

The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead,

And hear the roaring of the streams of Hell.

And he will see the feeble shadowy tribes,

And Balder sitting crown’d, and Hela’s throne175

Then he must not regard the wailful ghosts

Who all will flit, like eddying leaves, around;

But he must straight accost their solemn Queen,

And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers,

Telling her all that grief they have in Heaven180

For Balder, whom she holds by right below:

If haply he may melt her heart with words,

And make her yield, and give him Balder back.’

  She spoke: but Hoder answer’d her and said:—

‘Mother, a dreadful way is this thou show’st,185

No journey for a sightless God to go.’

  And straight the Mother of the Gods replied:—

‘Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son.

But he whom first thou meetest when thou com’st

To Asgard, and declar’st this hidden way,190

Shall go, and I will be his guide unseen.’

  She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil,

And bow’d her head, and sate with folded hands.

But at the central hearth those Women old,

Who while the Mother spake had ceased their toil,195

Began again to heap the sacred fire:

And Hoder turn’d, and left his mother’s house,

Fensaler, whose lit windows look to sea;

And came again down to the roaring waves,

And back along the beach to Asgard went,200

Pondering on that which Frea said should be.

  But Night came down, and darken’d Asgard streets.

Then from their loathèd feast the Gods arose,

And lighted torches, and took up the corpse

Of Balder from the floor of Odin’s hall,205

And laid it on a bier, and bare him home

Through the fast-darkening streets to his own house

Breidablik, on whose columns Balder grav’d

The enchantments, that recall the dead to life:

For wise he was, and many curious arts,210

Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew;

Unhappy: but that art he did not know

To keep his own life safe, and see the sun:—

There to his hall the Gods brought Balder home,

And each bespake him as he laid him down:—215

  ‘Would that ourselves, O Balder, we were borne

Home to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin,

So thou might’st live, and still delight the Gods.’

  They spake: and each went home to his own house.

But there was one, the first of all the Gods220

For speed, and Hermod was his name in Heaven;

Most fleet he was, but now he went the last,

Heavy in heart for Balder, to his house

Which he in Asgard built him, there to dwell,

Against the harbour, by the city wall:225

Him the blind Hoder met, as he came up

From the sea cityward, and knew his step;

Nor yet could Hermod see his brother’s face,

For it grew dark; but Hoder touch’d his arm:

And as a spray of honeysuckle flowers230

Brushes across a tired traveller’s face

Who shuffles through the deep dew-moisten’d dust,

On a May evening, in the darken’d lanes,

And starts him, that he thinks a ghost went by—

So Hoder brush’d by Hermod’s side, and said:—235

  ‘Take Sleipner, Hermod, and set forth with dawn

To Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back;

And they shall be thy guides, who have the power.’

  He spake, and brush’d soft by, and disappear’d.

And Hermod gaz’d into the night, and said:—240

  ‘Who is it utters through the dark his hest

So quickly, and will wait for no reply?

The voice was like the unhappy Hoder’s voice.

Howbeit I will see, and do his hest;

For there rang note divine in that command.’245

  So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came

Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house,

And all the Gods lay down in their own homes.

And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief,

Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other Gods:250

And he went in, and shut the door, and fixt

His sword upright, and fell on it, and died.

  But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose,

The throne, from which his eye surveys the world;

And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode255

To Asgard. And the stars came out in Heaven,

High over Asgard, to light home the King.

But fiercely Odin gallop’d, mov’d in heart;

And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came:

And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang260

Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets;

And the Gods trembled on their golden beds

Hearing the wrathful Father coming home;

For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came:

And to Valhalla’s gate he rode, and left265

Sleipner; and Sleipner went to his own stall:

And in Valhalla Odin laid him down.

  But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder’s wife,

Came with the Goddesses who wrought her will,

And stood round Balder lying on his bier:270

And at his head and feet she station’d Scalds^[1]

Who in their lives were famous for their song;

These o’er the corpse inton’d a plaintive strain,

A dirge; and Nanna and her train replied.

And far into the night they wail’d their dirge:275

But when their souls were satisfied with wail,

They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went

Into an upper chamber, and lay down;

And Frea seal’d her tired lids with sleep.

  And ’twas when Night is bordering hard on Dawn,280

When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low,

Then Balder’s spirit through the gloom drew near,

In garb, in form, in feature as he was

Alive, and still the rays were round his head

Which were his glorious mark in Heaven; he stood285

Over against the curtain of the bed,

And gaz’d on Nanna as she slept, and spake:—

  ‘Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett’st thy woe.

Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes,

Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek; but thou,290

Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep.

Sleep on: I watch thee, and am here to aid.

Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul,

Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead.

For with to-morrow’s dawn the Gods prepare295

To gather wood, and build a funeral pile

Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire,

That sad, sole honour of the dead; and thee

They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth,

With me, for thus ordains the common rite:300

But it shall not be so: but mild, but swift,

But painless shall a stroke from Frea come,

To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul,

And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee.

And well I know that by no stroke of death,305

Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die,

So it restor’d thee, Nanna, to my side,

Whom thou so well hast lov’d; but I can smooth

Thy way, and this at least my prayers avail.

Yes, and I fain would altogether ward310

Death from thy head, and with the Gods in Heaven

Prolong thy life, though not by thee desir’d:

But Right bars this, not only thy desire.

Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead

In that dim world, in Hela’s mouldering realm;315

And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead,

Whom Hela with austere control presides;

For of the race of Gods is no one there

Save me alone, and Hela, solemn Queen:

And all the nobler souls of mortal men320

On battle-field have met their death, and now

Feast in Valhalla, in my Father’s hall;

Only the inglorious sort are there below,

The old, the cowards, and the weak are there,

Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay.325

But even there, O Nanna, we might find

Some solace in each other’s look and speech,

Wandering together through that gloomy world,

And talking of the life we led in Heaven,

While we yet liv’d, among the other Gods.’330

  He spake, and straight his lineaments began

To fade: and Nanna in her sleep stretch’d out

Her arms towards him with a cry; but he

Mournfully shook his head, and disappear’d.

And as the woodman sees a little smoke335

Hang in the air, afield, and disappear—

So Balder faded in the night away.

And Nanna on her bed sunk back: but then

Frea, the Mother of the Gods, with stroke

Painless and swift, set free her airy soul,340

Which took, on Balder’s track, the way below:

And instantly the sacred Morn appear’d.

II

JOURNEY TO THE DEAD

  Forth from the East, up the ascent of Heaven,

Day drove his courser with the Shining Mane;

And in Valhalla, from his gable perch,345

The golden-crested Cock began to crow:

Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night,

With shrill and dismal cries that Bird shall crow,

Warning the Gods that foes draw nigh to Heaven;

But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note,350

To wake the Gods and Heroes to their tasks.

And all the Gods, and all the Heroes, woke.

And from their beds the Heroes rose, and donn’d

Their arms, and led their horses from the stall,

And mounted them, and in Valhalla’s court355

Were rang’d; and then the daily fray began.

And all day long they there are hack’d and hewn

’Mid dust, and groans, and limbs lopp’d off, and blood;

But all at night return to Odin’s hall

Woundless and fresh: such lot is theirs in Heaven.360

And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth

Toward Earth and fights of men; and at their side

Skulda, the youngest of the Nornies, rode:

And over Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch,

Past Midgard Fortress, down to Earth they came:365

There through some battle-field, where men fall fast,

Their horses fetlock-deep in blood, they ride,

And pick the bravest warriors out for death,

Whom they bring back with them at night to Heaven,

To glad the Gods, and feast in Odin’s hall.370

  But the Gods went not now, as otherwhile,

Into the Tilt-Yard, where the Heroes fought,

To feast their eyes with looking on the fray:

Nor did they to their Judgement-Place repair

By the ash Igdrasil, in Ida’s plain,375

Where they hold council, and give laws for men:

But they went, Odin first, the rest behind,

To the hall Gladheim, which is built of gold;

Where are in circle rang’d twelve golden chairs,

And in the midst one higher, Odin’s throne:380

There all the Gods in silence sate them down;

And thus the Father of the Ages spake:—

‘Go quickly, Gods, bring wood to the seashore,

With all, which it beseems the dead to have,

And make a funeral pile on Balder’s ship.385

On the twelfth day the Gods shall burn his corpse.

But Hermod, thou, take Sleipner, and ride down

To Hela’s kingdom, to ask Balder back.’

  So said he; and the Gods arose, and took

Axes and ropes, and at their head came Thor,390

Shouldering his Hammer, which the Giants know:

Forth wended they, and drove their steeds before:

And up the dewy mountain tracks they far’d

To the dark forests, in the early dawn;

And up and down and side and slant they roam’d:395

And from the glens all day an echo came

Of crashing falls; for with his hammer Thor

Smote ’mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines

And burst their roots; while to their tops the Gods

Made fast the woven ropes, and hal’d them down,400

And lopp’d their boughs, and clove them on the sward,

And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw,

And drove them homeward; and the snorting steeds

Went straining through the crackling brushwood down,

And by the darkling forest paths the Gods405

Follow’d, and on their shoulders carried boughs.

And they came out upon the plains, and pass’d

Asgard, and led their horses to the beach,

And loos’d them of their loads on the seashore,

And rang’d the wood in stacks by Balder’s ship;410

And every God went home to his own house.

  But when the Gods were to the forest gone

Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth

And saddled him; before that, Sleipner brook’d

No meaner hand than Odin’s on his mane,415

On his broad back no lesser rider bore:

Yet docile now he stood at Hermod’s side,

Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode,

Knowing the God they went to seek, how dear.

But Hermod mounted him, and sadly far’d,420

In silence, up the dark untravell’d road

Which branches from the north of Heaven, and went

All day; and Daylight wan’d, and Night came on.

And all that night he rode, and journey’d so,

Nine days, nine nights, towards the northern ice,425

Through valleys deep-engulph’d, by roaring streams:

And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridge

Which spans with golden arches Giall’s stream,

And on the bridge a Damsel watching arm’d,

In the strait passage, at the further end,430

Where the road issues between walling rocks.

Scant space that Warder left for passers by;

But, as when cowherds in October drive

Their kine across a snowy mountain pass

To winter pasture on the southern side,435

And on the ridge a wagon chokes the way,

Wedg’d in the snow; then painfully the hinds

With goad and shouting urge their cattle past,

Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snow

To right and left, and warm steam fills the air—440

So on the bridge that Damsel block’d the way,

And question’d Hermod as he came, and said:—

  ‘Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse

Under whose hoofs the bridge o’er Giall’s stream

Rumbles and shakes? Tell me thy race and home.445

But yestermorn five troops of dead pass’d by

Bound on their way below to Hela’s realm,

Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone.

And thou hast flesh and colour on thy cheeks

Like men who live and draw the vital air;450

Nor look’st thou pale and wan, like men deceas’d,

Souls bound below, my daily passers here.’

  And the fleet-footed Hermod answer’d her:—

‘O Damsel, Hermod am I call’d, the son

Of Odin; and my high-roof’d house is built455

Far hence, in Asgard, in the City of Gods:

And Sleipner, Odin’s horse, is this I ride.

And I come, sent this road on Balder’s track:

Say then, if he hath cross’d thy bridge or no?’

  He spake; the Warder of the bridge replied:—460

‘O Hermod, rarely do the feet of Gods

Or of the horses of the Gods resound

Upon my bridge; and, when they cross, I know.

Balder hath gone this way, and ta’en the road

Below there, to the north, toward Hela’s realm.465

From here the cold white mist can be discern’d,

Not lit with sun, but through the darksome air

By the dim vapour-blotted light of stars,

Which hangs over the ice where lies the road.

For in that ice are lost those northern streams470

Freezing and ridging in their onward flow,

Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run,

The spring that bubbles up by Hela’s throne.

There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts,

Hela’s pale swarms; and there was Balder bound.475

Ride on; pass free: but he by this is there.’

  She spake, and stepp’d aside, and left him room.

And Hermod greeted her, and gallop’d by

Across the bridge; then she took post again.

But northward Hermod rode, the way below:480

And o’er a darksome tract, which knows no sun,

But by the blotted light of stars, he far’d;

And he came down to Ocean’s northern strand

At the drear ice, beyond the Giants’ home:

Thence on he journey’d o’er the fields of ice485

Still north, until he met a stretching wall

Barring his way, and in the wall a grate.

Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths,

On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin’s horse,

And made him leap the grate, and came within.490

And he beheld spread round him Hela’s realm,

The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead,

And heard the thunder of the streams of Hell.

For near the wall the river of Roaring flows,

Outmost: the others near the centre run—495

The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and the Pain:

These flow by Hela’s throne, and near their spring.

And from the dark flock’d up the shadowy tribes:

And as the swallows crowd the bulrush-beds

Of some clear river, issuing from a lake,500

On autumn days, before they cross the sea;

And to each bulrush-crest a swallow hangs

Swinging, and others skim the river streams,

And their quick twittering fills the banks and shores—

So around Hermod swarm’d the twittering ghosts.505

Women, and infants, and young men who died

Too soon for fame, with white ungraven shields;

And old men, known to Glory, but their star

Betray’d them, and of wasting age they died,

Not wounds: yet, dying, they their armour wore,510

And now have chief regard in Hela’s realm.

Behind flock’d wrangling up a piteous crew,

Greeted of none, disfeatur’d and forlorn—

Cowards, who were in sloughs interr’d alive:

And round them still the wattled hurdles hung515

Wherewith they stamp’d them down, and trod them deep,

To hide their shameful memory from men.

But all he pass’d unhail’d, and reach’d the throne

Of Hela, and saw, near it, Balder crown’d,

And Hela sat thereon, with countenance stern;520

And thus bespake him first the Solemn Queen:—

  ‘Unhappy, how hast thou endur’d to leave

The light, and journey to the cheerless land

Where idly flit about the feeble shades?

How didst thou cross the bridge o’er Giall’s stream,525

Being alive, and come to Ocean’s shore?

Or how o’erleap the grate that bars the wall?’

  She spake: but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang,

And fell before her feet, and clasp’d her knees;

And spake, and mild entreated her, and said:—530

  ‘O Hela, wherefore should the Gods declare

Their errands to each other, or the ways

They go? the errand and the way is known.

Thou know’st, thou know’st, what grief we have in Heaven

For Balder, whom thou hold’st by right below:535

Restore him, for what part fulfils he here?

Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless seats

And touch the apathetic ghosts with joy?

Not for such end, O Queen, thou hold’st thy realm.

For Heaven was Balder born, the City of Gods540

And Heroes, where they live in light and joy:

Thither restore him, for his place is there.’

  He spoke; and grave replied the solemn Queen:—

‘Hermod, for he thou art, thou Son of Heaven!

A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine.545

Do the Gods send to me to make them blest?

Small bliss my race hath of the Gods obtain’d.

Three mighty children to my Father Lok

Did Angerbode, the Giantess, bring forth—

Fenris the Wolf, the Serpent huge, and Me:550

Of these the Serpent in the sea ye cast,

Who since in your despite hath wax’d amain,

And now with gleaming ring enfolds the world:

Me on this cheerless nether world ye threw

And gave me nine unlighted realms to rule:555

While on his island in the lake, afar,

Made fast to the bor’d crag, by wile not strength

Subdu’d, with limber^[2] chains lives Fenris bound.

Lok still subsists in Heaven, our Father wise,

Your mate, though loath’d, and feasts in Odin’s hall;560

But him too foes await, and netted snares,

And in a cave a bed of needle rocks,

And o’er his visage serpents dropping gall.

Yet he shall one day rise, and burst his bonds,

And with himself set us his offspring free,565

When he guides Muspel’s children to their bourne.

Till then in peril or in pain we live,

Wrought by the Gods: and ask the Gods our aid?

Howbeit we abide our day: till then,

We do not as some feebler haters do,570

Seek to afflict our foes with petty pangs,

Helpless to better us, or ruin them.

Come then; if Balder was so dear belov’d,

And this is true, and such a loss is Heaven’s—

Hear, how to Heaven may Balder be restor’d.575

Show me through all the world the signs of grief:

Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops:

Let all that lives and moves upon the earth

Weep him, and all that is without life weep:

Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones.580

So shall I know the lost was dear indeed,

And bend my heart, and give him back to Heaven.’

  She spake; and Hermod answer’d her, and said:—

‘Hela, such as thou say’st, the terms shall be.

But come, declare me this, and truly tell:585

May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail?

Or is it here withheld to greet the dead?’

  He spake; and straightway Hela answer’d him:—

‘Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and hold

Converse: his speech remains, though he be dead.’590

  And straight to Balder Hermod turn’d, and spake:—

‘Even in the abode of Death, O Balder, hail!

Thou hear’st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine,

The terms of thy releasement hence to Heaven:

Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfill’d.595

For not unmindful of thee are the Gods

Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell;

Even here they seek thee out, in Hela’s realm.

And sure of all the happiest far art thou

Who ever have been known in Earth or Heaven:600

Alive, thou wert of Gods the most belov’d:

And now thou sittest crown’d by Hela’s side,

Here, and hast honour among all the dead.’

  He spake; and Balder utter’d him reply,