BOOK XIV.

The Sirens--The Garden of the Hesperides--The Heroes do Sacrifice at Malea.

Across the open sea they drew their wake For three long days, and when the fourth 'gan break Their eyes beheld the fair Trinacrian shore, And there-along they coasted two days more. Then first Medea warned them to take heed, Lest they should end all memory of their deed Where dwell the Sirens on the yellow sand, And folk should think some tangled poisonous land Had buried them, or some tumultuous sea O'er their white bones was tossing angrily; Or that some muddy river, far from Greece, Drove seaward o'er the ringlets of the Fleece. But when the Minyae hearkened to this word, With many a thought their wearied hearts were stirred, And longing for the near-gained Grecian land, Where in a little while their feet should stand; Yet none the less like to a happy dream, Now, when they neared it, did their own home seem, And like a dream the glory of their quest, And therewithal some thought of present rest Stole over them, and they were fain to sigh, Hearkening the sighing restless wind go by. But hard on even of the second day, As o'er the gentle waves they took their way, The orange-scented land-breeze seemed to bear Some other sounds unto the listening ear Than all day long they had been hearkening, The land-born signs of many a well-known thing. Thereat Medea trembled, for she knew That nigh the dreadful sands at last they drew, For certainly the Sirens' song she heard, Though yet her ear could shape it to no word, And by their faces could the queen behold How sweet it was, although no tale it told, To those worn toilers o'er the bitter sea. Now, as they sped along, they presently, Rounding a headland, reached a little bay Walled from the sea by splintered cliffs and grey, Capped by the thymy hills' green wind-beat head, Where 'mid the whin the burrowing rabbits fed. And 'neath the cliff they saw a belt of sand, 'Twixt Nereus' pasture and the high scarped land, Whereon, yet far off, could their eyes behold White bodies moving, crowned and girt with gold, Wherefrom it seemed that lovely music welled. So when all this the grey-eyed queen beheld, She said: "O Jason, I have made thee wise In this and other things; turn then thine eyes Seaward, and note the ripple of the sea, Where there is hope as well as fear for thee. Nor look upon the death that lurketh there 'Neath the grey cliff, though sweet it seems and fair; For thou art young upon this day to die. Take then the helm, and gazing steadily Upon the road to Greece, make strong thine hand, And steer us toward the lion-haunted land, And thou, O Thracian! if thou e'er hast moved Men's hearts with stories of the Gods who loved, And men who suffered, move them on this day, Taking the deadly love of death away, That even now is stealing over them, While still they gaze upon the ocean's hem, Where their undoing is if they but knew."

But while she spake, still nigher Argo drew Unto the yellow edges of the shore, And little help she had of ashen oar, For as her shielded side rolled through the sea, Silent with glittering eyes the Minyae Gazed o'er the surge, for they were nigh enow To see the gusty wind of evening blow Long locks of hair across those bodies white, With golden spray hiding some dear delight; Yea, nigh enow to see their red lips smile, Wherefrom all song had ceased now for a while, As though they deemed the prey was in the net, And they no more had need a bait to set, But their own bodies, fair beyond man's thought, Under the grey cliff, hidden not of aught But of such mist of tears as in the eyes Of those seafaring men might chance to rise. A moment Jason gazed, then through the waist Ran swiftly, and with trembling hands made haste To trim the sail, then to the tiller ran, And thrust aside the skilled Milesian man, Who with half-open mouth, and dreamy eyes, Stood steering Argo to that land of lies; But as he staggered forward, Jason's hand Hard on the tiller steered away from land, And as her head a little now fell off Unto the wide sea, did he shout this scoff To Thracian Orpheus: "Minstrel, shall we die, Because thou hast forgotten utterly What things she taught thee whom men call divine? Or will thy measures but lead folk to wine, And scented beds, and not to noble deeds? Or will they fail as fail the shepherd's reeds Before the trumpet, when these sea-witches Pipe shrilly to the washing of the seas? I am a man, and these but beasts, but thou Giving these souls, that all were men ere now, Shalt be a very God and not a man!" So spake he; but his fingers Orpheus ran Over the strings, and sighing turned away From that fair ending of the sunny bay; But as his well-skilled hands were preluding What his heart swelled with, they began to sing With pleading voices from the yellow sands, Clustered together, with appealing hands Reached out to Argo as the great sail drew, While o'er their white limbs sharp the spray-shower flew, Since they spared not to set white feet among The cold waves heedless of their honied song. Sweetly they sang, and still the answer came Piercing and clear from him, as bursts the flame From out the furnace in the moonless night; Yet, as their words are no more known aright Through lapse of many ages, and no man Can any more across the waters wan Behold those singing women of the sea, Once more I pray you all to pardon me, If with my feeble voice and harsh I sing From what dim memories yet may chance to cling About men's hearts, of lovely things once sung Beside the sea, while yet the world was young.

THE SIRENS.

O happy seafarers are ye, And surely all your ills are past, And toil upon the land and sea, Since ye are brought to us at last.

To you the fashion of the world, Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned, And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled, Are nought, since hither ye have turned.

For as upon this beach we stand, And o'er our heads the sea-fowl flit, Our eyes behold a glorious land, And soon shall ye be kings of it.

ORPHEUS.

A little more, a little more, O carriers of the Golden Fleece, A little labour with the oar, Before we reach the land of Greece.

E'en now perchance faint rumours reach Men's ears of this our victory, And draw them down unto the beach To gaze across the empty sea.

But since the longed-for day is nigh, And scarce a God could stay us now, Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, Hindering for nought our eager prow?

THE SIRENS.

Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home On which your fond desires were set, Into what troubles had ye come? Short love and joy and long regret.

But now, but now, when ye have lain Asleep with us a little while Beneath the washing of the main, How calm shall be your waking smile!

For ye shall smile to think of life That knows no troublous change or fear, No unavailing bitter strife, That ere its time brings trouble near.

ORPHEUS.

Is there some murmur in your ears, That all that we have done is nought, And nothing ends our cares and fears, Till the last fear on us is brought?

THE SIRENS.

Alas! and will ye stop your ears, In vain desire to do aught, And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, Until the last fear makes you nought?

ORPHEUS.

Is not the May-time now on earth, When close against the city wall The folk are singing in their mirth, While on their heads the May-flowers fall?

THE SIRENS.

Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, And pensive with swift-coming death, Shall ye be satiate of the May.

ORPHEUS.

Shall not July bring fresh delight, As underneath green trees ye sit, And o'er some damsel's body white The noontide shadows change and flit?

THE SIRENS.

No new delight July shall bring But ancient fear and fresh desire, And, spite of every lovely thing, Of July surely shall ye tire.

ORPHEUS.

And now, when August comes on thee, And 'mid the golden sea of corn The merry reapers thou mayst see, Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn?

THE SIRENS.

Set flowers upon thy short-lived head, And in thine heart forgetfulness Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, And weary of those days no less.

ORPHEUS.

Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, In the October afternoon, To watch the purple earth's blood fill The grey vat to the maiden's tune?

THE SIRENS.

When thou beginnest to grow old, Bring back remembrance of thy bliss With that the shining cup doth hold, And weary helplessly of this.

ORPHEUS.

Or pleasureless shall we pass by The long cold night and leaden day, That song, and tale, and minstrelsy Shall make as merry as the May?

THE SIRENS.

List then, to-night, to some old tale Until the tears o'erflow thine eyes; But what shall all these things avail, When sad to-morrow comes and dies?

ORPHEUS.

And when the world is born again, And with some fair love, side by side, Thou wanderest 'twixt the sun and rain, In that fresh love-begetting tide;

Then, when the world is born again, And the sweet year before thee lies, Shall thy heart think of coming pain, Or vex itself with memories?

THE SIRENS.

Ah! then the world is born again With burning love unsatisfied, And new desires fond and vain, And weary days from tide to tide.

Ah! when the world is born again, A little day is soon gone by, When thou, unmoved by sun or rain, Within a cold straight house shalt lie.

Therewith they ceased awhile, as languidly The head of Argo fell off toward the sea, And through the water she began to go, For from the land a fitful wind did blow, That, dallying with the many-coloured sail, Would sometimes swell it out and sometimes fail, As nigh the east side of the bay they drew; Then o'er the waves again the music flew.

THE SIRENS.

Think not of pleasure, short and vain. Wherewith, 'mid days of toil and pain, With sick and sinking hearts ye strive To cheat yourselves that ye may live With cold death ever close at hand; Think rather of a peaceful land, The changeless land where ye may be Roofed over by the changeful sea.

ORPHEUS.

And is the fair town nothing then, The coming of the wandering men With that long talked of thing and strange, And news of how the kingdoms change; The pointed hands, and wondering At doers of a desperate thing? Push on, for surely this shall be Across a narrow strip of sea.

THE SIRENS.

Alas! poor souls and timorous, Will ye draw nigh to gaze at us And see if we are fair indeed, For such as we shall be your meed, There, where our hearts would have you go. And where can the earth-dwellers show In any land such loveliness As that wherewith your eyes we bless, O wanderers of the Minyae, Worn toilers over land and sea?

ORPHEUS.

Fair as the lightning thwart the sky, As sun-dyed snow upon the high Untrodden heaps of threatening stone The eagle looks upon alone, O fair as the doomed victim's wreath, O fair as deadly sleep and death, What will ye with them, earthly men, To mate your three-score years and ten? Toil rather, suffer and be free, Betwixt the green earth and the sea.

THE SIRENS.

If ye be bold with us to go, Things such as happy dreams may show Shall your once heavy eyes behold About our palaces of gold; Where waters 'neath the waters run, And from o'erhead a harmless sun Gleams through the woods of chrysolite. There gardens fairer to the sight Than those of the Phaeacian king Shall ye behold; and, wondering, Gaze on the sea-born fruit and flowers, And thornless and unchanging bowers, Whereof the May-time knoweth nought. So to the pillared house being brought, Poor souls, ye shall not be alone, For o'er the floors of pale blue stone All day such feet as ours shall pass, And, 'twixt the glimmering walls of glass, Such bodies garlanded with gold, So faint, so fair, shall ye behold, And clean forget the treachery Of changing earth and tumbling sea.

ORPHEUS.

O the sweet valley of deep grass, Where-through the summer stream doth pass, In chain of shallow, and still pool, From misty morn to evening cool; Where the black ivy creeps and twines O'er the dark-armed, red-trunked pines, Whence clattering the pigeon flits, Or, brooding o'er her thin eggs, sits, And every hollow of the hills With echoing song the mavis fills. There by the stream, all unafraid, Shall stand the happy shepherd maid, Alone in first of sunlit hours; Behind her, on the dewy flowers, Her homespun woollen raiment lies, And her white limbs and sweet grey eyes Shine from the calm green pool and deep, While round about the swallows sweep, Not silent; and would God that we, Like them, were landed from the sea.

THE SIRENS.

Shall we not rise with you at night, Up through the shimmering green twilight, That maketh there our changeless day, Then going through the moonlight grey, Shall we not sit upon these sands, To think upon the troublous lands Long left behind, where once ye were, When every day brought change and fear? There, with white arms about you twined, And shuddering somewhat at the wind That ye rejoiced erewhile to meet, Be happy, while old stories sweet, Half understood, float round your ears, And fill your eyes with happy tears. Ah! while we sing unto you there, As now we sing, with yellow hair Blown round about these pearly limbs, While underneath the grey sky swims The light shell-sailor of the waves, And to our song, from sea-filled caves Booms out an echoing harmony, Shall ye not love the peaceful sea?

ORPHEUS.

Nigh the vine-covered hillocks green, In days agone, have I not seen The brown-clad maidens amorous, Below the long rose-trellised house, Dance to the querulous pipe and shrill, When the grey shadow of the hill Was lengthening at the end of day? Not shadowy nor pale were they, But limbed like those who 'twixt the trees, Follow the swift of Goddesses. Sunburnt they are somewhat, indeed, To where the rough brown woollen weed Is drawn across their bosoms sweet, Or cast from off their dancing feet; But yet the stars, the moonlight grey, The water wan, the dawn of day, Can see their bodies fair and white As Hers, who once, for man's delight, Before the world grew hard and old, Came o'er the bitter sea and cold; And surely those that met me there, Her handmaidens and subjects were; And shame-faced, half-repressed desire Had lit their glorious eyes with fire, That maddens eager hearts of men. O would that I were with them when The new-risen moon is gathering light, And yellow from the homestead white The windows gleam; but verily This waits us o'er a little sea.

THE SIRENS.

Come to the land where none grows old, And none is rash or over-bold, Nor any noise there is nor war, Nor rumour from wild lands afar, Nor plagues, nor birth and death of kings; No vain desire of unknown things Shall vex you there, no hope or fear Of that which never draweth near; But in that lovely land and still Ye may remember what ye will, And what ye will, forget for aye. So while the kingdoms pass away, Ye sea-beat hardened toilers erst, Unresting, for vain fame athirst, Shall be at peace for evermore, With hearts fulfilled of Godlike lore, And calm, unwavering Godlike love, No lapse of time can turn or move. There, ages after your fair Fleece Is clean forgotten, yea, and Greece Is no more counted glorious, Alone with us, alone with us, Alone with us, dwell happily, Beneath our trembling roof of sea.

ORPHEUS.

Ah! do ye weary of the strife And long to change this eager life For shadowy and dull hopelessness, Thinking indeed to gain no less Than far from this grey light to lie, And there to die and not to die, To be as if ye ne'er had been, Yet keep your memory fresh and green, To have no thought of good or ill, Yet feed your fill or pleasure still? O idle dream! Ah, verily If it shall happen unto me That I have thought of anything, When o'er my bones the sea-fowl sing, And I lie dead, how shall I pine For those fresh joys that once were mine, On this green fount of joy and mirth, The ever young and glorious earth; Then, helpless, shall I call to mind Thoughts of the sweet flower-scented wind, The dew, the gentle rain at night, The wonder-working snow and white. The song of birds, the water's fall, The sun that maketh bliss of all; Yea, this our toil and victory, The tyrannous and conquered sea.

THE SIRENS.

Ah, will ye go, and whither then Will ye go from us, soon to die, To fill your three-score years and ten, With many an unnamed misery?

And this the wretchedest of all, That when upon your lonely eyes The last faint heaviness shall fall Ye shall bethink you of our cries.

Come back, nor grown old, seek in vain To hear us sing across the sea. Come back, come back, come back again, Come back, O fearful Minyae!

ORPHEUS.

Ah, once again, ah, once again, The black prow plunges through the sea, Nor yet shall all your toil be vain, Nor yet forgot, O Minyae.

In such wise sang the Thracian, in such wise Out gushed the Sirens' deadly melodies; But long before the mingled song was done, Back to the oars the Minyae, one by one, Slunk silently; though many an one sighed sore, As his strong fingers met the wood once more, And from his breast the toilsome breathing came. But as they laboured, some for very shame Hung down their heads, and yet amongst them some Gazed at the place whence that sweet song had come; But round the oars and Argo's shielded side The sea grew white, and she began to glide Swift through the waters of that deadly bay; But when a long wake now behind her lay, And still the whistle of the wind increased, Past shroud and mast, and all the song had ceased, Butes rose up, the fair Athenian man, And with wild eyes betwixt the rowers ran Unto the poop and leapt into the sea; Then all men rested on their oars, but he Rose to the top, and towards the shore swam fast; While all eyes watched him, who had well-nigh past The place where sand and water 'gan to meet In wreaths and ripples round the ivory feet, When sun-burnt swimmer, snow-white glancing limb, And yellow sand unto their eyes grew dim, Nor did they see their fellow any more. But when they once again beheld the shore The wind sung o'er the empty beach and bare, And by the cliff uprose into the air A delicate and glittering little cloud, That seemed some many-coloured sun to shroud; But as the rugged cliff it drew above The wondering Minyae beheld it move Westward, toward Lilybaeum and the sun. Then once more was their seaward course begun, And soon those deadly sands were far astern, Nor ever after could the heroes learn If Butes lived or died; but old tales tell That while the tumbling waves he breasted well, Venus beheld him, as unseen she drew From sunny Cyprus to the headland blue Of Lilybaeum, where her temple is; She, with a mind his sun-burnt brows to kiss, E'en as his feet were dropping nigh the beach, And ere his hand the deadly hands could reach, Stooped, as the merlin stoops upon the dove, And snatched him thence to be awhile her love, Betwixt the golden pillars of her shrine, That those who pass the Aegades see shine From high-raised Lilybaeum o'er the sea.

But far away the sea-beat Minyae Cast forth the foam, as through the growing night They laboured ever, having small delight In life all empty of that promised bliss, In love that scarce can give a dying kiss, In pleasure ending sweet songs with a wail, In fame that little can dead men avail, In vain toil struggling with the fateful stream, In hope, the promise of a morning dream. Yet as night died, and the cold sea and grey Seemed running with them toward the dawn of day, Needs must they once again forget their death, Needs must they, being alive and drawing breath, As men who of no other life can know In their own minds again immortal grow. But toward the south a little now they bent, And for a while o'er landless sea they went, But on the third day made another land At dawn of day, and thitherward did stand; And since the wind blew lightly from the shore, Somewhat abeam, they feared not with the oar To push across the shallowing sea and green, That washed a land the fairest they had seen, Whose shell-strewn beach at highest of the tide 'Twixt sea and flowery shore was nowise wide, And drawn a little backward from the sea There stood a marble wall wrought cunningly, Rosy and white, set thick with images, And over-topped with heavy-fruited trees, Which by the shore ran, as the bay did bend, And to their eyes had neither gap nor end; Nor any gate: and looking over this, They saw a place not made for earthly bliss, Or eyes of dying men, for growing there The yellow apple and the painted pear, And well-filled golden cups of oranges Hung amid groves of pointed cypress trees; On grassy slopes the twining vine-boughs grew, And hoary olives 'twixt far mountains blue, And many-coloured flowers, like as a cloud The rugged southern cliffs did softly shroud; And many a green-necked bird sung to his mate Within the slim-leaved, thorny pomegranate, That flung its unstrung rubies on the grass, And slowly o'er the place the wind did pass Heavy with many odours that it bore From thymy hills down to the sea-beat shore, Because no flower there is, that all the year, From spring to autumn, beareth otherwhere, But there it flourished; nor the fruit alone From 'twixt the green leaves and the boughs outshone, For there each tree was ever flowering. Nor was there lacking many a living thing Changed of its nature; for the roebuck there Walked fearless with the tiger; and the bear Rolled sleepily upon the fruit-strawn grass, Letting the conies o'er his rough hide pass, With blinking eyes, that meant no treachery. Careless the partridge passed the red fox by; Untouched the serpent left the thrushes brown, And as a picture was the lion's frown. But in the midst there was a grassy space, Raised somewhat over all the flowery place, On marble terrace-walls wrought like a dream; And round about it ran a clear blue stream, Bridged o'er with marble steps, and midmost there Grew a green tree, whose smooth grey boughs did bear Such fruit as never man elsewhere had seen, For 'twixt the sunlight and the shadow green Shone out fair apples of red gleaming gold. Moreover round the tree, in many a fold, Lay coiled a dragon, glittering little less Than that which his eternal watchfulness Was set to guard; nor yet was he alone, For from the daisied grass about him shone Gold raiment wrapping round two damsels fair, And one upon the steps combed out her hair, And with shut eyes sung low as in a dream; And one stood naked in the cold blue stream, While on the bank her golden raiment lay; But on that noontide of the quivering day, She only, hearing the seafarers' shout, Her lovely golden head had turned about, And seen their white sail flapping o'er the wall, And as she turned had let her tresses fall, Which the thin water rippling round her knee Bore outward from her toward the restless sea. Not long she stood, but looking seaward yet, From out the water made good haste to get, And catching up her raiment hastily, Ran up the marble stair, and 'gan to cry: "Wake, O my sisters, wake, for now are come The thieves of Aea to our peaceful home." Then at her voice they gat them to their feet, And when her raiment all her body sweet Once more had hidden, joining hand to hand, About the sacred apples did they stand, While coiled the dragon closer to the tree, And raised his head above them threateningly.

Meanwhile, from Argo many a sea-beat face Gazed longingly upon that lovely place, And some their eager hands already laid Upon the gangway. Then Medea said:-- "Get back unto the oars, O Minyae, Nor loiter here, for what have such as we To do herein, where, 'mid undying trees, Undying watch the wise Hesperides, And where the while they watch, scarce can a God Set foot upon the fruit-besprinkled sod That no snow ever covers? therefore haste, Nor yet in wondering your fair lives waste; For these are as the Gods, nor think of us, Nor to their eyes can aught be glorious That son of man can do; would God that I Could see far off the misty headland lie, Where we the guilt of blood shall wash away, For I grow weary of the dashing spray, And ceaseless roll of interwoven seas, And fain were sitting 'neath the whispering trees In homely places, where the children play, Who change like me, grow old, and die some day." She ceased, and little soothly did they grieve, For all its loveliness, that land to leave, For now some God had chilled their hardihead, And in their hearts had set a sacred dread, They knew not why; but on their oars they hung, A little longer as the sisters sung.

"O ye, who to this place have strayed, That never for man's eyes was made, Depart in haste, as ye have come, And bear back to your sea-beat home This memory of the age of gold, And for your eyes, grown over-bold, Your hearts shall pay in sorrowing, For want of many a half-seen thing.

"Lo, such as is this garden green, In days past, all the world has been, And what we know all people knew, Save this, that unto worse all grew. "But since the golden age is gone, This little place is left alone, Unchanged, unchanging, watched of us, The daughters of wise Hesperus. "Surely the heavenly Messenger Full oft is fain to enter here, And yet without must he abide; Nor longeth less the dark king's bride To set red lips unto that fruit That erst made nought her mother's suit. Here would Diana rest awhile, Forgetful of her woodland guile, Among these beasts that fear her nought. Nor is it less in Pallas' thought, Beneath our trees to ponder o'er The wide, unfathomed sea of lore; And oft-kissed Citheraea, no less Weary of love, full fain would press These flowers with soft unsandalled feet.

"But unto us our rest is sweet, Neither shall any man or God Or lovely Goddess touch the sod Where-under old times buried lie, Before the world knew misery. Nor will we have a slave or king, Nor yet will we learn anything But that we know, that makes us glad; While oft the very Gods are sad With knowing what the Fates shall do. "Neither from us shall wisdom go To fill the hungering hearts of men, Lest to them threescore years and ten Come but to seem a little day, Once given, and taken soon away. Nay, rather let them find their life Bitter and sweet, fulfilled of strife, Restless with hope, vain with regret, Trembling with fear, most strangely set 'Twixt memory and forgetfulness; So more shall joy be, troubles less, And surely when all this is past, They shall not want their rest at last.

"Let earth and heaven go on their way, While still we watch from day to day, In this green place left all alone, A remnant of the days long gone."

There in the wind they hung, as word by word The clear-voiced singers silently they heard; But when the air was barren of their song, Anigh the shore they durst not linger long, So northward turned forewearied Argo's head, And dipping oars, from that fair country sped, Fulfilled of new desires and pensive thought, Which that day's life unto their hearts had brought. Then hard they toiled upon the bitter sea, And in two days they did not fail to be In sight of land, a headland high and blue Which straight Milesian Erginus knew To be the fateful place which now they sought, Stormy Malea, so thitherward they brought The groaning ship, and, casting anchor, lay Beneath that headland's lee, within a bay, Wherefrom the more part landed, and their feet Once more the happy soil of Greece did meet. Therewith they failed not to bring ashore Rich robes of price and of fair arms good store, And gold and silver, that they there might buy What yet they lacked for their solemnity; Then, while upon the highest point of land Some built an altar, Jason, with a band Of all the chiefest of the Minyae, Turned inland from the murmur of the sea. Not far they went ere by a little stream Down in a valley they could see the gleam Of brazen pillars and fair-gilded vanes, And, dropping down by dank dark-wooded lanes From off the hill-side, reached a house at last Where in and out men-slaves and women passed, And guests were streaming fast into the hall, Where now the oaken boards were laid for all. With these the Minyae went, and soon they were Within a pillared hall both great and fair, Where folk already sat beside the board, And on the dais was an ancient lord. But when these saw the fearless Minyae Glittering in arms, they sprang up hastily, And each man turned about unto the wall To seize his spear or staff: then through the hall Jason cried out: "Laconians, fear ye not, Nor leave the flesh-meat while it reeketh hot For dread of us, for we are men as ye, And I am Jason of the Minyae, And come from Aea to the land of Greece, And in my ship bear back the Golden Fleece, And a fair Colchian queen to fill my bed. And now we pray to share your wine and bread, And other things we need, and at our hands That ye will take fair things of many lands." "Sirs," said the ancient lord, "be welcome here, Come up and sit by me, and make such cheer As here ye can: glad am I that to me The first of Grecian men from off the sea Ye now are come." Therewith the great hall rang With joyful shouts, and as, with clash and clang Of well-wrought arms, up to the dais they went, All eyes upon the Minyae were bent, Nor could they have enough of wondering At this or that sea-tossed victorious king. So with the strangers there they held high feast, And afterwards the slaves drove many a beast Down to the shore, and carried back again Great store of precious things in pack and wain; Wrought gold and silver, gems, full many a bale Of scarlet cloth, and fine silk, fit to veil The perfect limbs of dreaded Goddesses; Spices fresh-gathered from the outland trees, And arms well-wrought, and precious scarce-known wine, And carven images well-nigh divine. So when all folk with these were satisfied, Back went the Minyae to the water-side, And with them that old lord, fain to behold Victorious Argo and the Fleece of Gold. And so aboard amid the oars he lay Throughout the night, and at the dawn of day Did all men land, nor spared that day to wear The best of all they had of gold-wrought gear, And every one, being crowned with olive grey, Up to the headland did they take their way, Where now already stood the crowned priests About the altars by the gilt-horned beasts. There, as the fair sun rose, did Jason break Over the altar the thin barley-cake, And cast the salt abroad, and there were slain The milk-white bulls, and there red wine did rain On to the fire from out the ancient jar, And high rose up the red flame, seen afar From many another headland of that shore: But over all its crackling and its roar Uprose from time to time a joyous song, That on the summer morning lay for long, The mighty voices of the Minyae Exulting o'er the tossing conquered sea, That far below thrust on by tide and wind The crumbling bases of the headland mined.

FROM

"THE EARTHLY PARADISE."

AN APOLOGY.

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by, Made the more mindful that the sweet days die-- --Remember me a little then I pray, The idle singer of an empty day.

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear; So let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, That through one window men beheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow, And through a third the fruited vines a-row, While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day.

So with this Earthly Paradise it is, If ye will read aright, and pardon me, Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss Midmost the beating of the steely sea, Where tossed about all hearts of men must be: Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay, Not the poor singer of an empty day.

FROM

PROLOGUE--THE WANDERERS.

ARGUMENT.

Certain gentlemen and mariners of Norway, having considered all that they had heard of the Earthly Paradise, set sail to find it, and after many troubles and the lapse of many years came old men to some Western land, of which they had never before heard: there they died, when they had dwelt there certain years, much honoured of the strange people.

Forget six counties overhung with smoke, Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, Forget the spreading of the hideous town; Think rather of the pack-horse on the down, And dream of London, small, and white, and clean, The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green; Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves, Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill, And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill, And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery, And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne; While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen Moves over bills of lading--mid such times Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.

A nameless city in a distant sea, White as the changing walls of faerie, Thronged with much people clad in ancient guise I now am fain to set before your eyes; There, leave the clear green water and the quays, And pass betwixt its marble palaces, Until ye come unto the chiefest square; A bubbling conduit is set midmost there, And round about it now the maidens throng, With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song, Making but light of labour new begun While in their vessels gleams the morning sun. On one side of the square a temple stands, Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient lands Still have their altars, a great market-place Upon two other sides fills all the space, And thence the busy hum of men comes forth; But on the cold side looking toward the north A pillared council-house may you behold, Within whose porch are images of gold, Gods of the nations who dwelt anciently About the borders of the Grecian sea.

Pass now between them, push the brazen door, And standing on the polished marble floor Leave all the noises of the square behind; Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find, Silent at first, but for the noise you made When on the brazen door your hand you laid To shut it after you--but now behold The city rulers on their thrones of gold, Clad in most fair attire, and in their hands Long carven silver-banded ebony wands; Then from the dais drop your eyes and see Soldiers and peasants standing reverently Before those elders, round a little band Who bear such arms as guard the English land, But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they, The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey; And as they lean with pain upon their spears Their brows seem furrowed deep with more than years; For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes, Bent are they less with time than miseries.

Pondering on them the city grey-beards gaze Through kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days, And pity for poor souls, and vague regret For all the things that might have happened yet, Until, their wonder gathering to a head, The wisest man, who long that land has led, Breaks the deep silence, unto whom again A wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain, And with a hollow voice as from a tomb At first he tells the story of his doom, But as it grows and once more hopes and fears, Both measureless, are ringing round his ears, His eyes grow bright, his seeming days decrease, For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace.

THE ELDER OF THE CITY.

From what unheard-of world, in what strange keel, Have ye come hither to our commonweal? No barbarous race, as these our peasants say, But learned in memories of a long-past day, Speaking, some few at least, the ancient tongue That through the lapse of ages still has clung To us, the seed of the Ionian race. Speak out and fear not; if ye need a place Wherein to pass the end of life away, That shall ye gain from us from this same day, Unless the enemies of God ye are; We fear not you and yours to bear us war, And scarce can think that ye will try again Across the perils of the shifting plain To seek your own land whereso that may be: For folk of ours bearing the memory Of our old land, in days past oft have striven To reach it, unto none of whom was given To come again and tell us of the tale, Therefore our ships are now content to sail, About these happy islands that we know.

THE WANDERER.

Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, A tale of folly and of wasted life, Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife, Ending, where all things end, in death at last: So if I tell the story of the past, Let it be worth some little rest, I pray, A little slumber ere the end of day.

No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know, Since at Byzantium many a year ago My father bore the twibil valiantly; There did he marry, and get me, and die, And I went back to Norway to my kin, Long ere this beard ye see did first begin To shade my mouth, but nathless not before Among the Greeks I gathered some small lore, And standing midst the Vaeringers, still heard From this or that man many a wondrous word; For ye shall know that though we worshipped God, And heard mass duly, still of Swithiod The Greater, Odin and his house of gold, The noble stories ceased not to be told; These moved me more than words of mine can say E'en while at Micklegarth my folks did stay; But when I reached one dying autumn-tide My uncle's dwelling near the forest side, And saw the land so scanty and so bare, And all the hard things men contend with there, A little and unworthy land it seemed, And yet the more of Asagard I dreamed, And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise.

But now, but now--when one of all those days Like Lazarus' finger on my heart should be Breaking the fiery fixed eternity, But for one moment--could I see once more The grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the shore, Or note the brown boats standing in from sea, Or the great dromond swinging from the quay, Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jay Shoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey-- Yea, could I see the days before distress When very longing was but happiness.

Within our house there was a Breton squire Well learned, who fail'd not to fan the fire That evermore unholpen burned in me Strange lands and things beyond belief to see; Much lore of many lands this Breton knew; And for one tale I told, he told me two. He, counting Asagard a new-told thing, Yet spoke of gardens ever blossoming Across the western sea where none grew old, E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told, And said moreover that an English knight Had had the Earthly Paradise in sight, And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein. But entered not, being hindered by his sin. Shortly, so much of this and that he said That in my heart the sharp barb entered, And like real life would empty stories seem, And life from day to day an empty dream.

Another man there was, a Swabian priest, Who knew the maladies of man and beast, And what things helped them; he the stone still sought Whereby base metal into gold is brought, And strove to gain the precious draught, whereby Men live midst mortal men yet never die; Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tell Who neither went to Heaven nor yet to Hell, When from that fight upon the Asian plain He vanished, but still lives to come again Men know not how or when; but I listening Unto this tale thought it a certain thing That in some hidden vale of Swithiod Across the golden pavement still he trod.

But while our longing for such things so grew, And ever more and more we deemed them true, Upon the land a pestilence there fell Unheard of yet in any chronicle, And, as the people died full fast of it, With these two men it chanced me once to sit, This learned squire whose name was Nicholas, And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was; For could we help it scarcely did we part From dawn to dusk: so heavy, sad at heart, We from the castle-yard beheld the bay Upon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Little we said amidst that dreary mood, And certes nought that we could say was good.

It was a bright September afternoon, The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soon The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun Were letting fall their petals one by one; No wind there was, a haze was gathering o'er The furthest bound of the faint yellow shore; And in the oily waters of the bay Scarce moving aught some fisher-cobles lay, And all seemed peace; and had been peace indeed But that we young men of our life had need, And to our listening ears a sound was borne That made the sunlight wretched and forlorn-- --The heavy tolling of the minster bell-- And nigher yet a tinkling sound did tell That through the streets they bore our Saviour Christ By dying lips in anguish to be kissed.

At last spoke Nicholas, "How long shall we Abide here, looking forth into the sea Expecting when our turn shall come to die? Fair fellows, will ye come with me and try Now at our worst that long-desired quest, Now--when our worst is death, and life our best." "Nay, but thou know'st," I said, "that I but wait The coming of some man, the turn of fate, To make this voyage--but I die meanwhile, For I am poor, though my blood be not vile, Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence hold Within his crucibles aught like to gold; And what hast thou, whose father driven forth By Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North? But little riches as I needs must deem." "Well," said he, "things are better than they seem, For 'neath my bed an iron chest I have That holdeth things I have made shift to save E'en for this end; moreover, hark to this, In the next firth a fair long ship there is Well victualled, ready even now for sea, And I may say it 'longeth unto me; Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, lies Dead at the end of many miseries, And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know, Would be content throughout the world to go If I but took her hand, and now still more Hath heart to leave this poor death-stricken shore. Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swords And Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards. "What say ye, will ye go with me to-night, Setting your faces to undreamed delight, Turning your backs unto this troublous hell, Or is the time too short to say farewell?"

"Not so," I said, "rather would I depart Now while thou speakest, never has my heart Been set on anything within this land." Then said the Swabian, "Let us now take hand And swear to follow evermore this quest Till death or life have set our hearts at rest."

So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said, "To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelled To leave this land, bring all the arms ye can And such men as ye trust, my own good man Guards the small postern looking towards St. Bride, And good it were ye should not be espied, Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence, Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilence Makes all men hard and cruel, nor are they Willing that folk should 'scape if they must stay: Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell, Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bell Strikes midnight, all will surely then be still, And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hill Outside the city gates." Each went his way Therewith, and I the remnant of that day Gained for the quest three men that I deemed true, And did such other things as I must do, And still was ever listening for the chime Half maddened by the lazy lapse of time, Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should live Till the great tower the joyful sound should give That set us free: and so the hours went past, Till startled by the echoing clang at last That told of midnight, armed from head to heel Down to the open postern did I steal, Bearing small wealth--this sword that yet hangs here Worn thin and narrow with so many a year, My father's axe that from Byzantium, With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come, Nought else that shone with silver or with gold. But by the postern gate could I behold Laurence the priest all armed as if for war, From off the town-wall, having some small store Of arms and furs and raiment: then once more I turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fall Upon the new-built bastions of the wall, Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light, And further off I saw the lead shine bright On tower and turret-roof against the sky, And looking down I saw the old town lie Black in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill, Stricken with death, and dreary, but all still Until it reached the water of the bay, That in the dead night smote against the quay Not all unheard, though there was little wind. But as I turned to leave the place behind, The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell, Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell, That in that stillness jarring on mine ears, With sudden jangle checked the rising tears, And now the freshness of the open sea Seemed ease and joy and very life to me. So greeting my new mates with little sound, We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound, And there the Breton Nicholas beheld, Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held, And round about them twenty men there stood, Of whom the more part on the holy rood Were sworn till death to follow up the quest, And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest. Again betwixt us was there little speech, But swiftly did we set on toward the beach, And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man, We boarded, and the long oars out we ran, And swept from out the firth, and sped so well That scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bell Toll one, although the light wind blew from land; Then hoisting sail southward we 'gan to stand, And much I joyed beneath the moon to see The lessening land that might have been to me A kindly giver of wife, child, and friend, And happy life, or at the worser end A quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth.

Night passed, day dawned, and we grew full of mirth As with the ever-rising morning wind Still further lay our threatened death behind, Or so we thought: some eighty men we were, Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear, The rest were uplanders; midst such of these As knew not of our quest, with promises Went Nicholas dealing florins round about, With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt, Till all were fairly won or seemed to be To that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea.

OGIER THE DANE.

ARGUMENT.

When Ogier was born, six fay ladies came to the cradle where he lay, and gave him various gifts, as to be brave and happy and the like; but the sixth gave him to be her love when he should have lived long in the world: so Ogier grew up and became the greatest of knights, and at last, after many years, fell into the hands of that fay, and with her, as the story tells, he lives now, though he returned once to the world, as is shown in the process of this tale.

Within some Danish city by the sea, Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me, Great mourning was there one fair summer eve, Because the angels, bidden to receive The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise, Had done their bidding, and in royal guise Her helpless body, once the prize of love, Unable now for fear or hope to move, Lay underneath the golden canopy; And bowed down by unkingly misery The King sat by it, and not far away, Within the chamber a fair man-child lay, His mother's bane, the king that was to be, Not witting yet of any royalty, Harmless and loved, although so new to life.

Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun, Unhappy that his day of bliss was done; Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred, 'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail, No more of woe there seemed in her song Than such as doth to lovers' words belong, Because their love is still unsatisfied. But to the King, on that sweet eventide, No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone; No help, no God! but lonely pain alone; And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit Himself the very heart and soul of it. But round the cradle of the new-born child The nurses now the weary time beguiled With stories of the just departed Queen; And how, amid the heathen folk first seen, She had been won to love and godliness; And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress, An eager whisper now and then would smite Upon the King's ear, of some past delight, Some once familiar name, and he would raise His weary head, and on the speaker gaze Like one about to speak, but soon again Would drop his head and be alone with pain, Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn, Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night, Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light, The fresh earth lay in colourless repose. So passed the night, and now and then one rose From out her place to do what might avail To still the new-born infant's fretful wail; Or through the softly-opened door there came Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name Of her whose turn was come, would take her place; Then toward the King would turn about her face And to her fellows whisper of the day, And tell again of her just past away.

So passed the night, the moon arose and grew, From off the sea a little west-wind blew, Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain; And ere the moon had 'gun to fall again The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky, And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh; Then from her place a nurse arose to light Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night, The tapers round about the dead Queen were; But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide About the floor, that in the stillness cried Beneath her careful feet; and now as she Had lit the second candle carefully, And on its silver spike another one Was setting, through her body did there run A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed That on the dainty painted wax was laid; Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep, And o'er the staring King began to creep Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe That drew his weary face did softer grow, His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side; And moveless in their places did abide The nursing women, held by some strong spell, E'en as they were, and utter silence fell Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair. But now light footsteps coming up the stair, Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground; And heavenly odours through the chamber passed, Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast Upon the freshness of the dying night; Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light Until the door swung open noiselessly-- A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to be Within the doorway, and but pale and wan The flame showed now that serveth mortal man, As one by one six seeming ladies passed Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering, That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring; Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad, As yet no merchant of the world has had Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair Only because they kissed their odorous hair, And all that flowery raiment was but blessed By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed. Now to the cradle from that glorious band, A woman passed, and laid a tender hand Upon the babe, and gently drew aside The swathings soft that did his body hide; And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled, And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child, Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day; For to the time when life shall pass away From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame, No weariness of good shall foul thy name." So saying, to her sisters she returned; And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed; She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said, "This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid At rest for ever, to thine honoured life There never shall be lacking war and strife, That thou a long-enduring name mayst win, And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin." With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile, "And this forgotten gift to thee I give, That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live, Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee Defeat and shame but idle words shall be." Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy The first of men: a little gift this is, After these promises of fame and bliss." Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went; Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent Down on the floor, parted her red lips were, And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair Oft would the colour spread full suddenly; Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she, For some green summer of the fay-land dight, Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light Upon the child, and said, "O little one, As long as thou shalt look upon the sun Shall women long for thee; take heed to this And give them what thou canst of love and bliss." Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past, And by the cradle stood the sixth and last, The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed Down on the child, and then her hand she raised, And made the one side of her bosom bare; "Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife Have yielded thee whatever joy they may, Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay; And then, despite of knowledge or of God, Will we be glad upon the flowery sod Within the happy country where I dwell: Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!"

She turned, and even as they came they passed From out the place, and reached the gate at last That oped before their feet, and speedily They gained the edges of the murmuring sea, And as they stood in silence, gazing there Out to the west, they vanished into air, I know not how, nor whereto they returned.

But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned The flickering candles, and those dreary folk, Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke, But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew. Through the half-opened casements now there blew A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea Mingled together, smelt deliciously, And from the unseen sun the spreading light Began to make the fair June blossoms bright, And midst their weary woe uprose the sun, And thus has Ogier's noble life begun.

* * * * *

Hope is our life, when first our life grows clear; Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear, Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope, But forasmuch as we with life must cope, Struggling with this and that, and who knows why? Hope will not give us up to certainty, But still must bide with us: and with this man, Whose life amid such promises began Great things she wrought; but now the time has come When he no more on earth may have his home. Great things he suffered, great delights he had, Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad; He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more Is had in memory, and on many a shore He left his sweat and blood to win a name Passing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame. A love he won and lost, a well-loved son Whose little day of promise soon was done: A tender wife he had, that he must leave Before his heart her love could well receive; Those promised gifts, that on his careless head In those first hours of his fair life were shed He took unwitting, and unwitting spent, Nor gave himself to grief and discontent Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh. Where is he now? in what land must he die, To leave an empty name to us on earth? A tale half true, to cast across our mirth Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been; Where is he now, that all this life has seen?

Behold, another eve I bid you see Than that calm eve of his nativity; The sun is setting in the west, the sky Is clear and hard, and no clouds come anigh The golden orb, but further off they lie, Steel-grey and black with edges red as blood, And underneath them is the weltering flood Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they Turn restless sides about, are black or grey, Or green, or glittering with the golden flame; The wind has fallen now, but still the same The mighty army moves, as if to drown This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray. Alas! what ships upon an evil day Bent over to the wind in this ill sea? What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was, A fearful storm to bring such things to pass.

This is the loadstone rock; no armament Of warring nations, in their madness bent Their course this way; no merchant wittingly Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea; Upon no shipman's card its name is writ, Though worn-out mariners will speak of it Within the ingle on the winter's night, When all within is warm and safe and bright, And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will Are some folk driven here, and then all skill Against this evil rock is vain and nought, And unto death the shipmen soon are brought; For then the keel, as by a giant's hand, Is drawn unto that mockery of a land, And presently unto its sides doth cleave; When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave The narrow limits of that barren isle, And thus are slain by famine in a while Mocked, as they say, by night with images Of noble castles among groves of trees, By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy.

The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea, The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright; The moon is rising o'er the growing night, And by its light may ye behold the bones Of generations of these luckless ones Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old, Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold, But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air; Huge is he, of a noble face and fair, As for an ancient man, though toil and eld Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld With melting hearts--Nay, listen, for he speaks! "God, thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks Have passed since from the wreck we haled our store, And five long days well told, have now passed o'er Since my last fellow died, with my last bread Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead. Yea, but for this I had been strong enow In some last bloody field my sword to show. What matter? soon will all be past and done, Where'er I died I must have died alone: Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been Dying, thy face above me to have seen, And heard my banner flapping in the wind, Then, though my memory had not left thy mind, Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more When thou hadst known that everything was o'er; But now thou waitest, still expecting me, Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea. "And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call, To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall, But never shall they tell true tales of me: Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town, No more on my sails shall they look adown. "Get thee another leader, Charlemaine, For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain, When in the fair fields of the Frankish land, Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand. "What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives; Husbands and children, other friends and wives, Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean, And all shall be as I had never been.

"And now, O God, am I alone with Thee; A little thing indeed it seems to be To give this life up, since it needs must go Some time or other; now at last I know How foolishly men play upon the earth, When unto them a year of life seems worth Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet That like real things my dying heart do greet, Unreal while living on the earth I trod, And but myself I knew no other god. Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus This end, that I had thought most piteous, If of another I had heard it told."

What man is this, who weak and worn and old, Gives up his life within that dreadful isle, And on the fearful coming death can smile? Alas! this man, so battered and outworn, Is none but he, who, on that summer morn, Received such promises of glorious life: Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood, To whom all life, however hard, was good: This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb, Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim For all the years that he on earth has dwelt; Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt, Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane, The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane.

* * * * *

Bright had the moon grown as his words were done, And no more was there memory of the sun Within the west, and he grew drowsy now, And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep, And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep, Hiding the image of swift-coming death; Until as peacefully he drew his breath As on that day, past for a hundred years, When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears, He fell asleep to his first lullaby. The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high Began about the lonely moon to close; And from the dark west a new wind arose, And with the sound of heavy-falling waves Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves; But when the twinkling stars were hid away, And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day, The moon upon that dreary country shed, Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again; Rather some pleasure new, some other pain, Unthought of both, some other form of strife;" For he had waked from dreams of his old life, And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate Once more had seemed to pass, and saw the state Of that triumphant king; and still, though all Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call Faces he knew of old, yet none the less He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness, Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst For coming glory, as of old, when first He stood before the face of Charlemaine, A helpless hostage with all life to gain. But now, awake, his worn face once more sank Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank The draught of death that must that thirst allay.

But while he sat and waited for the day A sudden light across the bare rock streamed, Which at the first he noted not, but deemed The moon her fleecy veil had broken through; But ruddier indeed this new light grew Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal, Soft far-off music on his ears did fall; Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death, An easy thing like this to yield my breath, Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear, No dreadful sights to tell me it is near; Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last word It seemed to him that he his own name heard Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past; With that he gat unto his feet at last, But still awhile he stood, with sunken head, And in a low and trembling voice he said, "Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go? I pray Thee unto me some token show." And, as he said this, round about he turned, And in the east beheld a light that burned As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear The coming change that he believed so near, Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought Unto the very heaven to be brought: And though he felt alive, deemed it might be That he in sleep had died full easily. Then toward that light did he begin to go, And still those strains he heard, far off and low, That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed, But like the light of some unseen bright flame Shone round about, until at last he came Unto the dreary islet's other shore, And then the minstrelsy he heard no more, And softer seemed the strange light unto him; But yet or ever it had grown quite dim, Beneath its waning light could he behold A mighty palace set about with gold, Above green meads and groves of summer trees Far-off across the welter of the seas; But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight, And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light, Which soothly was but darkness to him now, His sea-girt island prison did but show. But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully, And said, "Alas! and when will this go by And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream Of life that once so dear a thing did seem, That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be? Here will I sit until he come to me, And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin, That so a little calm I yet may win Before I stand within the awful place." Then down he sat and covered up his face, Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide, Nor waiting thus for death could he abide, For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain Of hope of life had touched his soul again-- If he could live awhile, if he could live! The mighty being, who once was wont to give The gift of life to many a trembling man; Who did his own will since his life began; Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free Still cast aside the thought of what might be; Must all this then be lost, and with no will, Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil, Nor know what he is doing any more?

Soon he arose and paced along the shore, And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; But nought he saw except the old sad sight, The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, The white upspringing of the spurts of spray Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones Once cast like him upon this deadly isle. He stopped his pacing in a little while, And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth, And gazing at the ruin underneath, He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, Not caring aught if thus his life should end; But safely midst all this did he descend The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily.

But now, amid the clamour of the waves, And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves, Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress, And all those days of fear and loneliness, The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, And yet his footing somehow did he keep Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee. So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed, And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, And there a moment stood unsteadily, Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, And poised himself to meet the coming death, Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain Over the washing waves he heard again, And from the dimness something bright he saw Across the waste of waters towards him draw; And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last Unto his very feet a boat was cast, Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, Than struggle with that huge confused sea; But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, "What tales are these about the newly dead The heathen told? what matter, let all pass; This moment as one dead indeed I was, And this must be what I have got to do, I yet perchance may light on something new Before I die; though yet perchance this keel Unto the wondrous mass of charmed steel Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair Made wet by any dashing of the sea. Now while he pondered how these things could be, The boat began to move therefrom at last, But over him a drowsiness was cast, And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass, He clean forgot his death and where he was.

At last he woke up to a sunny day, And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, Where in the green waves did the low bank dip Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip; But Ogier looking thence no more could see That sad abode of death and misery, Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; Then from the golden cushions did he rise, And wondering still if this were Paradise He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword And muttered therewithal a holy word. Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, For with their quivering song the air was sweet; Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, And on his head the blossoms down did rain, Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail For lamentations o'er his changed lot; Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, For what then seemed to him a weary way, Whereon his steps he needs must often stay And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord Had small respect in glorious days long past.

But still he crept along, and at the last Came to a gilded wicket, and through this Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss, If that might last which needs must soon go by: There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh He said, "O God, a sinner I have been, And good it is that I these things have seen Before I meet what Thou hast set apart To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart; But who within this garden now can dwell Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?" A little further yet he staggered on, Till to a fountain-side at last he won, O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed, There he sank down, and laid his weary head Beside the mossy roots, and in a while He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle; That splashing fount the weary sea did seem, And in his dream the fair place but a dream; But when again to feebleness he woke Upon his ears that heavenly music broke, Not faint or far as in the isle it was, But e'en as though the minstrels now did pass Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt, E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about, Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain; And yet his straining gaze was but in vain, Death stole so fast upon him, and no more Could he behold the blossoms as before, No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground, A heavy mist seemed gathering all around, And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be, And round his head there breathed deliciously Sweet odours, and that music never ceased. But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice Sent from the world he loved so well of old, And all his life was as a story told, And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile E'en as a child asleep, but in a while It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed, For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed, As though from some sweet face and golden hair, And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair, And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears, Broken as if with flow of joyous tears; "Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long? Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!" Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord, Too long, too long; and yet one little word Right many a year agone had brought me here." Then to his face that face was drawn anear, He felt his head raised up and gently laid On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said, "Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend! Who knoweth when our linked life shall end, Since thou art come unto mine arms at last, And all the turmoil of the world is past? Why do I linger ere I see thy face As I desired it in that mourning place So many years ago--so many years, Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?" "Alas!" he said, "what mockery is this That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss? No longer can I think upon the earth, Have I not done with all its grief and mirth? Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love Should come once more my dying heart to move, Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls Outside St. Omer's--art thou she? her name I could remember once mid death and fame Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday, Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay: Baldwin the fair--what hast thou done with him Since Charlot slew him? Ah, mine eyes wax dim; Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die? Did I forget thee in the days gone by? Then let me die, that we may meet again!"

He tried to move from her, but all in vain, For life had well-nigh left him, but withal He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall, And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there Set on some ring, and still he could not speak, And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak.

* * * * *

But, ah! what land was this he woke unto? What joy was this that filled his heart anew? Had he then gained the very Paradise? Trembling, he durst not at the first arise, Although no more he felt the pain of eld, Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld Beside him the white flowers and blades of grass; He durst not speak, lest he some monster was. But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice! Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still, Apart from every earthly fear and ill; Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this, That I like thee may live in double bliss?" Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun, But as he might have risen in old days To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze; But, looking round, he saw no change there was In the fair place wherethrough he first did pass, Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes, Now looked no worse than very Paradise; Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair Still sent its glittering stream forth into air, And by its basin a fair woman stood, And as their eyes met his renewed blood Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat. The fairest of all creatures did she seem; So fresh and delicate you well might deem That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest, Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt A child before her had the wise man felt, And with the pleasure of a thousand years Her lips were fashioned to move joy or tears Among the longing folk where she might dwell, To give at last the kiss unspeakable. In such wise was she clad as folk may be, Who, for no shame of their humanity, For no sad changes of the imperfect year, Rather for added beauty, raiment wear; For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days, Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet That bound the sandals to her dainty feet, Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head, And on her breast there lay a ruby red. So with a supplicating look she turned To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned, And held out both her white arms lovingly, As though to greet him as he drew anigh. Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I So cured of all my evils suddenly, That certainly I felt no mightier, when, Amid the backward rush of beaten men, About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme? Alas! I fear that in some dream I am." "Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is That such a name God gives unto our bliss; I know not, but if thou art such an one As I must deem, all days beneath the sun That thou hast had, shall be but dreams indeed To those that I have given thee at thy need. For many years ago beside the sea When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee: Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes, That thou mayest see what these my mysteries Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years, Passed amidst joy, thy new born body bears, Nor while thou art with me, and on this shore Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more. Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand, The hope and fear of many a warring land, And I will show thee wherein lies the spell, Whereby this happy change upon thee fell."

Like a shy youth before some royal love, Close up to that fair woman did he move, And their hands met; yet to his changed voice He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel, And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal As her light raiment, driven by the wind, Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind, His lips the treasure of her lips did press, And round him clung her perfect loveliness. For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then She drew herself from out his arms again, And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand, And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,-- "O Ogier, when thou earnest here to-day, I feared indeed, that in my sport with fate, I might have seen thee e'en one day too late, Before this ring thy finger should embrace; Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold; My father dying gave it me, nor told The manner of its making, but I know That it can make thee e'en as thou art now Despite the laws of God--shrink not from me Because I give an impious gift to thee-- Has not God made me also, who do this? But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss, Am of the fays, and live their changeless life, And, like the gods of old, I see the strife That moves the world, unmoved if so I will; For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill, Have never touched like you of Adam's race; And while thou dwellest with me in this place Thus shalt thou be--ah, and thou deem'st, indeed, That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand How thou art come into a happy land?-- Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing, And tell thee of it many a joyous thing; But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain, Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again Thus wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss; And so with us no otherwise it is, Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away Even as yet, though that shall be to-day. "But for the love and country thou hast won, Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon, That is both thine and mine; and as for me, Morgan le Fay men call me commonly Within the world, but fairer names than this I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss."

Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain, That she had brought him here this life to gain? For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind He watched the kisses of the wandering wind Within her raiment, or as some one sees The very best of well-wrought images When he is blind with grief, did he behold The wandering tresses of her locks of gold Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed The hand that in his own hand lay at rest: His eyes, grown dull with changing memories, Could make no answer to her glorious eyes: Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught, With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought, Unfinished in the old days; and withal He needs must think of what might chance to fall In this life new-begun; and good and bad Tormented him, because as yet he had A worldly heart within his frame made new, And to the deeds that he was wont to do Did his desires still turn. But she a while Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile, And let his hand fall down; but suddenly Sounded sweet music from some close nearby, And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me, That thou thy new life and delights mayst see." And gently with that word she led him thence, And though upon him now there fell a sense Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment, As hand in hand through that green place they went, Yet therewithal a strain of tender love A little yet his restless heart did move.

* * * * *

So through the whispering trees they came at last To where a wondrous house a shadow cast Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied grass Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pass, Playing about in carelessness and mirth, Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth; And from the midst a band of fair girls came, With flowers and music, greeting him by name, And praising him; but ever like a dream He could not break, did all to Ogier seem, And he his old world did the more desire, For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire, That through the world of old so bright did burn: Yet was he fain that kindness to return, And from the depth of his full heart he sighed. Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught, But still with kind love lighting up her face She led him through the door of that fair place, While round about them did the damsels press; And he was moved by all that loveliness As one might be, who, lying half asleep In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep Over the tulip-beds: no more to him Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim, Amidst that dream, although the first surprise Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir.

And so at last he came, led on by her Into a hall wherein a fair throne was, And hand in hand thereto the twain did pass; And there she bade him sit, and when alone He took his place upon the double throne, She cast herself before him on her knees, Embracing his, and greatly did increase The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart: But now a line of girls the crowd did part, Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold One in their midst who bore a crown of gold Within her slender hands and delicate; She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait Until the Queen arose and took the crown, Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth Thy miserable days of strife on earth, That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?" Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burned With sudden memories, and thereto had he Made answer, but she raised up suddenly The crown she held and set it on his head, "Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead; Thou wert dead with them also, but for me; Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!" Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave Did really hold his body; from his seat He rose to cast himself before her feet; But she clung round him, and in close embrace The twain were locked amidst that thronging place.

Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won, And in the happy land of Avallon Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head; There saw he many men the world thought dead, Living like him in sweet forgetfulness Of all the troubles that did once oppress Their vainly-struggling lives--ah, how can I Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh? Suffice it that no fear of death they knew, That there no talk there was of false or true, Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there; That everything was bright and soft and fair, And yet they wearied not for any change, Nor unto them did constancy seem strange. Love knew they, but its pain they never had, But with each other's joy were they made glad; Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire, Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire That turns to ashes all the joys of earth, Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on, Nor dreamed or discontent when all was won; Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame; Still was the calm flow of their lives the same, And yet, I say, they wearied not of it-- So did the promised days by Ogier flit.

Think that a hundred years have now passed by, Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die Beside the fountain; think that now ye are In France, made dangerous with wasting war; In Paris, where about each guarded gate, Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait, And press around each new-come man to learn If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn, Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain, Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine? Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants? That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes? When will they come? or rather is it true That a great band the Constable o'erthrew Upon the marshes of the lower Seine, And that their long ships, turning back again, Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore Were driven here and there and cast ashore? Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again, And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant, Still got new lies, or tidings very scant.

But now amidst these men at last came one, A little ere the setting of the sun, With two stout men behind him, armed right well, Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell, With doubtful eyes upon their master stared, Or looked about like troubled men and scared. And he they served was noteworthy indeed; Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed, Rich past the wont of men in those sad times; His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes, But lovely as the image of a god Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod; But solemn were his eyes, and grey as glass, And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was: A mighty man he was, and taller far Than those who on that day must bear the war The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed And showed his pass; then, asked about his name And from what city of the world he came, Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight, That he was come midst the king's men to fight From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed Down on the thronging street as one amazed, And answered no more to the questioning Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing; But, ere he passed on, turned about at last And on the wondering guard a strange look cast, And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye Fight with the wasters from across the sea? Then, certes, are ye lost, however good Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone." So said he, and as his fair armour shone With beauty of a time long passed away, So with the music of another day His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk.

Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke, That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought, Surely good succour to our side is brought; For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb To save his faithful city from its doom." "Yea," said another, "this is certain news, Surely ye know how all the carvers use To carve the dead man's image at the best, That guards the place where he may lie at rest; Wherefore this living image looks indeed, Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed, To have but thirty summers." At the name Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow, And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how; So with a half-sigh soon sank back again Into his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein, And silently went on upon his way.

And this was Ogier: on what evil day Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come, Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home Of his desires? did he grow weary then, And wish to strive once more with foolish men For worthless things? or is fair Avallon Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone? Nay, thus it happed--One day she came to him And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxen dim Upon the world that thou rememberest not; The heathen men are thick on many a spot Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore; And God will give His wonted help no more. Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind To give thy banner once more to the wind? Since greater glory thou shalt win for this Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss: For men are dwindled both in heart and frame, Nor holds the fair land any such a name As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers: The world is worser for these hundred years." From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire, And in his voice was something of desire, To see the land where he was used to be, As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me, Thou art the wisest; it is more than well Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell: Nor ill perchance in that old land to die, If, dying, I keep not the memory Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she, "As to thy dying, that shall never be, Whiles that thou keep'st my ring--and now, behold, I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold, And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast Ere on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast: Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still, And I will guard thy life from every ill."

So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well, Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell, And set upon the Flemish coast; and thence Turned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful sense Of being in some wild dream, the while he knew That great delight forgotten was his due, That all which there might hap was of small worth. So on he went, and sometimes unto mirth Did his attire move the country-folk, But oftener when strange speeches from him broke Concerning men and things for long years dead, He filled the listeners with great awe and dread; For in such wild times as these people were Are men soon moved to wonder and to fear.

Now through the streets of Paris did he ride, And at a certain hostel did abide Throughout that night, and ere he went next day He saw a book that on a table lay, And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood: But long before it in that place he stood, Noting nought else; for it did chronicle The deeds of men of old he knew right well, When they were living in the flesh with him: Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dim Already, and true stories mixed with lies, Until, with many thronging memories Of those old days, his heart was so oppressed, He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest, Forgetting all things: for indeed by this Little remembrance had he of the bliss That wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon.

But his changed life he needs must carry on; For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men To send unto the good King, who as then In Rouen lay, beset by many a band Of those who carried terror through the land, And still by messengers for help he prayed: Therefore a mighty muster was being made, Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous, Before the Queen anigh her royal house. So thither on this morn did Ogier turn, Some certain news about the war to learn; And when he came at last into the square, And saw the ancient palace great and fair Rise up before him as in other days, And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays Glittering on gathering helms and moving spears, He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years, And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen Came from within, right royally beseen, And took her seat beneath a canopy, With lords and captains of the war anigh; And as she came a mighty shout arose, And round about began the knights to close, Their oath of fealty there to swear anew, And learn what service they had got to do. But so it was, that some their shouts must stay To gaze at Ogier as he took his way Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat Unto the place whereas the Lady sat, For men gave place unto him, fearing him: For not alone was he most huge of limb, And dangerous, but something in his face, As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place, Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days, When men might hope alive on gods to gaze, They would have thought, "The gods yet love our town And from the heavens have sent a great one down." Withal unto the throne he came so near, That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear; And swiftly now within him wrought the change That first he felt amid those faces strange; And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life With such desires, such changing sweetness rife. And yet, indeed, how should he live alone, Who in the old past days such friends had known? Then he began to think of Caraheu, Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knew The bitter pain of rent and ended love. But while with hope and vain regret he strove, He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat, And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feet And took her hand to swear, as was the way Of doing fealty in that ancient day, And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was she As any woman of the world might be Full-limbed and tall, dark haired, from her deep eyes, The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise, Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand, The well-knit holder of the golden wand, Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown, And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown, As he, the taker of such oaths of yore, Now unto her all due obedience swore, Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen, Awed by his voice as other folk had been, Yet felt a trembling hope within her rise Too sweet to think of, and with love's surprise Her cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and name Thou tellest not, nor what land of thy fame Is glad; for, certes, some land must be glad, That in its bounds her house thy mother had." "Lady," he said, "from what far land I come I well might tell thee, but another home Have I long dwelt in, and its name have I Forgotten now, forgotten utterly Who were my fellows, and what deeds they did; Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hid And my first country; call me on this day The Ancient Knight, and let me go my way." He rose withal, for she her fingers fair Had drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stare As one afeard; for something terrible Was in his speech, and that she knew right well, Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she, Shut out by some strange deadly mystery, Should never gain from him an equal love; Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move, She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently, When we have done this muster, unto me, And thou shalt have thy charge and due command For freeing from our foes this wretched land!" Then Ogier made his reverence and went, And somewhat could perceive of her intent; For in his heart life grew, and love with life Grew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife. But, as he slowly gat him from the square, Gazing at all the people gathered there, A squire of the Queen's behind him came, And breathless, called him by his new-coined name, And bade him turn because the Queen now bade, Since by the muster long she might be stayed, That to the palace he should bring him straight, Midst sport and play her coming back to wait; Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went, And to a postern-gate his steps he bent, That Ogier knew right well in days of old; Worn was it now, and the bright hues and gold Upon the shields above, with lapse of days, Were faded much: but now did Ogier gaze Upon the garden where he walked of yore, Holding the hands that he should see no more; For all was changed except the palace fair, That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built there Ere Ogier knew him; there the squire did lead The Ancient Knight, who still took little heed Of all the things that by the way he said, For all his thoughts were on the days long dead. There in the painted hall he sat again, And 'neath the pictured eyes of Charlemaine He ate and drank, and felt it like a dream; And midst his growing longings yet might deem That he from sleep should wake up presently In some fair city on the Syrian sea, Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle. But fain to be alone, within a while He gat him to the garden, and there passed By wondering squires and damsels, till at last, Far from the merry folk who needs must play, If on the world were coming its last day, He sat him down, and through his mind there ran Faint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan, He lay down by the fountain-side to die. But when he strove to gain clear memory Of what had happed since on the isle he lay Waiting for death, a hopeless castaway, Thought failing him, would rather bring again His life among the peers of Charlemaine, And vex his soul with hapless memories; Until at last, worn out by thought of these, And hopeless striving to find what was true, And pondering on the deeds he had to do Ere he returned, whereto he could not tell, Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell. And on the afternoon of that fair day, Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay.

Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done, Went through the gardens with one dame alone Seeking for Ogier, whom at last she found Laid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground, Dreaming, I know not what, of other days. Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze, Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight, Then to her fellow turned, "The ancient Knight-- What means he by this word of his?" she said; "He were well mated with some lovely maid Just pondering on the late-heard name of love." "Softly, my lady, he begins to move," Her fellow said, a woman old and grey; "Look now, his arms are of another day; None know him or his deeds; thy squire just said He asked about the state of men long dead; I fear what he may be; look, seest thou not That ring that on one finger he has got, Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought: God grant that he from hell has not been brought For our confusion, in this doleful war, Who surely in enough of trouble are Without such help;" then the Queen turned aside Awhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide, For lurking dread this speech within her stirred; But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word, This man is come against our enemies To fight for us." Then down upon her knees Fell the old woman by the sleeping knight, And from his hand she drew with fingers light The wondrous ring, and scarce again could rise Ere 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyes The change began; his golden hair turned white, His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing light Was turned to troublous struggling for his breath, And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death; And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling Queen Stood thinking on the beauty she had seen And longed for but a little while ago, Yet with her terror still her love did grow, And she began to weep as though she saw Her beauty e'en to such an ending draw. And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes, And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighs His lips could utter; then he tried to reach His hand to them, as though he would beseech The gift of what was his: but all the while The crone gazed on them with an evil smile, Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring, She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing, Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast, May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past, Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her hand And took the ring, and there awhile did stand And strove to think of it, but still in her Such all-absorbing longings love did stir, So young she was, of death she could not think, Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink; Yet on her finger had she set the ring When now the life that hitherto did cling To Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away, And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay. Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously, "Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee, And thou grow'st young again? what should I do If with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anew Thou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that word The hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred, Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh, And therewith on his finger hastily She set the ring, then rose and stood apart A little way, and in her doubtful heart With love and fear was mixed desire of life. But standing so, a look with great scorn rife The elder woman, turning, cast on her, Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir; She looked, and all she erst saw now did seem To have been nothing but a hideous dream, As fair and young he rose from off the ground And cast a dazed and puzzled look around, Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place; But soon his grave eyes rested on her face, And turned yet graver seeing her so pale, And that her eyes were pregnant with some tale Of love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the while Forced her pale lips to semblance of a smile, And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then? While through this poor land range the heathen men, Unmet of any but my King and Lord: Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword." "Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work, And certes I behind no wall would lurk, Nor send for succour, while a scanty folk Still followed after me to break the yoke: I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fain That I might rather never sleep again Than have such wretched dreams as I e'en now Have waked from." Lovelier she seemed to grow Unto him as he spoke; fresh colour came Into her face, as though for some sweet shame, While she with tearful eyes beheld him so, That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow, His heart beat faster. But again she said, "Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head? Then may I too have pardon for a dream: Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seem To be the King of France; and thou and I Were sitting at some great festivity Within the many-peopled gold-hung place." The blush of shame was gone as on his face She gazed, and saw him read her meaning clear And knew that no cold words she had to fear, But rather that for softer speech he yearned. Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned; Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss, She trembled at the near approaching bliss; Nathless, she checked her love a little while, Because she felt the old dame's curious smile Upon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight, If I then read my last night's dream aright, Thou art come here our very help to be, Perchance to give my husband back to me; Come then, if thou this land art fain to save, And show the wisdom thou must surely have Unto my council; I will give thee then What charge I may among my valiant men; And certes thou wilt do so well herein, That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win: Come, then, deliverer of my throne and land, And let me touch for once thy mighty hand With these weak fingers." As she spoke, she met His eager hand, and all things did forget But for one moment, for too wise were they To cast the coming years of joy away; Then with her other hand her gown she raised And led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazed At her old follower with a doubtful smile, As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!" But slowly she behind the lovers walked, Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balked Of thy desire; be merry! I am wise, Nor will I rob thee of thy Paradise For any other than myself; and thou May'st even happen to have had enow Of this new love, before I get the ring, And I may work for thee no evil thing."

Now ye shall know that the old chronicle, Wherein I read all this, doth duly tell Of all the gallant deeds that Ogier did, There may ye read them; nor let me be chid If I therefore say little of these things, Because the thought of Avallon still clings Unto my heart, and scarcely can I bear To think of that long, dragging useless year, Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory, Ogier was grown content to live and die Like other men; but this I have to say, That in the council chamber on that day The Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow, While fainter still with love the Queen did grow Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes Flashing with fire of warlike memories; Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed That she could give him now the charge, to lead One wing of the great army that set out From Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shout Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears, And slender hopes and unresisted fears.

Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay, Newly awakened at the dawn of day, Gathering perplexed thoughts of many a thing, When, midst the carol that the birds did sing Unto the coming of the hopeful sun, He heard a sudden lovesome song begun 'Twixt two young voices in the garden green, That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen.

SONG.

HAEC.

_In the white-flowered hawthorn brake, Love, be merry for my sake; Twine the blossoms in my hair, Kiss me where I am most fair-- Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?_

ILLE.

_Nay, the garlanded gold hair Hides thee where thou art most fair;_ _Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow-- Ah, sweet love, I have thee now! Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?_

HAEC.

_Shall we weep for a dead day, Or set Sorrow in our way? Hidden by my golden hair, Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear? Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?_

ILLE.

_Weep, O Love, the days that flit, Now, while I can feel thy breath; Then may I remember it Sad and old, and near my death. Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death_?

Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought Of happiness it seemed to promise him, He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim, And o'er him 'gan forgetfulness to creep Till in the growing light he lay asleep, Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast Had summoned him all thought away to cast: Yet one more joy of love indeed he had Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad; For, as on that May morning forth they rode And passed before the Queen's most fair abode, There at a window was she waiting them In fair attire with gold in every hem, And as the ancient Knight beneath her passed A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast, And looked farewell to him, and forth he set Thinking of all the pleasure he should get From love and war, forgetting Avallon And all that lovely life so lightly won; Yea, now indeed the earthly life o'erpast Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned To 'scape the fire that erst his heart had burned. And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame, Forgat the letters of his ancient name As one waked fully shall forget a dream, That once to him a wondrous tale did seem.

Now I, though writing here no chronicle E'en as I said, must nathless shortly tell That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain By a broad arrow had the King been slain, And helpless now the wretched country lay Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day When Ogier fell at last upon the foe, And scattered them as helplessly as though They had been beaten men without a name: So when to Paris town once more he came Few folk the memory of the King did keep Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep At his returning, 'twas for joy indeed That such a man had risen at their need To work for them so great deliverance, And loud they called on him for King of France.

But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flame For all that she had heard of his great fame, I know not; rather with some hidden dread Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead, And her false dream seemed coming true at last, For the clear sky of love seemed overcast With clouds of God's great judgments, and the fear Of hate and final parting drawing near. So now when he before her throne did stand Amidst the throng as saviour of the land, And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise, And there before all her own love must praise; Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said, "See, how she sorrows for the newly dead! Amidst our joy she needs must think of him; Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim And she shall wed again." So passed the year, While Ogier set himself the land to clear Of broken remnants of the heathen men, And at the last, when May-time came again, Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land, And at the altar take the fair Queen's hand And wed her for his own. And now by this Had he forgotten clean the woe and bliss Of his old life, and still was he made glad As other men; and hopes and fears he had As others, and bethought him not at all Of what strange days upon him yet should fall When he should live and these again be dead.

Now drew the time round when he should be wed, And in his palace on his bed he lay Upon the dawning of the very day: 'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hear E'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear, The hammering of the folk who toiled to make Some well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake, Though hardly yet the sparrows had begun To twitter o'er the coming of the sun, Nor through the palace did a creature move. There in the sweet entanglement of love Midst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay, Remembering no more of that other day Than the hot noon remembereth of the night, Than summer thinketh of the winter white. In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried, "Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide, And rising on his elbow, gazed around, And strange to him and empty was the sound Of his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said. "For I, the man who lies upon this bed, Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day, But in a year that now is past away The Ancient Knight they called me: who is this, Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his? And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh, As of one grieved, came from some place anigh His bed-side, and a soft voice spake again, "This Ogier once was great amongst great men; To Italy a helpless hostage led; He saved the King when the false Lombard fled, Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day; Charlot he brought back, whom men led away, And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu. The ravager of Rome his right hand slew; Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine, Who for a dreary year beset in vain His lonely castle; yet at last caught then, And shut in hold, needs must he come again To give an unhoped great deliverance Unto the burdened helpless land of France: Denmark he gained thereafter, and he wore The crown of England drawn from trouble sore; At Tyre then he reigned, and Babylon With mighty deeds he from the foemen won; And when scarce aught could give him greater fame, He left the world still thinking on his name. "These things did Ogier, and these things didst thou, Nor will I call thee by a new name now Since I have spoken words of love to thee-- Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me, E'en if thou hast no thought of that past time Before thou earnest to our happy clime?"

As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeed A lovely woman clad in dainty weed Beside his bed, and many a thought was stirred Within his heart by that last plaintive word, Though nought he said, but waited what should come. "Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home; Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do, And if thou bidest here, for something new Will folk begin to cry, and all thy fame Shall then avail thee but for greater blame; Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earth Thou lovest now shall be of little worth While still thou keepest life, abhorring it. Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flit Thus is it, how then shall it be with thee, Who some faint image of eternity Hast gained through me?--alas, thou heedest not! On all these changing things thine heart is hot-- Take then this gift that I have brought from far, And then may'st thou remember what we are; The lover and the loved from long ago." He trembled, and more memory seemed to grow Within his heart as he beheld her stand, Holding a glittering crown in her right hand: "Ogier," she said, "arise and do on thee The emblems of thy worldly sovereignity, For we must pass o'er many a sea this morn." He rose, and in the glittering tunic worn By Charlemaine he clad himself, and took The ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shook Over the people's head in days of old; Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold, And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair, And set the gold crown on his golden hair: Then on the royal chair he sat him down, As though he deemed the elders of the town Should come to audience; and in all he seemed To do these things e'en as a man who dreamed.

And now adown the Seine the golden sun Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one And took from off his head the royal crown, And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine, Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain, Because he died, and all the things he did Were changed before his face by earth was hid; A better crown I have for my love's head, Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead His hand has helped." Then on his head she set The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget! Forget these weary things, for thou hast much Of happiness to think of." At that touch He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes; And smitten by the rush of memories, He stammered out, "O love! how came we here? What do we in this land of Death and Fear? Have I not been from thee a weary while? Let us return--I dreamed about the isle; I dreamed of other years of strife and pain, Of new years full of struggles long and vain." She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love, I am not changed;" and therewith did they move Unto the door, and through the sleeping place Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his Except the dear returning of his bliss. But at the threshold of the palace-gate That opened to them, she awhile did wait, And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine And said, "O love, behold it once again!" He turned, and gazed upon the city grey Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May; He heard faint noises as of wakening folk As on their heads his day of glory broke; He heard the changing rush of the swift stream Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream. His work was over, his reward was come, Why should he loiter longer from his home?

A little while she watched him silently, Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh, And, raising up the raiment from her feet, Across the threshold stepped into the street; One moment on the twain the low sun shone, And then the place was void, and they were gone How I know not; but this I know indeed, That in whatso great trouble or sore need The land of France since that fair day has been, No more the sword of Ogier has she seen.

* * * * *

Such was the tale he told of Avallon, E'en such an one as in days past had won His youthful heart to think upon the quest; But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest, Not much to be desired now it seemed-- Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed Had found no words in this death-laden tongue We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung; Perchance the changing years that changed his heart E'en in the words of that old tale had part, Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair The foolish hope that once had glittered there-- Or think, that in some bay of that far home They then had sat, and watched the green waves come Up to their feet with many promises; Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees, In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred Long dead for ever. Howsoe'er that be Among strange folk they now sat quietly, As though that tale with them had nought to do, As though its hopes and fears were something new. But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band Had no tears left for that once longed-for land, The very wind must moan for their decay, And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey, Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field, That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield; And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves. Yet, since a little life at least was left, They were not yet of every joy bereft, For long ago was past the agony, Midst which they found that they indeed must die; And now well-nigh as much their pain was past As though death's veil already had been cast Over their heads--so, midst some little mirth, They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth.

THE GOLDEN APPLES.

This tale tells of the voyage of a ship of Tyre, that, against the will of the shipmen, bore Hercules to an unknown land of the West, that he might accomplish a task laid on him by the Fates.

As many as the leaves fall from the tree, From the world's life the years are fallen away Since King Eurystheus sat in majesty In fair Mycenae; midmost of whose day It once befell that in a quiet bay A ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the shore, Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar.

Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stole Down from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that crowned, And ruffled lightly the long gleaming roll Of the peaceful sea, and bore along the sound Of shepherd-folk and sheep and questing hound, For in the first dip of the hillside there Lay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair.

Amid regrets for last night, when the moon, Risen on the soft dusk, shone on maidens' feet Brushing the gold-heart lilies to the tune Of pipes complaining, o'er the grass down-beat That mixed with dewy flowers its odour sweet, The shipmen laboured, till the sail unfurled Swung round the prow to meet another world.

But ere the anchor had come home, a shout Rang from the strand, as though the ship were hailed. Whereat the master bade them stay, in doubt That they without some needful thing had sailed; When, lo! from where the cliff's steep grey sides failed Into a ragged stony slip, came twain Who seemed in haste the ready keel to gain.

Soon they drew nigh, and he who first came down Unto the surf was a man huge of limb, Grey-eyed, with crisp-curled hair 'twixt black and brown, Who had a lion's skin cast over him, So wrought with gold that the fell showed but dim Betwixt the threads, and in his hand he bore A mighty club with bands of steel done o'er.

Panting there followed him a grey old man, Bearing a long staff, clad in gown of blue, Feeble of aspect, hollow-cheeked and wan, Who when unto his fellow's side he drew, Said faintly: "Now, do that which thou shouldst do; This is the ship." Then in the other's eye A smile gleamed, and he spake out merrily:

"Masters, folk tell me that ye make for Tyre, And after that still nearer to the sun; And since Fate bids me look to die by fire, Fain am I, ere my worldly day be done, To know what from earth's hottest can be won; And this old man, my kinsman, would with me. How say ye, will ye bear us o'er the sea?"

"What is thy name?" the master said: "And know That we are merchants, and for nought give nought; What wilt thou pay?--thou seem'st full rich, I trow." The old man muttered, stooped adown and caught At something in the sand: "E'en so I thought," The younger said, "when I set out from home-- As to my name, perchance in days to come

"Thou shalt know that--but have heed, take this toy, And call me the Strong Man." And as he spake The master's deep-brown eyes 'gan gleam with joy, For from his arm a huge ring did he take, And cast it on the deck, where it did break A water-jar, and in the wet shards lay Golden, and gleaming like the end of day.

But the old man held out a withered hand, Wherein there shone two pearls most great and fair, And said, "If any nigher I might stand, Then might'st thou see the things I give thee here-- And for a name--a many names I bear, But call me Shepherd of the Shore this tide, And for more knowledge with a good will bide."

From one to the other turned the master's eyes; The Strong Man laughed as at some hidden jest, And wild doubts in the shipman's heart did rise; But thinking on the thing, he deemed it best To bid them come aboard, and take such rest As they might have of the untrusty sea, 'Mid men who trusty fellows still should be.

Then no more words the Strong Man made, but straight Caught up the elder in his arms, and so, Making no whit of all that added weight, Strode to the ship, right through the breakers low, And catching at the rope that they did throw Out toward his hand, swung up into the ship; Then did the master let the hawser slip.

The shapely prow cleft the wet mead and green, And wondering drew the shipmen round to gaze Upon those limbs, the mightiest ever seen; And many deemed it no light thing to face The splendour of his eyen, though they did blaze With no wrath now, no hate for them to dread, As seaward 'twixt the summer isles they sped.

Freshened the wind, but ever fair it blew Unto the south-east; but as failed the land, Unto the plunging prow the Strong Man drew, And silent, gazing with wide eyes did stand, As though his heart found rest; but 'mid the band Of shipmen in the stern the old man sat, Telling them tales that no man there forgat.

As one who had beheld, he told them there Of the sweet singer, whom, for his song's sake, The dolphins back from choking death did bear; How in the mid sea did the vine outbreak O'er that ill bark when Bacchus 'gan to wake; How anigh Cyprus, ruddy with the rose The cold sea grew as any June-loved close;

While on the flowery shore all things alive Grew faint with sense of birth of some delight, And the nymphs waited trembling there, to give Glad welcome to the glory of that sight: He paused then, ere he told how, wild and white, Rose ocean, breaking o'er a race accurst, A world once good, now come unto its worst.

And then he smiled, and said, "And yet ye won, Ye men, and tremble not on days like these, Nor think with what a mind Prometheus' son Beheld the last of the torn reeling trees From high Parnassus: slipping through the seas Ye never think, ye men-folk, how ye seem From down below through the green waters' gleam."

Dusk was it now when these last words he said, And little of his visage might they see, But o'er their hearts stole vague and troublous dread, They knew not why; yet ever quietly They sailed that night; nor might a morning be Fairer than was the next morn; and they went Along their due course after their intent.

The fourth day, about sunrise, from the mast The watch cried out he saw Phoenician land; Whereat the Strong Man on the elder cast A look askance, and he straight took his stand Anigh the prow, and gazed beneath his hand Upon the low sun and the scarce-seen shore, Till cloud-flecks rose, and gathered and drew o'er.

The morn grown cold; then small rain 'gan to fall, And all the wind dropped dead, and hearts of men Sank, and their bark seemed helpless now and small; Then suddenly the wind 'gan moan again; Sails flapped, and ropes beat wild about; and then Down came the great east wind; and the ship ran Straining, heeled o'er, through seas all changed and wan.

Westward, scarce knowing night from day, they drave Through sea and sky grown one; the Strong Man wrought With mighty hands, and seemed a god to save; But on the prow, heeding all weather nought, The elder stood, nor any prop he sought, But swayed to the ship's wallowing, as on wings He there were set above the wrack of things.

And westward still they drave; and if they saw Land upon either side, as on they sped, 'Twas but as faces in a dream may draw Anigh, and fade, and leave nought in their stead; And in the shipmen's hearts grew heavy dread To sick despair; they deemed they should drive on Till the world's edge and empty space were won.

But 'neath the Strong Man's eyes e'en as they might They toiled on still; and he sang to the wind, And spread his arms to meet the waters white, As o'er the deck they tumbled, making blind The brine-drenched shipmen; nor with eye unkind He gazed up at the lightning; nor would frown When o'er the wet waste Jove's bolt rattled down.

And they, who at the last had come to think Their guests were very gods, with all their fear Feared nought belike that their good ship would sink Amid the storm; but rather looked to hear The last moan of the wind that them should bear Into the windless stream of ocean grey, Where they should float till dead was every day.

Yet their fear mocked them; for the storm 'gan die About the tenth day, though unto the west They drave on still; soon fair and quietly The morn would break: and though amid their rest Nought but long evil wandering seemed the best That they might hope for; still, despite their dread, Sweet was the quiet sea and goodlihead

Of the bright sun at last come back again; And as the days passed, less and less fear grew, If without cause, till faded all their pain; And they 'gan turn unto their guests anew, Yet durst ask nought of what that evil drew Upon their heads; or of returning speak. Happy they felt, but listless, spent, and weak.

And now as at the first the elder was, And sat and told them tales of yore agone; But ever the Strong Man up and down would pass About the deck, or on the prow alone Would stand and stare out westward; and still on Through a fair summer sea they went, nor thought Of what would come when these days turned to nought.

And now when twenty days were well passed o'er They made a new land; cloudy mountains high Rose from the sea at first; then a green shore Spread fair below them: as they drew anigh No sloping, stony strand could they espy, And no surf breaking; the green sea and wide Wherethrough they slipped was driven by no tide.

Dark fell ere they might set their eager feet Upon the shore; but night-long their ship lay As in a deep stream, by the blossoms sweet That flecked the grass whence flowers ne'er passed away. But when the cloud-barred east brought back the day, And turned the western mountain-tops to gold, Fresh fear the shipmen in their bark did hold.

For as a dream seemed all; too fair for those Who needs must die; moreover they could see, A furlong off, 'twixt apple-tree and rose, A brazen wall that gleamed out wondrously In the young sun, and seemed right long to be; And memory of all marvels lay upon Their shrinking hearts now this sweet place was won.

But when unto the nameless guests they turned, Who stood together nigh the plank shot out Shoreward, within the Strong Man's eyes there burned A wild light, as the other one in doubt He eyed a moment; then with a great shout Leaped into the blossomed grass; the echoes rolled Back from the hills, harsh still and over-bold.

Slowly the old man followed him, and still The crew held back: they knew now they were brought Over the sea the purpose to fulfil Of these strange men; and in their hearts they thought, "Perchance we yet shall live, if, meddling nought With dreams, we bide here till these twain come back; But prying eyes the fire-blast seldom lack."

Yet 'mongst them were two fellows bold and young, Who, looking each upon the other's face, Their hearts to meet the unknown danger strung, And went ashore, and at a gentle pace Followed the strangers, who unto the place Where the wall gleamed had turned; peace and desire Mingled together in their hearts, as nigher

They drew unto that wall, and dulled their fear: Fair wrought it was, as though with bricks of brass; And images upon its face there were, Stories of things a long while come to pass: Nor that alone--as looking in a glass Its maker knew the tales of what should be, And wrought them there for bird and beast to see.

So on they went; the many birds sang sweet Through all that blossomed thicket from above, And unknown flowers bent down before their feet; The very air, cleft by the grey-winged dove, Throbbed with sweet scent, and smote their souls with love. Slowly they went till those twain stayed before A strangely-wrought and iron-covered door.

They stayed, too, till o'er noise of wind, and bird, And falling flower, there rang a mighty shout As the Strong Man his steel-bound club upreared, And drave it 'gainst the hammered iron stout, Where 'neath his blows flew bolt and rivet out, Till shattered on the ground the great door lay, And into the guarded place bright poured the day.

The Strong Man entered, but his fellow stayed, Leaning against a tree-trunk as they deemed. They faltered now, and yet all things being weighed Went on again; and thought they must have dreamed Of the old man, for now the sunlight streamed Full on the tree he had been leaning on, And him they saw not go, yet was he gone:

Only a slim green lizard flitted there Amidst the dry leaves; him they noted nought, But trembling, through the doorway 'gan to peer, And still of strange and dreadful saw not aught, Only a garden fair beyond all thought. And there, 'twixt sun and shade, the Strong Man went On some long-sought-for end belike intent.

They 'gan to follow down a narrow way Of green-sward that the lilies trembled o'er, And whereon thick the scattered rose-leaves lay; But a great wonder weighed upon them sore, And well they thought they should return no more, Yet scarce a pain that seemed; they looked to meet Before they died things strange and fair and sweet.

So still to right and left the Strong Man thrust The blossomed boughs, and passed on steadily, As though his hardy heart he well did trust, Till in a while he gave a joyous cry, And hastened on, as though the end drew nigh; And women's voices then they deemed they heard, Mixed with a noise that made desire afeard.

Yet through sweet scents and sounds on did they bear Their panting hearts, till the path ended now In a wide space of green, a streamlet clear From out a marble basin there did flow, And close by that a slim-trunked tree did grow, And on a bough low o'er the water cold There hung three apples of red-gleaming gold.

About the tree, new risen e'en now to meet The shining presence of that mighty one, Three damsels stood, naked from head to feet Save for the glory of their hair, where sun And shadow flickered, while the wind did run Through the grey leaves o'erhead, and shook the grass Where nigh their feet the wandering bee did pass.

But 'midst their delicate limbs and all around The tree-roots, gleaming blue black could they see The spires of a great serpent, that, enwound About the smooth bole, looked forth threateningly, With glittering eyes and raised crest, o'er the three Fair heads fresh crowned, and hissed above the speech Wherewith they murmured softly each to each.

Now the Strong Man amid the green space stayed, And leaning on his club, with eager eyes But brow yet smooth, in voice yet friendly said: "O daughters of old Hesperus the Wise, Well have ye held your guard here; but time tries The very will of gods, and to my hand Must give this day the gold fruit of your land."

Then spake the first maid--sweet as the west wind Amidst of summer noon her sweet voice was: "Ah, me! what knows this place of changing mind Of men or gods; here shall long ages pass, And clean forget thy feet upon the grass, Thy hapless bones amid the fruitful mould; Look at thy death envenomed swift and cold!"

Hiding new flowers, the dull coils, as she spake, Moved near her limbs: but then the second one, In such a voice as when the morn doth wake To song of birds, said, "When the world foredone Has moaned its last, still shall we dwell alone Beneath this bough, and have no tales to tell Of things deemed great that on the earth befell."

Then spake the third, in voice as of the flute That wakes the maiden to her wedding morn: "If any god should gain our golden fruit, Its curse would make his deathless life forlorn. Lament thou, then, that ever thou wert born; Yet all things, changed by joy or loss or pain, To what they were shall change and change again."

"So be it," he said, "the Fates that drive me on Shall slay me or shall save; blessing or curse That followeth after when the thing is won Shall make my work no better now nor worse; And if it be that the world's heart must nurse Hatred against me, how then shall I choose To leave or take?--let your dread servant loose!"

E'en therewith, like a pillar of black smoke, Swift, shifting ever, drave the worm at him; In deadly silence now that nothing broke, Its folds were writhing round him trunk and limb, Until his glittering gear was nought but dim E'en in that sunshine, while his head and side And breast the fork-tongued, pointed muzzle tried.

Closer the coils drew, quicker all about The forked tongue darted, and yet stiff he stood, E'en as an oak that sees the straw flare out And lick its ancient bole for little good: Until the godlike fury of his mood Burst from his heart in one great shattering cry, And rattling down the loosened coils did lie;

And from the torn throat and crushed dreadful head Forth flowed a stream of blood along the grass; Bright in the sun he stood above the dead, Panting with fury; yet as ever was The wont of him, soon did his anger pass, And with a happy smile at last he turned To where the apples o'er the water burned.

Silent and moveless ever stood the three; No change came o'er their faces, as his hand Was stretched aloft unto the sacred tree; Nor shrank they aught aback, though he did stand So close that tresses of their bright hair, fanned By the sweet garden breeze, lay light on him, And his gold fell brushed by them breast and limb.

He drew adown the wind-stirred bough, and took The apples thence; then let it spring away, And from his brow the dark hair backward shook, And said: "O sweet, O fair, and shall this day A curse upon my life henceforward lay-- This day alone? Methinks of coming life Somewhat I know, with all its loss and strife.

"But this I know, at least: the world shall wend Upon its way, and, gathering joy and grief And deeds done, bear them with it to the end; So shall it, though I lie as last year's leaf Lies 'neath a summer tree, at least receive My life gone by, and store it, with the gain That men alive call striving, wrong, and pain.

"So for my part I rather bless than curse, And bless this fateful land; good be with it; Nor for this deadly thing's death is it worse, Nor for the lack of gold; still shall ye sit Watching the swallow o'er the daisies flit; Still shall your wandering limbs ere day is done Make dawn desired by the sinking sun.

"And now, behold! in memory of all this Take ye this girdle that shall waste and fade As fadeth not your fairness and your bliss, That when hereafter 'mid the blossoms laid Ye talk of days and men now nothing made, Ye may remember how the Theban man, The son of Jove, came o'er the waters wan."

Their faces changed not aught for all they heard; As though all things now fully told out were, They gazed upon him without any word: Ah! craving kindness, hope, or loving care, Their fairness scarcely could have made more fair, As with the apples folded in his fell He went, to do more deeds for folk to tell.

Now as the girdle on the ground was cast Those fellows turned and hurried toward the door, And as across its broken leaves they passed The old man saw they not, e'en as before; But an unearthed blind mole bewildered sore Was wandering there in fruitless, aimless wise, That got small heed from their full-sated eyes.

Swift gat they to their anxious folk; nor had More time than just to say, "Be of good cheer, For in our own land may we yet be glad," When they beheld the guests a-drawing near; And much bewildered the two fellows were To see the old man, and must even deem That they should see things stranger than a dream.

But when they were aboard the elder cried, "Up sails, my masters, fair now is the wind; Nor good it is too long here to abide, Lest what ye may not loose your souls should bind." And as he spake, the tall trees left behind Stirred with the rising land-wind, and the crew, Joyous thereat, the hawsers shipward drew.

Swift sped the ship, and glad at heart were all, And the Strong Man was merry with the rest, And from the elder's lips no word did fall That did not seem to promise all the best; Yet with a certain awe were men oppressed, And felt as if their inmost hearts were bare, And each man's secret babbled through the air.

Still oft the old man sat with them and told Tales of past time, as on the outward way; And now would they the face of him behold And deem it changed; the years that on him lay Seemed to grow nought, and no more wan and grey He looked, but ever glorious, wise and strong, As though no lapse of time for him were long.

At last, when six days through the kindly sea Their keel had slipped, he said: "Come hearken now, For so it is that things fare wondrously E'en in these days; and I a tale can show That, told by you unto your sons shall grow A marvel of the days that are to come: Take heed and tell it when ye reach your home.

"Yet living in the world a man there is Men call the Theban King Amphitryon's son, Although perchance a greater sire was his; But certainly his lips have hung upon Alcmena's breasts: great deeds this man hath won Already, for his name is Hercules, And e'en ye Asian folk have heard of these.

"Now ere the moon, this eve in his last wane, Was born, this Hercules, the fated thrall Of King Eurystheus, was straight bid to gain Gifts from a land whereon no foot doth fall Of mortal man, beyond the misty wall Of unknown waters; pensively he went Along the sea on his hard life intent.

"And at the dawn he came into a bay Where the sea, ebbed far down, left wastes of sand, Walled from the green earth by great cliffs and grey; Then he looked up, and wondering there did stand, For strange things lay in slumber on the strand; Strange counterparts of what the firm earth hath Lay scattered all about his weary path:

"Sea-lions and sea-horses and sea-kine, Sea-boars, sea-men strange-skinned, of wondrous hair; And in their midst a man who seemed divine For changeless eld, and round him women fair, Clad in the sea-webs glassy green and clear With gems on head and girdle, limb and breast, Such as earth knoweth not among her best.

"A moment at the fair and wondrous sight He stared, then, since the heart in him was good, He went about with careful steps and light Till o'er the sleeping sea-god now he stood; And if the white-foot maids had stirred his blood As he passed by, now other thoughts had place Within his heart when he beheld that face.

"For Nereus now he knew, who knows all things; And to himself he said, 'If I prevail, Better than by some god-wrought eagle-wings Shall I be holpen;' then he cried out: 'Hail, O Nereus! lord of shifting hill and dale! Arise and wrestle; I am Hercules! Not soon now shalt thou meet the ridgy seas.'

"And mightily he cast himself on him; And Nereus cried out shrilly; and straightway That sleeping crowd, fair maid with half-hid limb, Strange man and green-haired beast, made no delay, But glided down into the billows grey, And, by the lovely sea embraced, were gone, While they two wrestled on the sea strand lone.

"Soon found the sea-god that his bodily might Was nought in dealing with Jove's dear one there; And soon he 'gan to use his magic sleight: Into a lithe leopard, and a hugging bear He turned him; then the smallest fowl of air The straining arms of Hercules must hold, And then a mud-born wriggling eel and cold.

"Then as the firm hands mastered this, forth brake A sudden rush of waters all around, Blinding and choking: then a thin green snake With golden eyes; then o'er the shell-strewn ground Forth stole a fly the least that may be found; Then earth and heaven seemed wrapped in one huge flame, But from the midst thereof a voice there came:

"'Kinsman and stout-heart, thou hast won the day, Nor to my grief: what wouldst thou have of me?' And therewith to an old man small and grey Faded the roaring flame, who wearily Sat down upon the sand and said, 'Let be! I know thy tale; worthy of help thou art; Come now, a short way hence will there depart

"'A ship of Tyre for the warm southern seas, Come we a-board; according to my will Her way shall be.' Then up rose Hercules, Merry of face, though hot and panting still; But the fair summer day his heart did fill With all delight; and so forth went the twain, And found those men desirous of all gain.

"Ah, for these gainful men--somewhat indeed Their sails are rent, their bark beat; kin and friend Are wearying for them; yet a friend in need They yet shall gain, if at their journey's end, Upon the last ness where the wild goats wend To lick the salt-washed stones, a house they raise Bedight with gold in kindly Nereus' praise."

Breathless they waited for these latest words, That like the soft wind of the gathering night Were grown to be: about the mast flew birds Making their moan, hovering long-winged and white; And now before their straining anxious sight The old man faded out into the air, And from his place flew forth a sea-mew fair.

Then to the Mighty Man, Alcmena's son, With yearning hearts they turned till he should speak, And he spake softly: "Nought ill have ye done In helping me to find what I did seek: The world made better by me knows if weak My hand and heart are: but now, light the fire Upon the prow and worship the grey sire."

So did they; and such gifts as there they had Gave unto Nereus; yea, and sooth to say, Amid the tumult of their hearts made glad, Had honoured Hercules in e'en such way; But he laughed out amid them, and said, "Nay, Not yet the end is come; nor have I yet Bowed down before vain longing and regret.

"It may be--who shall tell, when I go back There whence I came, and looking down behold The place that my once eager heart shall lack, And all my dead desires a-lying cold, But I may have the might then to enfold The hopes of brave men in my heart?--but long Life lies before first with its change and wrong."

So fair along the watery ways they sped In happy wise, nor failed of their return; Nor failed in ancient Tyre the ways to tread, Teaching their tale to whomsoever would learn, Nor failed at last the flesh of beasts to burn In Nereus' house, turned toward the bright day's end On the last ness, round which the wild goats wend.

L'ENVOI.

Here are we for the last time face to face, Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speed Upon thy perilous journey to that place For which I have done on thee pilgrim's weed, Striving to get thee all things for thy need-- --I love thee, whatso time or men may say Of the poor singer of an empty day.

Good reason why I love thee, e'en if thou Be mocked or clean forgot as time wears on; For ever as thy fashioning did grow, Kind word and praise because of thee I won From those without whom were my world all gone, My hope fallen dead, my singing cast away, And I set soothly in an empty day.

I love thee; yet this last time must it be, That thou must hold thy peace and I must speak, Lest if thou babble I begin to see Thy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart too weak, To find the land thou goest forth to seek-- --Though what harm if thou die upon the way, Thou idle singer of an empty day?

But though this land desired thou never reach, Yet folk who know it mayst thou meet or death; Therefore a word unto thee would I teach To answer these, who, noting thy weak breath, Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little faith, May make thy fond desire a sport and play, Mocking the singer of an empty day.

That land's name, say'st thou? and the road thereto? Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou know'st it not; Surely no book of verse I ever knew But ever was the heart within him hot To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot-- --There, now we both laugh--as the whole world may, At us poor singers of an empty day.

Nay, let it pass, and hearken! Hast thou heard That therein I believe I have a friend, Of whom for love I may not be afeard? It is to him indeed I bid thee wend; Yea, he perchance may meet thee ere thou end, Dying so far off from the hedge of bay, Thou idle singer of an empty day!

Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the road, And if it hap that midst of thy defeat, Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load, My Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, thou do meet, Then shalt thou win a space of rest full sweet; Then be thou bold, and speak the words I say, The idle singer of an empty day!

"O Master, O thou great of heart and tongue, Thou well mayst ask me why I wander here, In raiment rent of stories oft besung! But of thy gentleness draw thou anear, And then the heart of one who held thee dear Mayst thou behold! So near as that I lay Unto the singer of an empty day.

"For this he ever said, who sent me forth To seek a place amid thy company; That howsoever little was my worth, Yet was he worth e'en just so much as I; He said that rhyme hath little skill to lie: Nor feigned to cast his worser part away In idle singing for an empty day.

"I have beheld him tremble oft enough At things he could not choose but trust to me, Although he knew the world was wise and rough: And never did he fail to let me see His love,--his folly and faithlessness, may be; And still in turn I gave him voice to pray Such prayers as cling about an empty day.

"Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst read him through, For surely little is there left behind; No power great deeds unnameable to do; No knowledge for which words he may not find, No love of things as vague as autumn wind-- --Earth of the earth lies hidden by my clay, The idle singer of an empty day!

"Children we twain are, saith he, late made wise In love, but in all else most childish still, And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes, And what our ears with sweetest sounds may fill; Not fearing Love, lest these things he should kill; Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay, Making a strange tale of an empty day.

"Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life have we loved, through green leaf and through sere, Though still the less we knew of its intent: The Earth and Heaven through countless year on year, Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair, Hung round about a little room, where play Weeping and laughter of man's empty day.

"O Master, if thine heart could love us yet, Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done, Some place in loving hearts then should we get, For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand alone, But knew'st the joy and woe of many an one-- --By lovers dead, who live through thee we pray, Help thou us singers of an empty day!"

Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst gain Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die? Nay, it shall not be.--Thou mayst toil in vain, And never draw the House of Fame anigh; Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry, Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay The ghosts that crowd about life's empty day.

Then let the others go! and if indeed In some old garden thou and I have wrought, And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded seed, And fragrance of old days and deeds have brought Back to folk weary; all was not for nought. --No little part it was for me to play-- The idle singer of an empty day.

FROM "LOVE IS ENOUGH."

INTERLUDES.

1.

Love is enough; though the World be a-waning And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds, passed over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

2.

Love is enough: it grew up without heeding In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure, And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding, As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.

And what do ye say then?--that Spring long departed Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers; --That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers; We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.

Nay, Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason, And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended; But this is the harvest and the garnering season, And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.

It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding, Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure, Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure; There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding, But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure.

3.

Love is enough: draw near and behold me Ye who pass by the way to your rest and your laughter, And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after For the strong of the world have bought me and sold me And my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter. --Pass by me, and hearken, and think of me not!

Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken, And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying. Is this the grey rack o'er the sun's face a-flying? Or is it your faces his brightness that darken? Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing? --Pass by me and hearken, and pity me not!

Ye know not how void is your hope and your living: Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me! Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me, There is soft speech between us and words of forgiving Till in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me. --Pass by me and hearken, and waken me not!

Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me? Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter, And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after! Nay this I sell not,--though ye bought me and sold me,-- For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter. --Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not!

4.

Love is enough: ho ye who seek saving, Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it, And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving; These know the Cup with the roses around it; These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it: Cry out, the World heedeth not, "Love, lead us home!"

He leadeth, He hearkeneth, He cometh to you-ward; Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble Round his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward: Lo! his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble! Lo! his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble! Cry out, for he heedeth, "O Love, lead us home!"

O hearken the words of his voice of compassion: "Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sicken Of the weary unrest and the world's passing fashion! As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken, But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken, As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.

"Come--pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending! Come--fear ye shall have, mid the sky's overcasting! Come--change ye shall have, for far are ye wending! Come--no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting, But the kissed lips of Love and fair life everlasting! Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth you home!"

Is he gone? was he with us?--ho ye who seek saving, Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it? Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving; Here is the Cup with the roses around it; The World's Wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it: Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.

FROM

"THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG."