Chapter 5

"And then she ran to me and caught my hand, Tightly imprisoned in her meagre twain, And like the ghost of sorrow she did stand, And eyed me softly with a liquid pain: 'Oh father, grant, I pray thee, I command, One boon to me, I'll never ask again, One boon to me and to my love, to both; Dear father, grant, and bind it with an oath.'

XXVIII.

"This granted I, and then with many a wail She told me all the story of your woe, And when she finished, lightly but most pale, To those two brimming goblets she did go, And one she took within her fingers frail, And looked down smiling in its crimson glow: 'And now thine oath I'll tell; God grant to thee No rest in grave, if thou be false to me.

XXIX.

"'Alas, poor me! whom cruel hearts would wed On the sad morrow to that wicked lord; But I'll not go; nay, rather I'll be dead, Safe from their frown and from their bitter word. Without my Nino life indeed were sped; And sith we two can never more accord In this drear world, so weary and perplext, We'll die, and win sweet pleasure in the next.

XXX.

"'Oh father, God will never give thee rest, If thou be false to what thy lips have sworn, And false to love, and false to me distressed, A helpless maid, so broken and outworn. This cup--she put it softly to her breast-- I pray thee carry, ere the morrow morn, To Nino's hand, and tell him all my pain; This other with mine own lips I will drain.'

XXXI.

"Slowly she raised it to her lips, the while I darted forward, madly fain to seize Her dreadful hands, but with a sudden wile She twisted and sprang from me with bent knees, And rising turned upon me with a smile, And drained her goblet to the very lees. 'Oh priest, remember, keep thine oath,' she cried, And the spent goblet fell against her side.

XXXII.

"And then she moaned and murmured like a bell: 'My Nino, my sweet Nino!' and no more She said, but fluttered like a bird and fell Lifeless as marble to the footworn floor; And there she lies even now in lonely cell, Poor lady, pale with all the grief she bore, She could not live, and still be true to thee, And so she's gone where no rude hands can be."

XXXIII.

The monk's voice pauses like some mournful flute, Whose pondered closes for sheer sorrow fail, And then with hand that seems as it would suit A soft girl best, it is so light and frail, He turns half round, and for a moment mute Points to the goblet, and so ends his tale: "Mine oath is kept, thy lady's last command; 'Tis but a short hour since it left her hand."

XXXIV.

So ends the stranger: surely no man's tongue Was e'er so soft, or half so sweet, as his. Oft as he listened, Nino's heart had sprung With sudden start as from a spectre's kiss; For deep in many a word he deemed had rung The liquid fall of some loved emphasis; And so it pierced his sorrow to the core, The ghost of tones that he should hear no more.

XXXV.

But now the tale is ended, and still keeps The stranger hidden in his dusky weed; And Nino stands, wide-eyed, as one that sleeps, And dimly wonders how his heart doth bleed. Anon he bends, yet neither moans nor weeps, But hangs atremble, like a broken reed; "Ah! bitter fate, that lured and sold us so, Poor lady mine; alas for all our woe!"

XXXVI.

But even as he moans in such dark mood, His wandering eyes upon the goblet fall. Oh, dreaming heart! Oh, strange ingratitude! So to forget his lady's lingering call, Her parting gift, so rich, so crimson-hued, The lover's draught, that shall be cure for all. He lifts the goblet lightly from its place, And smiles, and rears it with his courtly grace.

XXXVII.

"Oh, lady sweet, I shall not long delay: This gift of thine shall bring me to thine eyes. Sure God will send on no unpardoned way The faithful soul, that at such bidding dies. When thou art gone, I cannot longer stay To brave this world with all its wrath and lies, Where hands of stone and tongues of dragon's breath Have bruised mine angel to her piteous death."

XXXVIII.

And now the gleaming goblet hath scarce dyed His lips' thin pallor with its deathly red, When Nino starts in wonder, fearful-eyed, For, lo! the stranger with outstretchèd head Springs at his face one soft and sudden stride, And from his hand the deadly cup hath sped, Dashed to the ground, and all it's seeded store Runs out like blood upon the marble floor.

XXXIX.

"Oh Nino, my sweet Nino! speak to me, Nor stand so strange, nor look so deathly pale. 'Twas all to prove thy heart's deaf constancy I brought that cup and told that piteous tale. Ah! chains and cells and cruel treachery Are weak indeed when women's hearts assail. Art angry, Nino?" 'Tis no monk that cries, But sweet Leonora with her love-lit eyes.

XL.

She dashes from her brow the pented hood; The dusky robe falls rustling to her feet; And there she stands, as aye in dreams she stood. Ah, Nino, see! Sure man did never meet So warm a flower from such a sombre bud, So trembling fair, so wan, so pallid sweet. Aye, Nino, down like saint upon thy knee, And soothe her hands with kisses warm and free.

XLI.

And now with broken laughter on her lips, And now with moans remembering of her care, She weeps, and smiles, and like a child she slips Her lily fingers through his curly hair, The while her head with all it's sweet she dips, Close to his ear, to soothe and murmur there; "Oh, Nino, I was hid so long from thee, That much I doubted what thy love might be.

XLII.

"And though 'twas cruel hard of me to try Thy faithful heart with such a fearful test, Yet now thou canst be happy, sweet, as I Am wondrous happy in thy truth confessed. To haggard death indeed thou needst not fly To find the softness of thy lady's breast; For such a gift was never death's to give, But thou shalt have me for thy love, and live.

XLIII.

"Dost see these cheeks, my Nino? they're so thin, Not round and soft, as when thou touched them last: So long with bitter rage they pent me in, Like some poor thief in lonely dungeon cast; Only this night through every bolt and gin By cunning stealth I wrought my way at last. Straight to thine heart I fled, unfaltering, Like homeward pigeon with uncagèd wing.

XLIV.

"Nay, Nino, kneel not; let me hear thee speak. We must not tarry long; the dawn is nigh." So rises he, for very gladness weak; But half in fear that yet the dream may fly, He touches mutely mouth and brow and cheek; Till in his ear she 'gins to plead and sigh: "Dear love, forgive me for that cruel tale, That stung thine heart and made thy lips so pale."

XLV.

And so he folds her softly with quick sighs, And both with murmurs warm and musical Talk and retalk, with dim or smiling eyes, Of old delights and sweeter days to fall: And yet not long, for, ere the starlit skies Grow pale above the city's eastern wall, They rise, with lips and happy hands withdrawn, And pass out softly into the dawn.

XLVI.

For Nino knows the captain of a ship, The friend of many journeys, who may be This very morn will let his cables slip For the warm coast of sunny Sicily. There in Palermo, at the harbour's lip, A brother lives, of tried fidelity: So to the quays by hidden ways they wend In the pale morn, nor do they miss their friend.

XLVII.

And ere the shadow of another night Hath darkened Pisa, many a foe shall stray Through Nino's home, with eyes malignly bright In wolfish quest, but shall not find his prey: The while those lovers in their white-winged flight Shall see far out upon the twilight grey, Behind, the glimmer of the sea, before, The dusky outlines of a kindlier shore.

THE CHILD'S MUSIC LESSON.

Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all? Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so? Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall! Each note to me is like a golden glow; Each broken cadence like a morning call; Nay, clear and smooth I would not have you go, Soft little hands, upon the curtained threshold set Of this long life of labour, and unrestful fret.

Soft sunlight flickers on the checkered green: Warm winds are stirring round my dreaming seat: Among the yellow pumpkin blooms, that lean Their crumpled rims beneath the heavy heat, The stripèd bees in lazy labour glean From bell to bell with golden-feathered feet; Yet even here the voices of hard life go by; Outside, the city strains with its eternal cry.

Here, as I sit--the sunlight on my face, And shadows of green leaves upon mine eyes-- My heart, a garden in a hidden place, Is full of folded buds of memories. Stray hither then with all your old time grace, Child-voices, trembling from the uncertain keys; Play on, ye little fingers, touch the settled gloom, And quickly, one by one, my waiting buds will bloom.

Ah me, I may not set my feet again In any part of that old garden dear, Or pluck one widening blossom, for my pain; But only at the wicket gaze I here: Old scents creep into mine inactive brain, Smooth scents of things, I may not come anear; I see, far off, old beaten pathways they adorn; I cannot feel with hands the blossom or the thorn.

Toil on, sweet hands; once more I see the child; The little child, that was myself, appears, And all the old-time beauties, undefined, Shine back to me across the opening years, Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild, Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears, Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems, With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams.

Play on into the golden sunshine so, Sweeter than all great artists' labouring: I too was like you once, an age ago: God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bring Quiet gliding ghosts to me of joy and woe, No certain things at all that thrill or sting, But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright, No joy or aching pain; but only dim delight.

AN ATHENIAN REVERIE.

How the returning days, one after one, Come ever in their rhythmic round, unchanged, Yet from each loopèd robe for every man Some new thing falls. Happy is he Who fronts them without fear, and like the gods Looks out unanxiously on each day's gift With calmly curious eye. How many things Even in a little space, both good and ill, Have fallen on me, and yet in all of them The keen experience or the smooth remembrance Hath found some sweet. It scarcely seems a month Since we saw Crete; so swiftly sped the days, Borne onward with how many changing scenes, Filled with how many crowding memories. Not soon shall I forget them, the stout ship, All the tense labour with the windy sea, The cloud-wrapped heights of Crete, beheld far off, And white Cytæon with its stormy pier, The fruitful valleys, the wild mountain road, And those long days of ever-vigilant toil, Scarcely with sleepless craft and unmoved front Escaping robbers, that quiet restful eve At rich Gortyna, where we lay and watched The dripping foliage, and the darkening fields, And over all huge-browed above the night Ida's great summit with it's fiery crown; And then once more the stormy treacherous sea, The noisy ship, the seamen's vehement cries, That battled with the whistling wind, the feet Reeling upon the swaying deck, and eyes Strained anxiously toward land; ah, with what joy At last the busy pier at Nauplia, Rest and firm shelter for our racking brains: Most sweet of all, most dear to memory That journey with Euktemon through the hills By fair Cleonæ and the lofty pass; Then Corinth with its riotous jollity, Remembered like a reeling dream; and here Good Theron's wedding, and this festal day; And I, chief helper in its various rites, Not least, commissioned through these wakeful hours To dream before the quiet thalamos, Unsleeping, like some full-grown bearded Eros, The guardian of love's sweetest mysteries. To-morrow I shall hear again the din Of the loosed cables, and the rowers' chaunt, The rattled cordage and the plunging oars. Once more the bending sail shall bear us on Across the level of the laughing sea. Ere mid-day we shall see far off behind us, Faint as the summit of a sultry cloud, The white Acropolis. Past Sunium With rushing keel, the long Euboean strand, Hymettus and the pine-dark hills shall fade Into the dusk: at Andros we shall water, And ere another starlight hush the shores From seaward valleys catch upon the wind The fragrance of old Chian vintages. At Chios many things shall fall, but none Can trace the future; rather let me dream Of what is now, and what hath been, for both Are fraught with life.

Here the unbroken silence Awakens thought and makes remembrance sweet. How solidly the brilliant moonlight shines Into the courts; beneath the colonnades How dense the shadows. I can scarcely see Yon painted Dian on the darkened wall; Yet how the gloom hath made her real. What sound, Piercing the leafy covert of her couch, Hath startled her. Perchance some prowling wolf, Or luckless footsteps of the stealthy Pan, Creeping at night among the noiseless steeps And hollows of the Erymanthian woods, Roused her from sleep. With listening head, Snatched bow, and quiver lightly slung, she stands, And peers across that dim and motionless glade, Beckoning about her heels the wakeful dogs; Yet Dian, thus alert, is but a dream, Making more real this brooding quietness. How strong and wonderful is night! Mankind Has yielded all to one sweet helplessness: Thought, labour, strife and all activities Have ebbed like fever. The smooth tide of sleep, Rolling across the fields of Attica, Hath covered all the labouring villages. Even great Athens with her busy hands And busier tongues lies quiet beneath it's waves. Only a steady murmur seems to come Up from her silentness, as if the land Were breathing heavily in dreams. Abroad No creature stirs, not even the reveller, Staggering, unlanterned, from the cool Piræus, With drunken shout. The remnants of the feast, The crumpled cushions and the broken wreathes, Lie scattered in yon shadowy court, whose stones Through the warm hours drink up the staining wine. The bridal oxen in their well-filled stalls Sleep, mindless of the happy weight they drew. The torch is charred; the garlands at the door, So gay at morning with their bright festoons, Hang limp and withered; and the joyous flutes Are empty of all sound. Only my brain Holds now in it's remote unsleeping depths The echo of the tender hymenæos And memory of the modest lips that sang it. Within the silent thalamos the queen, The sea-sprung radiant Cytherean reigns, And with her smiling lips and fathomless eyes Regards the lovers, knowing that this hour Is theirs once only. Earth and thought and time Lie far beyond them, a great gulf of joy, Absorbing fear, regret and every grief, A warm eternity: or now perchance Night and the very weight of happiness, Unsought, have turned upon their tremulous eyes The mindless stream of sleep; nor do they care If dawn should never come.

How joyously These hours have gone with all their pictured scenes, A string of golden beads for memory To finger over in her moods, or stay The hunger of some wakeful hour like this, The flowers, the myrtles, the gay bridal train, The flutes and pensive voices, the white robes, The shower of sweet-meats, and the jovial feast, The bride cakes, and the teeming merriment, Most beautiful of all, most sweet to name, The good Lysippe with her down-cast eyes, Touched with soft fear, half scared at all the noise, Whose tears were ready as her laughter, fresh, And modest as some pink anemone. How young she looked, and how her smiling lips Betrayed her happiness. Ah, who can tell, How often, when no watchful eye was near, Her eager fingers, trembling and ashamed, Essayed the apple-pips, or strewed the floor With broken poppy petals. Next to her, Theron himself the gladest goodliest figure, His honest face ruddy with health and joy, And smiling like the Ægean, when the sun Hangs high in heaven, and the freshening wind Comes in from Melos, rippling all its floor: And there was Manto too, the good old crone, So dear to children with her store of tales, Warmed with new life: how to her old grey face And withered limbs the very dance of youth Seemed to return, and in her aged eyes The waning fire rekindled: little Mæon, That mischievous satyr with his tipsy wreath, Who kept us laughing at his pranks, and made Old Pyrrho angry. Him too sleep hath bound Upon his rough-hewn couch with subtle thong, Crowding his brain with odd fantastic shapes. Even in sleep his little limbs, I think, Twitch restlessly, and still his tongue gibes on With inarticulate murmur. Ah, quaint Mæon! And Manto, poor old Manto, what dim dreams Of darkly-moving chaos and slow shapes Of things that creep encumbered with huge burdens Gloom and infest her through these dragging hours, Haunting the wavering soul, so near the grave? But all things journey to the same quiet end At last, life, joy and every form of motion. Nothing stands still. Not least inevitable, The sad recession of this passionate love, Whose panting fires, so soon and with such grief, Burn down to ash.

Ai! Ai! 'tis a strange madness To give up thought, ambition, liberty, And all the rooted custom of our days, Even life itself for one all pampering dream, That withers like those garlands at the door; And yet I have seen many excellent men Besotted thus, and some that bore till death, In the crook'd vision and embittered tongue, The effect of this strange poison, like a scar, An ineradicable hurt; but Fate, Who deals more wondrously in this disease Even than in others, yet doth sometimes will To make the same thing unto different men Evil or good. Was not Demetrios happy, Who wore his fetters with such grace, and spent On Chione, the Naxian, that shrewd girl, His fortune and his youth, yet, while she lived, Enjoyed the rich reward? He seemed like one, That trod on wind, and I remember well, How when she died in that remorseless plague, And I alone stood with him at the pyre, He shook me with his helpless passionate grief. And honest Agathon, the married man, Whose boyish fondness for his pretty wife We smiled at, and yet envied; at the close Of each day's labour how he posted home, And thence no bait, however plumed, could draw him. We laughed, but envied him. How sweet she looked That morning at the Dyonisia, With her rare eyes and modest girlish grace, Leading her two small children by the palm. I too might marry, if the faithful gods Would promise me such joy as Agathon's. Perhaps some day--but no, I am not one To clip my wings, and wind about my feet A net, whose self-made meshes are as stern As they are soft. To me is ever present The outer world with its untravelled paths, The wanderer's dream, the itch to see new things. A single tie could never bind me fast, For life, this joyous, busy, ever-changing life, Is only dear to me with liberty, With space of earth for feet to travel in And space of mind for thought.

Not so for all; To most men life is but a common thing, The hours a sort of coin to barter with, Whose worth is reckoned by the sum they buy In gold, or power, or pleasure; each short day That brings not these deemed fruitless as dry sand. Their lives are but a blind activity, And death to them is but the end of motion, Grey children who have madly eat and drunk, Won the high seats or filled their chests with gold. And yet for all their years have never seen The picture of their lives, or how life looks To him who hath the deep uneager eye, How sweet and large and beautiful it was, How strange the part they played. Like him who sits Beneath some mighty tree, with half-closed eyes, At ease rejoicing in its murmurous shade, Yet never once awakes from his dull dream To mark with curious joy the kingly trunk, The sweeping boughs and tower of leaves that gave it, Even so the most of men; they take the gift, And care not for the giver. Strange indeed Are they, and pitiable beyond measure, Who, thus unmindful of their wretchedness, Crowd at life's bountiful gates, like fattening beggars, Greedy and blind. For see how rich a thing Life is to him who sees, to whom each hour Brings some fresh wonder to be brooded on, Adds some new group or studied history To that wrought sculpture, that our watchful dreams Cast up upon the broad expanse of time, As in a never-finished frieze, not less The little things that most men pass unmarked Than those that shake mankind. Happy is he, Who, as a watcher, stands apart from life, From all life and his own, and thus from all, Each thought, each deed, and each hour's brief event, Draws the full beauty, sucks its meaning dry. For him this life shall be a tranquil joy. He shall be quiet and free. To him shall come No gnawing hunger for the coarser touch, No mad ambition with its fateful grasp; Sorrow itself shall sway him like a dream.