Part 2

Dusky and dim, though rich with gems and gold, The house of Venus was. High in the dome The burning sunlight you might now behold; From nowhere else the light of day might come, To curse the Shame-faced Mother's lovely home; A long way off the shrine, the fresh sea-breeze, Now just arising, brushed the myrtle-trees.

The torches of the flower-crowned, singing band Erewhile, indeed, made more than daylight there, Lighting the painted tales of many a land, And carven heroes, with their unused glare; But now a few soft, glimmering lamps there were, And on the altar a thin, flickering flame Just showed the golden letters of her name.

Blue in the dome yet hung the incense-cloud, And still its perfume lingered all around; And, trodden by the light-foot, fervent crowd, Thick lay the summer flowers upon the ground, And now from far-off halls uprose the sound Of Lydian music, and the dancer's cry, As though some door were opened suddenly.

So there he stood, that help from her to gain, Bewildered by that twilight midst of day; Downcast with listening to the joyous strain He had no part in, hopeless with delay Of all the fair things he had meant to say; Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast, From stammering lips and pale these words there passed:

"O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know What thing it is I need, when even I, Bent down before thee in this shame and woe, Can frame no set of words to tell thee why I needs must pray? Oh, help me or I die! Or slay me, and in slaying take from me Even a dead man's feeble memory.

"Say not thine help I have been slow to seek; Here have I been from the first hour of morn, Who stand before thy presence faint and weak, Of my one poor delight left all forlorn; Trembling with many fears, the hope outworn I had when first I left my love, my shame, To call upon thine oft-sung, glorious name."

He stopped to catch his breath, for as a sob Did each word leave his mouth; but suddenly, Like a live thing, the thin flame 'gan to throb And gather force, and then shot up on high A steady spike of light, that drew anigh The sunbeam in the dome, then sank once more Into a feeble flicker as before.

But at that sight the nameless hope he had, That kept him living midst unhappiness, Stirred in his breast, and with changed face and glad Unto the image forward must he press With words of praise his first word to redress; But then it was as though a thick, black cloud Altar and fire and ivory limbs did shroud.

He staggered back, amazed and full of awe; But when, with anxious eyes, he gazed around, About him still the worshippers he saw Sunk in their wonted works, with no surprise At what to him seemed awful mysteries; Therewith he sighed and said, "This, too, I dream, No better day upon my life shall beam."

And yet for long upon the place he gazed Where other folk beheld the lovely Queen; And while he looked the dusky veil seemed raised, And everything was as it erst had been; And then he said, "Such marvels I have seen As some sick man may see from off his bed-- Ah, I am sick, and would that I were dead!"

Therewith, not questioning his heart at all, He turned away and left the holy place, When now the wide sun reddened towards his fall, And a fresh west wind held the clouds in chase; But coming out, at first he hid his face, Dazed with the light, and in the porch he stood, Nor wished to move or change his dreary mood.

Yet in a while the freshness of the eve Pierced to his weary heart, and with a sigh He raised his head and slowly 'gan to leave The high, carved pillars; and so presently Had passed the grove of whispering myrtles by, And, mid the many noises of the street, Made himself brave the eyes of men to meet.

Thronged were the ways with folk in gay attire, Nursing the end of that festivity; Girls fit to move the moody man's desire Brushed past him, and soft, dainty minstrelsy He heard amid the laughter, and might see, Through open doors, the garden's green delight, Where pensive lovers waited for the night;

Or resting dancers round the fountain drawn, With faces flushed unto the breeze turned round, Or wandering o'er the fragrant, trodden lawn, Took up their fallen garlands from the ground; Or languidly their scattered tresses bound, Or let their gathered raiment fall adown, With eyes downcast beneath their lovers' frown.

What hope Pygmalion yet might have, when he First left the pillars of the dreamy place, Amid such sights had vanished utterly. He turned his weary eyes from face to face, Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace He gat towards home, and still was murmuring, "Ah, life, sweet life! the only godlike thing!"

And as he went, though longing to be there Whereas his sole desire awaited him, Yet did he loath to see the image fair, White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb, And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim That unto some strange region he might come, Nor ever reach again his loveless home.

Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, And, as a man awaking from a dream, Seemed waked from his old folly; naught seemed good In all the things that he before had deemed At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed Cold light of day--he found himself alone, Reft of desire, all love and madness gone.

_The Godhead Fires_

And yet for that past folly must he weep, As one might mourn the parted happiness That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep; And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless The hard life left of toil and loneliness, Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet Immeshed forever in the memory's net.

Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen, I thank thee that my prayer was not for naught; Truly a present helper hast thou been To those who faithfully thy throne have sought! Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought, Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me, That I thine happy slave henceforth may be?"

"And then, indeed, not in this guise was I; No sandals had I, and no saffron gown, But naked as thou knowest utterly, E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown; And this fair, perfumed robe then fell adown Over the goddess' feet, and swept the ground, And round her loins a glittering belt was bound.

"But when the stammering of my tongue she heard Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid, And spoke again: 'Nay, say not any word; All that thine heart would say I know unsaid, Who even now thine heart and voice have made; But listen rather, for thou knowest now What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow.

"'Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life, A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought. I give thee to him as his love and wife, With all thy dowry of desire and thought, Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought. Now from my temple is he on the way, Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday.

"'Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there, And when thou seest him set his eyes upon Thine empty niche, and hearest him cry for care, Then call him by his name, Pygmalion, And certainly thy lover hast thou won; But when he stands before thee silently, Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.'

"With that she said what first I told thee, love, And then went on: 'Moreover, thou shalt say That I, the daughter of almighty Jove, Have wrought for him this long-desired day; In sign whereof these things that pass away, Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, I give thee for thy wedding-gear, O maid.'

"Therewith her raiment she put off from her, And laid bare all her perfect loveliness, And, smiling on me, came yet more anear, And on my mortal lips her lips did press, And said, 'Now herewith shalt thou love no less Than Psyche loved my son in days of old. Farewell. Of thee shall many a tale be told.'

"And even with that last word was she gone-- How, I know not--and I my limbs arrayed In her fair gifts, and waited thee alone. Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said, For now I love thee so, I grow afraid Of what the gods upon our heads may send-- I love thee so, I think upon the end."

What words he said? How can I tell again What words they said beneath the glimmering light? Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men As each to each they told their great delight, Until for stillness of the growing night Their soft, sweet, murmuring words seemed growing loud, And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's Pygmalion and the Image, by William Morris