Chapter 4

Now, midst her wanderings, on a hot noontide, Psyche passed down a road, where, on each side The yellow cornfields lay, although as yet Unto the stalks no sickle had been set; The lark sung over them, the butterfly Flickered from ear to ear distractedly, The kestrel hung above, the weasel peered From out the wheat-stalks on her unafeard, Along the road the trembling poppies shed On the burnt grass their crumpled leaves and red; Most lonely was it, nothing Psyche knew Unto what land of all the world she drew; Aweary was she, faint and sick at heart, Bowed to the earth by thoughts of that sad part She needs must play: some blue flower from the corn That in her fingers erewhile she had borne, Now dropped from them, still clung unto her gown; Over the hard way hung her head adown Despairingly, but still her weary feet Moved on half conscious, her lost love to meet. So going, at the last she raised her eyes, And saw a grassy mound before her rise Over the yellow plain, and thereon was A marble fane with doors of burnished brass, That 'twixt the pillars set about it burned; So thitherward from off the road she turned, And soon she heard a rippling water sound, And reached a stream that girt the hill around, Whose green waves wooed her body lovingly; So looking round, and seeing no soul anigh, Unclad, she crossed the shallows, and there laid Her dusty raiment in the alder-shade, And slipped adown into the shaded pool, And with the pleasure of the water cool Soothed her tired limbs awhile, then with a sigh Came forth, and clad her body hastily, And up the hill made for the little fane. But when its threshold now her feet did gain, She, looking through the pillars of the shrine, Beheld therein a golden image shine Of golden Ceres; then she passed the door, And with bowed head she stood awhile before The smiling image, striving for some word That did not name her lover and her lord, Until midst rising tears at last she prayed: "O kind one, if while yet I was a maid I ever did thee pleasure, on this day Be kind to me, poor wanderer on the way, Who strive my love upon the earth to meet! Then let me rest my weary, doubtful feet Within thy quiet house a little while, And on my rest if thou wouldst please to smile, And send me news of my own love and lord, It would not cost thee, lady, many a word." But straight from out the shrine a sweet voice came, "O Psyche, though of me thou hast no blame, And though indeed thou sparedst not to give What my soul loved, while happy thou didst live, Yet little can I give now unto thee, Since thou art rebel, slave, and enemy Unto the love-inspiring Queen; this grace Thou hast alone of me, to leave this place Free as thou camest, though the lovely one Seeks for the sorceress who entrapped her son In every land, and has small joy in aught, Until before her presence thou art brought." Then Psyche, trembling at the words she spake, Durst answer nought, nor for that counsel's sake Could other offerings leave except her tears, As now, tormented by the new-born fears The words divine had raised in her, she passed The brazen threshold once again, and cast A dreary hopeless look across the plain, Whose golden beauty now seemed nought and vain Unto her aching heart; then down the hill She went, and crossed the shallows of the rill, And wearily she went upon her way, Nor any homestead passed upon that day, Nor any hamlet, and at night lay down Within a wood, far off from any town.

There, waking at the dawn, did she behold, Through the green leaves, a glimmer as of gold, And, passing on, amidst an oak-grove found A pillared temple gold-adorned and round, Whose walls were hung with rich and precious things, Worthy to be the ransom of great kings; And in the midst of gold and ivory An image of Queen Juno did she see; Then her heart swelled within her, and she thought, "Surely the gods hereto my steps have brought, And they will yet be merciful and give Some little joy to me, that I may live Till my Love finds me." Then upon her knees She fell, and prayed, "O Crown of goddesses, I pray thee, give me shelter in this place, Nor turn away from me thy much-loved face, If ever I gave golden gifts to thee In happier times when my right hand was free." Then from the inmost shrine there came a voice That said, "It is so, well mayst thou rejoice That of thy gifts I yet have memory, Wherefore mayst thou depart forewarned and free; Since she that won the golden apple lives, And to her servants mighty gifts now gives To find thee out, in whatso land thou art, For thine undoing; loiter not, depart! For what immortal yet shall shelter thee From her that rose from out the unquiet sea?" Then Psyche moaned out in her grief and fear, "Alas! and is there shelter anywhere Upon the green flame-hiding earth?" said she, "Or yet beneath it is there peace for me? O Love, since in thine arms I cannot rest, Or lay my weary head upon thy breast, Have pity yet upon thy love forlorn, Make me as though I never had been born!"

Then wearily she went upon her way, And so, about the middle of the day, She came before a green and flowery place, Walled round about in manner of a chase, Whereof the gates as now were open wide; Fair grassy glades and long she saw inside Betwixt great trees, down which the unscared deer Were playing; yet a pang of deadly fear, She knew not why, shot coldly through her heart, And thrice she turned as though she would depart, And thrice returned, and in the gateway stood With wavering feet: small flowers as red as blood Were growing up amid the soft green grass, And here and there a fallen rose there was, And on the trodden grass a silken lace, As though crowned revellers had passed by the place The restless sparrows chirped upon the wall And faint far music on her ears did fall, And from the trees within, the pink-foot doves Still told their weary tale unto their loves, And all seemed peaceful more than words could say. Then she, whose heart still whispered, "Keep away." Was drawn by strong desire unto the place, So toward the greenest glade she set her face, Murmuring, "Alas! and what a wretch am I, That I should fear the summer's greenery! Yea, and is death now any more an ill, When lonely through the world I wander still." But when she was amidst those ancient groves, Whose close green leaves and choirs of moaning doves Shut out the world, then so alone she seemed, So strange, her former life was but as dreamed; Beside the hopes and fears that drew her on, Till so far through that green place she had won, That she a rose-hedged garden could behold Before a house made beautiful with gold; Which, to her mind beset with that past dream, And dim foreshadowings of ill fate, did seem That very house, her joy and misery, Where that fair sight her longing eyes did see They should not see again; but now the sound Of pensive music echoing all around, Made all things like a picture, and from thence Bewildering odours floating, dulled her sense, And killed her fear, and, urged by strong desire To see how all should end, she drew yet nigher, And o'er the hedge beheld the heads of girls Embraced by garlands fresh and orient pearls, And heard sweet voices murmuring; then a thrill Of utmost joy all memory seemed to kill Of good or evil, and her eager hand Was on the wicket, then her feet did stand Upon new flowers, the while her dizzied eyes Gazed wildly round on half-seen mysteries, And wandered from unnoting face to face. For round a fountain midst the flowery place Did she behold full many a minstrel girl; While nigh them, on the grass in giddy whirl, Bright raiment and white limbs and sandalled feet Flew round in time unto the music sweet, Whose strains no more were pensive now nor sad, But rather a fresh sound of triumph had; And round the dance were gathered damsels fair, Clad in rich robes adorned with jewels rare; Or little hidden by some woven mist, That, hanging round them, here a bosom kissed And there a knee, or driven by the wind About some lily's bowing stem was twined.

But when a little Psyche's eyes grew clear, A sight they saw that brought back all her fear A hundred-fold, though neither heaven nor earth To such a fair sight elsewhere could give birth; Because apart, upon a golden throne Of marvellous work, a woman sat alone, Watching the dancers with a smiling face, Whose beauty sole had lighted up the place. A crown there was upon her glorious head, A garland round about her girdlestead, Where matchless wonders of the hidden sea Were brought together and set wonderfully; Naked she was of all else, but her hair About her body rippled here and there, And lay in heaps upon the golden seat, And even touched the gold cloth where her feet Lay amid roses--ah, how kind she seemed! What depths of love from out her grey eyes beamed!

Well might the birds leave singing on the trees To watch in peace that crown of goddesses, Yet well might Psyche sicken at the sight, And feel her feet wax heavy, her head light; For now at last her evil day was come, Since she had wandered to the very home Of her most bitter cruel enemy. Half-dead, yet must she turn about to flee, But as her eyes back o'er her shoulder gazed, And with weak hands her clinging gown she raised, And from her lips unwitting came a moan, She felt strong arms about her body thrown, And, blind with fear, was haled along till she Saw floating by her faint eyes dizzily That vision of the pearls and roses fresh, The golden carpet and the rosy flesh. Then, as in vain she strove to make some sound, A sweet voice seemed to pierce the air around With bitter words; her doom rang in her ears, She felt the misery that lacketh tears. "Come hither, damsels, and the pearl behold That hath no price? See now the thrice-tried gold, That all men worshipped, that a god would have To be his bride! how like a wretched slave She cowers down, and lacketh even voice To plead her cause! Come, damsels, and rejoice, That now once more the waiting world will move, Since she is found, the well-loved soul of love! "And thou poor wretch, what god hath led thee here? Art thou so lost in this abyss of fear, Thou canst not weep thy misery and shame? Canst thou not even speak thy shameful name?"

But even then the flame of fervent love In Psyche's tortured heart began to move, And gave her utterance, and she said, "Alas! Surely the end of life has come to pass For me, who have been bride of very Love, Yet love still bides in me, O Seed of Jove, For such I know thee; slay me, nought is lost! For had I had the will to count the cost And buy my love with all this misery, Thus and no otherwise the thing should be. Would I were dead, my wretched beauty gone, No trouble now to thee or any one!" And with that last word did she hang her head, As one who hears not, whatsoe'er is said; But Venus rising with a dreadful cry Said, "O thou fool, I will not let thee die! But thou shalt reap the harvest thou hast sown And many a day thy wretched lot bemoan. Thou art my slave, and not a day shall be But I will find some fitting task for thee, Nor will I slay thee till thou hop'st again. What, thinkest thou that utterly in vain Jove is my sire, and in despite my will That thou canst mock me with thy beauty still? Come forth, O strong-armed, punish this new slave, That she henceforth a humble heart may have." All round about the damsels in a ring Were drawn to see the ending of the thing, And now as Psyche's eyes stared wildly round No help in any face of them she found As from the fair and dreadful face she turned In whose grey eyes such steadfast anger burned; Yet midst her agony she scarcely knew What thing it was the goddess bade them do, And all the pageant, like a dreadful dream Hopeless and long-enduring grew to seem; Yea, when the strong-armed through the crowd did break, Girls like to those, whose close-locked squadron shake The echoing surface of the Asian plain, And when she saw their threatening hands, in vain She strove to speak, so like a dream it was; So like a dream that this should come to pass, And 'neath her feet the green earth opened not. But when her breaking heart again waxed hot With dreadful thoughts and prayers unspeakable As all their bitter torment on her fell, When she her own voice heard, nor knew its sound, And like red flame she saw the trees and ground, Then first she seemed to know what misery To helpless folk upon the earth can be.

But while beneath the many moving feet The small crushed flowers sent up their odour sweet, Above sat Venus, calm, and very fair, Her white limbs bared of all her golden hair, Into her heart all wrath cast back again, As on the terror and the helpless pain She gazed with gentle eyes, and unmoved smile; Such as in Cyprus, the fair blossomed isle, When on the altar in the summer night They pile the roses up for her delight, Men see within their hearts, and long that they Unto her very body there might pray. At last to them some dainty sign she made To hold their cruel hands, and therewith bade To bear her slave new gained from out her sight And keep her safely till the morrow's light: So her across the sunny sward they led With fainting limbs, and heavy downcast head, And into some nigh lightless prison cast To brood alone o'er happy days long past And all the dreadful times that yet should be. But she being gone, one moment pensively The goddess did the distant hills behold, Then bade her girls bind up her hair of gold, And veil her breast, the very forge of love, With raiment that no earthly shuttle wove, And 'gainst the hard earth arm her lovely feet: Then she went forth, some shepherd king to meet Deep in the hollow of a shaded vale, To make his woes a long-enduring tale.

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But over Psyche, hapless and forlorn, Unseen the sun rose on the morrow morn, Nor knew she aught about the death of night Until her gaoler's torches filled with light The dreary place, blinding her unused eyes, And she their voices heard that bade her rise; She did their bidding, yet grown faint and pale She shrank away and strove her arms to veil In her gown's bosom, and to hide from them Her little feet within her garment's hem; But mocking her, they brought her thence away, And led her forth into the light of day, And brought her to a marble cloister fair Where sat the queen on her adornéd chair, But she, as down the sun-streaked place they came, Cried out, "Haste! ye, who lead my grief and shame." And when she stood before her trembling, said, "Although within a palace thou wast bred Yet dost thou carry but a slavish heart, And fitting is it thou shouldst learn thy part, And know the state whereunto thou art brought; Now, heed what yesterday thy folly taught, And set thyself to-day my will to do; Ho ye, bring that which I commanded you."

Then forth came two, and each upon her back Bore up with pain a huge half-bursten sack, Which, setting down, they opened on the floor, And from their hempen mouths a stream did pour Of mingled seeds, and grain, peas, pulse, and wheat, Poppies and millet, and coriander sweet, And many another brought from far-off lands, Which mingling more with swift and ready hands They piled into a heap confused and great. And then said Venus, rising from her seat, "Slave, here I leave thee, but before the night These mingled seeds thy hands shall set aright, All laid in heaps, each after its own kind, And if in any heap I chance to find An alien seed; thou knowest since yesterday How disobedient slaves the forfeit pay." Therewith she turned and left the palace fair And from its outskirts rose into the air, And flew until beneath her lay the sea, Then, looking on its green waves lovingly, Somewhat she dropped, and low adown she flew Until she reached the temple that she knew Within a sunny bay of her fair isle.

But Psyche sadly labouring all the while With hopeless heart felt the swift hours go by, And knowing well what bitter mockery Lay in that task, yet did she what she might That something should be finished ere the night, And she a little mercy yet might ask; But the first hours of that long feverish task Passed amid mocks; for oft the damsels came About her, and made merry with her shame, And laughed to see her trembling eagerness, And how, with some small lappet of her dress, She winnowed out the wheat, and how she bent Over the millet, hopelessly intent; And how she guarded well some tiny heap But just begun, from their long raiments' sweep; And how herself, with girt gown, carefully She went betwixt the heaps that 'gan to lie Along the floor; though they were small enow, When shadows lengthened and the sun was low; But at the last these left her labouring, Not daring now to weep, lest some small thing Should 'scape her blinded eyes, and soon far off She heard the echoes of their careless scoff. Longer the shades grew, quicker sank the sun, Until at last the day was well-nigh done, And every minute did she think to hear The fair Queen's dreaded footsteps drawing near; But Love, that moves the earth, and skies, and sea, Beheld his old love in her misery, And wrapped her heart in sudden gentle sleep; And meanwhile caused unnumbered ants to creep About her, and they wrought so busily That all, ere sundown, was as it should be, And homeward went again the kingless folk. Bewildered with her joy again she woke, But scarce had time the unseen hands to bless, That thus had helped her utter feebleness, Ere Venus came, fresh from the watery way, Panting with all the pleasure of the day; But when she saw the ordered heaps, her smile Faded away, she cried out, "Base and vile Thou art indeed, this labour fitteth thee; But now I know thy feigned simplicity, Thine inward cunning, therefore hope no more, Since thou art furnished well with hidden lore, To 'scape thy due reward, if any day Without some task accomplished, pass away!" So with a frown she passed on, muttering, "Nought have I done, to-morrow a new thing."

So the next morning Psyche did they lead Unto a terrace o'er a flowery mead, Where Venus sat, hid from the young sun's rays, Upon the fairest of all summer days; She pointed o'er the meads as they drew nigh, And said, "See how that stream goes glittering by, And on its banks my golden sheep now pass, Cropping sweet mouthfuls of the flowery grass; If thou, O cunning slave, to-day art fain To save thyself from well-remembered pain, Put forth a little of thy hidden skill, And with their golden fleece thy bosom fill; Yet make no haste, but ere the sun is down Cast it before my feet from out thy gown; Surely thy labour is but light to-day." Then sadly went poor Psyche on her way, Wondering wherein the snare lay, for she knew No easy thing it was she had to do; Nor had she failed indeed to note the smile Wherewith the goddess praised her for the guile That she, unhappy, lacked so utterly. Amidst these thoughts she crossed the flowery lea, And came unto the glittering river's side; And, seeing it was neither deep nor wide, She drew her sandals off, and to the knee Girt up her gown, and by a willow-tree Went down into the water, and but sank Up to mid-leg therein; but from the bank She scarce had gone three steps, before a voice Called out to her, "Stay, Psyche, and rejoice That I am here to help thee, a poor reed, The soother of the loving hearts that bleed, The pourer forth of notes, that oft have made The weak man strong, and the rash man afraid. "Sweet child, when by me now thy dear foot trod, I knew thee for the loved one of our god; Then prithee take my counsel in good part; Go to the shore again, and rest thine heart In sleep awhile, until the sun get low, And then across the river shalt thou go And find these evil creatures sleeping fast, And on the bushes whereby they have passed Much golden wool; take what seems good to thee, And ere the sun sets go back easily. But if within that mead thou sett'st thy feet While yet they wake, an ill death shalt thou meet, For they are of a cursed man-hating race, Bred by a giant in a lightless place." But at these words soft tears filled Psyche's eyes As hope of love within her heart did rise; And when she saw she was not helpless yet Her old desire she would not quite forget; But turning back, upon the bank she lay In happy dreams till nigh the end of day; Then did she cross and gather of the wool, And with her bosom and her gown-skirt full Came back to Venus at the sun-setting; But she afar off saw it glistering And cried aloud, "Go, take the slave away, And keep her safe for yet another day, And on the morning will I think again Of some fresh task, since with so little pain She doeth what the gods find hard enow; For since the winds were pleased this waif to blow Unto my door, a fool I were indeed, If I should fail to use her for my need." So her they led away from that bright sun, Now scarce more hopeful that the task was done, Since by those bitter words she knew full well Another tale the coming day would tell.