Chapter 6

So thence once more was Psyche led away, And cast into no prison on that day, But brought unto a bath beset with flowers, Made dainty with a fount's sweet-smelling showers, And there being bathed, e'en in such fair attire As veils the glorious Mother of Desire Her limbs were veiled, then in the wavering shade, Amidst the sweetest garden was she laid, And while the damsels round her watch did keep, At last she closed her weary eyes in sleep, And woke no more to earth, for ere the day Had yet grown late, once more asleep she lay Within the West Wind's mighty arms, nor woke Until the light of heaven upon her broke, And on her trembling lips she felt the kiss Of very Love, and mortal yet, for bliss Must fall a-weeping. O for me! that I, Who late have told her woe and misery, Must leave untold the joy unspeakable That on her tender wounded spirit fell! Alas! I try to think of it in vain, My lyre is but attuned to tears and pain, How shall I sing the never-ending day?

Led by the hand of Love she took her way Unto a vale beset with heavenly trees, Where all the gathered gods and goddesses Abode her coming; but when Psyche saw The Father's face, she fainting with her awe Had fallen, but that Love's arm held her up. Then brought the cup-bearer a golden cup, And gently set it in her slender hand, And while in dread and wonder she did stand, The Father's awful voice smote on her ear, "Drink now, O beautiful, and have no fear! For with this draught shalt thou be born again. And live for ever free from care and pain."

Then, pale as privet, took she heart to drink, And therewithal most strange new thoughts did think, And unknown feelings seized her, and there came Sudden remembrance, vivid as a flame, Of everything that she had done on earth, Although it all seemed changed in weight and worth, Small things becoming great, and great things small; And godlike pity touched her therewithal For her old self, for sons of men that die; And that sweet new-born immortality Now with full love her rested spirit fed.

Then in that concourse did she lift her head, And stood at last a very goddess there, And all cried out at seeing her grown so fair.

So while in heaven quick passed the time away, About the ending of that lovely day, Bright shone the low sun over all the earth For joy of such a wonderful new birth.

* * * * *

Or e'er his tale was done, night held the earth; Yea, the brown bird grown bold, as sounds of mirth Grew faint and scanty, now his tale had done, And by his mate abode the next day's sun; And in those old hearts did the story move Remembrance of the mighty deeds of love, And with these thoughts did hopes of life arise, Till tears unseen were in their ancient eyes, And in their yearning hearts unspoken prayers, And idle seemed the world with all its cares.

Few words they said; the balmy odorous wind Wandered about, some resting-place to find; The young leaves rustled 'neath its gentle breath, And here and there some blossom burst his sheath, Adding unnoticed fragrance to the night; But, as they pondered, a new golden light Streamed over the green garden, and they heard Sweet voices sing some ancient poet's word In praise of May, and then in sight there came The minstrels' figures underneath the flame Of scented torches passing 'twixt the trees, And soon the dusky hall grew bright with these, And therewithal they put all thought away, And midst the tinkling harps drank deep to May.

* * * * *

Through many changes had the May-tide passed, The hope of summer oft had been o'ercast, Ere midst the gardens they once more were met; But now the full-leaved trees might well forget The changeful agony of doubtful spring, For summer pregnant with so many a thing Was at the door; right hot had been the day Which they amid the trees had passed away, And now betwixt the tulip beds they went Unto the hall, and thoughts of days long spent Gathered about them, as some blossom's smell Unto their hearts familiar tales did tell. But when they well were settled in the hall, And now behind the trees the sun 'gan fall, And they as yet no history had heard, Laurence, the Swabian priest, took up the word, And said, "Ye know from what has gone before, That in my youth I followed mystic lore, And many books I read in seeking it, And through my memory this same eve doth flit A certain tale I found in one of these, Long ere mine eyes had looked upon the seas; It made me shudder in the times gone by, When I believed in many a mystery I thought divine, that now I think, forsooth, Men's own fears made, to fill the place of truth Within their foolish hearts; short is the tale, And therefore will the better now avail To fill the space before the night comes on, And unto rest once more the world is won.

THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE.

ARGUMENT.

How on an image that stood anciently in Rome were written certain words, which none understood, until a Scholar, coming there, knew their meaning, and thereby discovered great marvels, but withal died miserably.

In half-forgotten days of old, As by our fathers we were told, Within the town of Rome there stood An image cut of cornel wood, And on the upraised hand of it Men might behold these letters writ: "PERCUTE HIC:" which is to say, In that tongue that we speak to-day, "_Strike here!_" nor yet did any know The cause why this was written so.

Thus in the middle of the square, In the hot sun and summer air, The snow-drift and the driving rain, That image stood, with little pain, For twice a hundred years and ten; While many a band of striving men Were driven betwixt woe and mirth Swiftly across the weary earth, From nothing unto dark nothing: And many an emperor and king, Passing with glory or with shame, Left little record of his name, And no remembrance of the face Once watched with awe for gifts or grace Fear little, then, I counsel you, What any son of man can do; Because a log of wood will last While many a life of man goes past, And all is over in short space.

Now so it chanced that to this place There came a man of Sicily, Who when the image he did see, Knew full well who, in days of yore, Had set it there; for much strange lore, In Egypt and in Babylon, This man with painful toil had won; And many secret things could do; So verily full well he knew That master of all sorcery Who wrought the thing in days gone by, And doubted not that some great spell It guarded, but could nowise tell What it might be. So, day by day, Still would he loiter on the way, And watch the image carefully, Well mocked of many a passer-by. And on a day he stood and gazed Upon the slender finger, raised Against a doubtful cloudy sky, Nigh noontide; and thought, "Certainly The master who made thee so fair By wondrous art, had not stopped there, But made thee speak, had he not thought That thereby evil might be brought Upon his spell." But as he spoke, From out a cloud the noon sun broke With watery light, and shadows cold: Then did the Scholar well behold How, from that finger carved to tell Those words, a short black shadow fell Upon a certain spot of ground, And thereon, looking all around And seeing none heeding, went straightway Whereas the finger's shadow lay, And with his knife about the place A little circle did he trace; Then home he turned with throbbing head, And forthright gat him to his bed, And slept until the night was late And few men stirred from gate to gate. So when at midnight he did wake, Pickaxe and shovel did he take, And, going to that now silent square, He found the mark his knife made there, And quietly with many a stroke The pavement of the place he broke: And so, the stones being set apart, He 'gan to dig with beating heart, And from the hole in haste he cast The marl and gravel; till at last, Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred, For suddenly his spade struck hard With clang against some metal thing: And soon he found a brazen ring, All green with rust, twisted, and great As a man's wrist, set in a plate Of copper, wrought all curiously With words unknown though plain to see, Spite of the rust; and flowering trees, And beasts, and wicked images, Whereat he shuddered: for he knew What ill things he might come to do, If he should still take part with these And that Great Master strive to please. But small time had he then to stand And think, so straight he set his hand Unto the ring, but where he thought That by main strength it must be brought From out its place, lo! easily It came away, and let him see A winding staircase wrought of stone, Wherethrough the new-come wind did moan. Then thought he, "If I come alive From out this place well shall I thrive, For I may look here certainly The treasures of a king to see, A mightier man than men are now. So in few days what man shall know The needy Scholar, seeing me Great in the place where great men be, The richest man in all the land? Beside the best then shall I stand, And some unheard-of palace have; And if my soul I may not save In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes Will I make some sweet paradise, With marble cloisters, and with trees And bubbling wells, and fantasies, And things all men deem strange and rare, And crowds of women kind and fair, That I may see, if so I please, Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees With half-clad bodies wandering. There, dwelling happier than the king, What lovely days may yet be mine! How shall I live with love and wine, And music, till I come to die! And then----Who knoweth certainly What haps to us when we are dead? Truly I think by likelihead Nought haps to us of good or bad; Therefore on earth will I be glad A short space, free from hope or fear; And fearless will I enter here And meet my fate, whatso it be."

Now on his back a bag had he, To bear what treasure he might win, And therewith now did he begin To go adown the winding stair; And found the walls all painted fair With images of many a thing, Warrior and priest, and queen and king, But nothing knew what they might be. Which things full clearly could he see, For lamps were hung up here and there Of strange device, but wrought right fair, And pleasant savour came from them. At last a curtain, on whose hem Unknown words in red gold were writ, He reached, and softly raising it Stepped back, for now did he behold A goodly hall hung round with gold, And at the upper end could see Sitting, a glorious company: Therefore he trembled, thinking well They were no men, but fiends of hell. But while he waited, trembling sore, And doubtful of his late-earned lore, A cold blast of the outer air Blew out the lamps upon the stair And all was dark behind him; then Did he fear less to face those men Than, turning round, to leave them there While he went groping up the stair. Yea, since he heard no cry or call Or any speech from them at all, He doubted they were images Set there some dying king to please By that Great Master of the art; Therefore at last with stouter heart He raised the cloth and entered in In hope that happy life to win, And drawing nigher did behold That these were bodies dead and cold Attired in full royal guise, And wrought by art in such a wise That living they all seemed to be, Whose very eyes he well could see, That now beheld not foul or fair, Shining as though alive they were. And midmost of that company An ancient king that man could see, A mighty man, whose beard of grey A foot over his gold gown lay; And next beside him sat his queen Who in a flowery gown of green And golden mantle well was clad, And on her neck a collar had Too heavy for her dainty breast; Her loins by such a belt were prest That whoso in his treasury Held that alone, a king might be. On either side of these, a lord Stood heedfully before the board, And in their hands held bread and wine For service; behind these did shine The armour of the guards, and then The well-attiréd serving-men, The minstrels clad in raiment meet; And over against the royal seat Was hung a lamp, although no flame Was burning there, but there was set Within its open golden fret A huge carbuncle, red and bright; Wherefrom there shone forth such a light That great hall was as clear by it, As though by wax it had been lit, As some great church at Easter-tide. Now set a little way aside, Six paces from the daïs stood An image made of brass and wood, In likeness of a full-armed knight Who pointed 'gainst the ruddy light A huge shaft ready in a bow. Pondering how he could come to know What all these marvellous matters meant, About the hall the Scholar went, Trembling, though nothing moved as yet; And for awhile did he forget The longings that had brought him there In wondering at these marvels fair; And still for fear he doubted much One jewel of their robes to touch.

But as about the hall he passed He grew more used to them at last, And thought, "Swiftly the time goes by, And now no doubt the day draws nigh Folk will be stirring: by my head A fool I am to fear the dead, Who have seen living things enow, Whose very names no man can know, Whose shapes brave men might well affright More than the lion in the night Wandering for food;" therewith he drew Unto those royal corpses two, That on dead brows still wore the crown; And midst the golden cups set down The rugged wallet from his back, Patched of strong leather, brown and black. Then, opening wide its mouth, took up From off the board, a golden cup The King's dead hand was laid upon, Whose unmoved eyes upon him shone And recked no more of that last shame Than if he were the beggar lame, Who in old days was wont to wait For a dog's meal beside the gate. Of which shame nought our man did reck. But laid his hand upon the neck Of the slim Queen, and thence undid The jewelled collar, that straight slid Down her smooth bosom to the board. And when these matters he had stored Safe in his sack, with both their crowns, The jewelled parts of their rich gowns, Their shoes and belts, brooches and rings, And cleared the board of all rich things, He staggered with them down the hall. But as he went his eyes did fall Upon a wonderful green stone, Upon the hall-floor laid alone; He said, "Though thou art not so great To add by much unto the weight Of this my sack indeed, yet thou, Certes, would make me rich enow, That verily with thee I might Wage one-half of the world to fight The other half of it, and I The lord of all the world might die;-- I will not leave thee;" therewithal He knelt down midmost of the hall, Thinking it would come easily Into his hand; but when that he Gat hold of it, full fast it stack, So fuming, down he laid his sack, And with both hands pulled lustily, But as he strained, he cast his eye Back to the daïs; there he saw The bowman image 'gin to draw The mighty bowstring to his ear, So, shrieking out aloud for fear, Of that rich stone he loosed his hold And catching up his bag of gold, Gat to his feet: but ere he stood The evil thing of brass and wood Up to his ear the notches drew; And clanging, forth the arrow flew, And midmost of the carbuncle Clanging again, the forked barbs fell, And all was dark as pitch straightway.

So there until the judgment day Shall come and find his bones laid low And raise them up for weal or woe, This man must bide; cast down he lay While all his past life day by day In one short moment he could see Drawn out before him, while that he In terror by that fatal stone Was laid, and scarcely dared to moan. But in a while his hope returned, And then, though nothing he discerned, He gat him up upon his feet, And all about the walls he beat To find some token of the door, But never could he find it more, For by some dreadful sorcery All was sealed close as it might be And midst the marvels of that hall This scholar found the end of all.

But in the town on that same night, An hour before the dawn of light, Such storm upon the place there fell, That not the oldest man could tell Of such another: and thereby The image was burnt utterly, Being stricken from the clouds above; And folk deemed that same bolt did move The pavement where that wretched one Unto his foredoomed fate had gone, Because the plate was set again Into its place, and the great rain Washed the earth down, and sorcery Had hid the place where it did lie. So soon the stones were set all straight, But yet the folk, afraid of fate, Where once the man of cornel wood Through many a year of bad and good Had kept his place, set up alone Great Jove himself, cut in white stone, But thickly overlaid with gold. "Which," saith my tale, "you may behold Unto this day, although indeed Some Lord or other, being in need, Took every ounce of gold away." But now, this tale in some past day Being writ, I warrant all is gone, Both gold and weather-beaten stone.

Be merry, masters, while ye may, For men much quicker pass away.

* * * * *

They praised the tale, and for awhile they talked Of other tales of treasure-seekers balked, And shame and loss for men insatiate stored, Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard, The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead; Then of how men would be rememberéd When they are gone; and more than one could tell Of what unhappy things therefrom befell; Or how by folly men have gained a name; A name indeed, not hallowed by the fame Of any deeds remembered: and some thought,-- "Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but nought To dead men! better it would be to give What things they may, while on the earth they live Unto the earth, and from the bounteous earth To take their pay of sorrow or of mirth, Hatred or love, and get them on their way; And let the teeming earth fresh troubles make For other men, and ever for their sake Use what they left, when they are gone from it."

But while amid such musings they did sit, Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall, And the chief man for minstrelsy did call, And other talk their dull thoughts chased away, Nor did they part till night was mixed with day.

JUNE.

O June, O June, that we desired so, Wilt thou not make us happy on this day? Across the river thy soft breezes blow Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away, Above our heads rustle the aspens grey, Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset, No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.

See, we have left our hopes and fears behind To give our very hearts up unto thee; What better place than this then could we find By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea, That guesses not the city's misery, This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names, This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?

Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take; And if indeed but pensive men we seem, What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake From out the arms of this rare happy dream And wish to leave the murmur of the stream, The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds, And all thy thousand peaceful happy words.

* * * * *

Now in the early June they deemed it good That they should go unto a house that stood On their chief river, so upon a day With favouring wind and tide they took their way Up the fair stream; most lovely was the time Even amidst the days of that fair clime, And still the wanderers thought about their lives, And that desire that rippling water gives To youthful hearts to wander anywhere. So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fair They came to, set upon the river side Where kindly folk their coming did abide; There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shade Beneath the trees they found the fair feast laid, And sat, well pleased; but when the water-hen Had got at last to think them harmless men, And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine, Began to feel immortal and divine, An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the day Amid such calm delight now slips away, And ye yourselves are grown so bright and glad I care not if I tell you something sad; Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by, Unstained by sordid strife or misery; Sad, because though a glorious end it tells, Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells, And striving through all things to reach the best Upon no midway happiness will rest."

THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS.

ARGUMENT

Admetus, King of Pheræ in Thessaly, received unwittingly Apollo as his servant, by the help of whom he won to wife Alcestis, daughter of Pelias: afterwards too, as in other things, so principally in this, Apollo gave him help, that when he came to die, he obtained of the Fates for him, that if another would die willingly in his stead, then he should live still; and when to every one else this seemed impossible, Alcestis gave her life for her husband's.

Midst sunny grass-clad meads that slope adown To lake Boebeis stands an ancient town, Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly, The son of Pheres and fair Clymene, Who had to name Admetus: long ago The dwellers by the lake have ceased to know His name, because the world grows old, but then He was accounted great among great men; Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at all Of gifts that unto royal men might fall In those old simple days, before men went To gather unseen harm and discontent, Along with all the alien merchandise That rich folk need, too restless to be wise.