Chapter 7

Now on the fairest of all autumn eves, When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leaves The black grapes showed, and every press and vat Was newly scoured, this King Admetus sat Among his people, wearied in such wise By hopeful toil as makes a paradise Of the rich earth; for light and far away Seemed all the labour of the coming day, And no man wished for more than then he had, Nor with another's mourning was made glad. There in the pillared porch, their supper done, They watched the fair departing of the sun; The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens poured The joy of life from out the jars long stored Deep in the earth, while little like a king, As we call kings, but glad with everything, The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life, So free from sickening fear and foolish strife. But midst the joy of this festivity, Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh, Along the dusty grey vine-bordered road That had its ending at his fair abode; He seemed e'en from afar to set his face Unto the King's adornéd reverend place, And like a traveller went he wearily, And yet as one who seems his rest to see. A staff he bore, but nowise was he bent With scrip or wallet; so withal he went Straight to the King's high seat, and standing near, Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear, But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad, And though the dust of that hot land he had Upon his limbs and face, as fair was he As any king's son you might lightly see, Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb, And no ill eye the women cast on him. But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand, He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land, Unto a banished man some shelter give, And help me with thy goods that I may live: Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I, Who kneel before thee now in misery, Give thee more gifts before the end shall come Than all thou hast laid safely in thine home." "Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said, "I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread, The land is wide, and bountiful enow. What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show, And be my man, perchance; but this night rest Not questioned more than any passing guest. Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt, Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt." Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeed Of thine awarded silence have I need, Nameless I am, nameless what I have done Must be through many circles of the sun. But for to-morrow--let me rather tell On this same eve what things I can do well, And let me put mine hand in thine and swear To serve thee faithfully a changing year; Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beast That of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast, Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bear Thy troubles easier when thou com'st to hear The music I can make. Let these thy men Witness against me if I fail thee, when War falls upon thy lovely land and thee." Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be, Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this, Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss: Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand, Be thou true man unto this guarded land. Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meet Wherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet, And bring him back beside my throne to feast." But to himself he said, "I am the least Of all Thessalians if this man was born In any earthly dwelling more forlorn Than a king's palace." Then a damsel slim Led him inside, nought loth to go with him, And when the cloud of steam had curled to meet Within the brass his wearied dusty feet, She from a carved press brought him linen fair, And a new-woven coat a king might wear, And so being clad he came unto the feast, But as he came again, all people ceased What talk they held soever, for they thought A very god among them had been brought; And doubly glad the king Admetus was At what that dying eve had brought to pass, And bade him sit by him and feast his fill. So there they sat till all the world was still, And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shine Held forth unto the night a joyous sign.

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So henceforth did this man at Pheræ dwell, And what he set his hand to wrought right well, And won much praise and love in everything, And came to rule all herdsmen of the King; But for two things in chief his fame did grow; And first that he was better with the bow Than any 'twixt Olympus and the sea, And then that sweet, heart-piercing melody He drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre, And made the circle round the winter fire More like to heaven than gardens of the May. So many a heavy thought he chased away From the King's heart, and softened many a hate, And choked the spring of many a harsh debate; And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the wolds Lurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds. Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal, Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall; For morns there were when he the man would meet, His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet, Gazing distraught into the brightening east, Nor taking heed of either man or beast, Or anything that was upon the earth. Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth, Within the King's hall, would he seem to wake As from a dream, and his stringed tortoise take And strike the cords unbidden, till the hall Filled with the glorious sound from wall to wall, Trembled and seemed as it would melt away, And sunken down the faces weeping lay That erewhile laughed the loudest; only he Stood upright, looking forward steadily With sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep, Until the storm of music sank to sleep.

But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of all Unto the King, that should there chance to fall A festal day, and folk did sacrifice Unto the gods, ever by some device The man would be away: yet with all this His presence doubled all Admetus' bliss, And happy in all things he seemed to live, And great gifts to his herdsman did he give. But now the year came round again to spring, And southward to Iolchos went the King; For there did Pelias hold a sacrifice Unto the gods, and put forth things of price For men to strive for in the people's sight; So on a morn of April, fresh and bright, Admetus shook the golden-studded reins, And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanes The south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel, Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steel Unto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhile Hearkening the echoes with a godlike smile, Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring, "Fair music for the wooing of a King." But in six days again Admetus came, With no lost labour or dishonoured name; A scarlet cloak upon his back he bare A gold crown on his head, a falchion fair Girt to his side; behind him four white steeds, Whose dams had fed full in Nisæan meads; All prizes that his valiant hands had won Within the guarded lists of Tyro's son. Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsy No joyous man in truth he seemed to be; So that folk looking on him said, "Behold, The wise King will not show himself too bold Amidst his greatness: the gods too are great, And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?" Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town, And midst their shouts at last he lighted down At his own house, and held high feast that night; And yet by seeming had but small delight In aught that any man could do or say: And on the morrow, just at dawn of day, Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear. And in the fresh and blossom-scented air Went wandering till he reach Boebeis' shore; Yet by his troubled face set little store By all the songs of birds and scent of flowers; Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hours Were grown but dull and empty of delight. So going, at the last he came in sight Of his new herdsman, who that morning lay Close by the white sand of a little bay The teeming ripple of Boebeis lapped; There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrapped Against the cold dew, free from trouble sang, The while the heifers' bells about him rang And mingled with the sweet soft-throated birds And bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these words Will tell the tale of his felicity, Halting and void of music though they be.

SONG.

O Dwellers on the lovely earth, Why will ye break your rest and mirth To weary us with fruitless prayer; Why will ye toil and take such care For children's children yet unborn, And garner store of strife and scorn To gain a scarce-remembered name, Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame? And if the gods care not for you, What is this folly ye must do To win some mortal's feeble heart? O fools! when each man plays his part, And heeds his fellow little more Than these blue waves that kiss the shore Take heed of how the daisies grow. O fools! and if ye could but know How fair a world to you is given.

O brooder on the hills of heaven, When for my sin thou drav'st me forth, Hadst thou forgot what this was worth, Thine own hand had made? The tears of men, The death of threescore years and ten, The trembling of the timorous race-- Had these things so bedimmed the place Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know To what a heaven the earth might grow If fear beneath the earth were laid, If hope failed not, nor love decayed.

He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord, Who, drawing near, heard little of his word, And noted less; for in that haggard mood Nought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood, Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh, He lifted up his drawn face suddenly, And as the singer gat him to his feet, His eyes Admetus' troubled eyes did meet, As with some speech he now seemed labouring, Which from his heart his lips refused to bring. Then spoke the herdsman, "Master, what is this, That thou, returned with honour to the bliss, The gods have given thee here, still makest show To be some wretch bent with the weight of woe? What wilt thou have? What help there is in me Is wholly thine, for in felicity Within thine house thou still hast let me live, Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give."

"Yea," said Admetus, "thou canst help indeed, But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead. Yet listen: at Iolchos the first day Unto Diana's house I took my way, Where all men gathered ere the games began, There, at the right side of the royal man, Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand, Who with a suppliant bough in her right hand Headed the band of maidens; but to me More than a goddess did she seem to be, Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thought That we had all been thither called for nought But that her bridegroom Pelias might choose, And with that thought desire did I let loose, And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill, As one who will not fear the coming ill: All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart, To strive in such a marvel to have part! What god shall wed her rather? no more fear Than vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear, Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lips Unknown love trembled; the Phoenician ships Within their dark holds nought so precious bring As her soft golden hair, no daintiest thing I ever saw was half so wisely wrought As was her rosy ear; beyond all thought, All words to tell of, her veiled body showed, As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed, She laid her offering down; then I drawn near The murmuring of her gentle voice could hear, As waking one hears music in the morn, Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born; And sweeter than the roses fresh with dew Sweet odours floated round me, as she drew Some golden thing from out her balmy breast With her right hand, the while her left hand pressed The hidden wonders of her girdlestead; And when abashed I sank adown my head, Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meet The happy bands about her perfect feet. "What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is? Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss, None first a moment; but before that day No love I knew but what might pass away When hot desire was changed to certainty, Or not abide much longer; e'en such stings Had smitten me, as the first warm day brings When March is dying; but now half a god The crowded way unto the lists I trod, Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles, And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles, And idle talk about me on the way. "But none could stand before me on that day, I was as god-possessed, not knowing how The King had brought her forth but for a show, To make his glory greater through the land: Therefore at last victorious did I stand Among my peers, nor yet one well-known name Had gathered any honour from my shame. For there indeed both men of Thessaly, Oetolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea, And folk of Attica and Argolis, Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose bliss Is to be tossed about from wave to wave, All these at last to me the honour gave, Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said, A wise Thessalian with a snowy head, And voice grown thin with age, 'O Pelias, Surely to thee no evil thing it was That to thy house this rich Thessalian Should come, to prove himself a valiant man Amongst these heroes; for if I be wise By dint of many years, with wistful eyes Doth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid; And surely, if the matter were well weighed, Good were it both for thee and for the land That he should take the damsel by the hand And lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell; What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?' "With that must I, a fool, stand forth and ask If yet there lay before me some great task That I must do ere I the maid should wed, But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said, 'O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too, O King Admetus, this may seem to you A little matter; yea, and for my part E'en such a marriage would make glad my heart; But we the blood of Salmoneus who share With godlike gifts great burdens also bear, Nor is this maid without them, for the day On which her maiden zone she puts away Shall be her death-day, if she wed with one By whom this marvellous thing may not be done, For in the traces neither must steeds paw Before my threshold, or white oxen draw The wain that comes my maid to take from me, Far other beasts that day her slaves must be: The yellow lion 'neath the lash must roar, And by his side unscared, the forest boar Toil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto, O lord of Pheræ, wilt thou come to woo In such a chariot, and win endless fame, Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?' "What answered I? O herdsman, I was mad With sweet love and the triumph I had had. I took my father's ring from off my hand, And said, 'O heroes of the Grecian land, Be witnesses that on my father's name For this man's promise, do I take the shame Of this deed undone, if I fail herein; Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall win This ring from thee, when I shall come again Through fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain. Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt have Pheræ my home, while on the tumbling wave A hollow ship my sad abode shall be.' "So driven by some hostile deity, Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won, But little valued now, set out upon My homeward way: but nearer as I drew To mine abode, and ever fainter grew In my weak heart the image of my love, In vain with fear my boastful folly strove; For I remembered that no god I was Though I had chanced my fellows to surpass; And I began to mind me in a while What murmur rose, with what a mocking smile Pelias stretched out his hand to take the ring. Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king: And when unto my palace-door I came I had awakened fully to my shame; For certainly no help is left to me, But I must get me down unto the sea And build a keel, and whatso things I may Set in her hold, and cross the watery way Whither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blow Unto a land where none my folly know, And there begin a weary life anew."

Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grew The while this tale was told, and at the end He said, "Admetus, I thy life may mend, And thou at lovely Pheræ still may dwell; Wait for ten days, and then may all be well, And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go, And to the King thy team unheard-of show. And if not, then make ready for the sea Nor will I fail indeed to go with thee, And 'twixt the halyards and the ashen oar Finish the service well begun ashore; But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best; And take another herdsman for the rest, For unto Ossa must I go alone To do a deed not easy to be done."

Then springing up he took his spear and bow And northward by the lake-shore 'gan to go; But the King gazed upon him as he went, Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bent His lingering steps, and hope began to spring Within his heart, for some betokening He seemed about the herdsman now to see Of one from mortal cares and troubles free. And so midst hopes and fears day followed day, Until at last upon his bed he lay When the grey, creeping dawn had now begun To make the wide world ready for the sun On the tenth day: sleepless had been the night And now in that first hour of gathering light For weariness he slept, and dreamed that he Stood by the border of a fair, calm sea At point to go a-shipboard, and to leave Whatever from his sire he did receive Of land or kingship; and withal he dreamed That through the cordage a bright light there gleamed Far off within the east; and nowise sad He felt at leaving all he might have had, But rather as a man who goes to see Some heritage expected patiently. But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore, The windless sea rose high and 'gan to roar, And from the gangway thrust the ship aside, Until he hung over a chasm wide Vocal with furious waves, yet had no fear For all the varied tumult he might hear, But slowly woke up to the morning light That to his eyes seemed past all memory bright, And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heart Woke up to joyous life with one glad start, And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand, Holding a long white staff in his right hand, Carved with strange figures; and withal he said, "Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed, But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride, For now an ivory chariot waits outside, Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring; Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing, If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod, Whereon are carved the names of every god That rules the fertile earth; but having come Unto King Pelias' well-adornéd home, Abide not long, but take the royal maid, And let her dowry in thy wain be laid, Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold, For this indeed will Pelias not withhold When he shall see thee like a very god. Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod, Turn round to Pheræ; yet must thou abide Before thou comest to the streamlet's side That feed its dykes; there, by the little wood Wherein unto Diana men shed blood, Will I await thee, and thou shalt descend And hand-in-hand afoot through Pheræ wend; And yet I bid thee, this night let thy bride Apart among the womenfolk abide; That on the morrow thou with sacrifice For these strange deeds may pay a fitting price."