Chapter 9

And so, betwixt seed-time and harvesting, With little fear his life must pass away; And for the rest, he, from the self-same day That the god left him, seemed to have some share In that same godhead he had harboured there: In all things grew his wisdom and his wealth, And folk beholding the fair state and health Wherein his land was, said, that now at last A fragment of the Golden Age was cast Over the place, for there was no debate, And men forgot the very name of hate. Nor failed the love of her he erst had won To hold his heart as still the years wore on, And she, no whit less fair than on the day When from Iolchos first she passed away, Did all his will as though he were a god, And loving still, the downward way she trod. Honour and love, plenty and peace, he had; Nor lacked for aught that makes a wise man glad, That makes him like a rich well-honoured guest Scarce sorry when the time comes, for the rest, That at the end perforce must bow his head. And yet--was death not much rememberéd, As still with happy men the manner is? Or, was he not so pleased with this world's bliss, As to be sorry when the time should come When but his name should hold his ancient home While he dwelt nowhere? either way indeed, Will be enough for most men's daily need, And with calm faces they may watch the world, And note men's lives hither and thither hurled, As folk may watch the unfolding of a play-- Nor this, nor that was King Admetus' way, For neither midst the sweetness of his life Did he forget the ending of the strife, Nor yet for heavy thoughts of passing pain Did all his life seem lost to him or vain, A wasteful jest of Jove, an empty dream; Rather before him did a vague hope gleam, That made him a great-hearted man and wise, Who saw the deeds of men with far-seeing eyes, And dealt them pitying justice still, as though The inmost heart of each man he did know; This hope it was, and not his kingly place That made men's hearts rejoice to see his face Rise in the council hall; through this, men felt That in their midst a son of man there dwelt Like and unlike them, and their friend through all; And still as time went on, the more would fall This glory on the King's belovéd head, And round his life fresh hope and fear were shed.

Yet at the last his good days passed away, And sick upon his bed Admetus lay, 'Twixt him and death nought but a lessening veil Of hasty minutes, yet did hope not fail, Nor did bewildering fear torment him then, But still as ever, all the ways of men Seemed dear to him: but he, while yet his breath Still held the gateway 'gainst the arms of death, Turned to his wife, who, bowed beside the bed, Wept for his love, and dying goodlihead, And bade her put all folk from out the room, Then going to the treasury's rich gloom To bear the arrows forth, the Lycian's gift. So she, amidst her blinding tears, made shift To find laid in the inmost treasury Those shafts, and brought them unto him, but he, Beholding them, beheld therewith his life, Both that now past, with many marvels rife, And that which he had hoped he yet should see. Then spoke he faintly, "Love, 'twixt thee and me A film has come, and I am failing fast: And now our ancient happy life is past; For either this is death's dividing hand, And all is done, or if the shadowy land I yet escape, full surely if I live The god with life some other gift will give, And change me unto thee: e'en at this tide Like a dead man among you all I bide, Until I once again behold my guest, And he has given me either life or rest: Alas, my love! that thy too loving heart Nor with my life or death can have a part. O cruel words! yet death is cruel too: Stoop down and kiss me, for I yearn for you E'en as the autumn yearneth for the sun." "O love, a little time we have been one, And if we now are twain weep not therefore; For many a man on earth desireth sore To have some mate upon the toilsome road, Some sharer of his still increasing load, And yet for all his longing and his pain His troubled heart must seek for love in vain, And till he dies still must he be alone-- But now, although our love indeed is gone, Yet to this land as thou art leal and true Set now thine hand to what I bid thee do, Because I may not die; rake up the brands Upon the hearth, and from these trembling hands Cast incense thereon, and upon them lay These shafts, the relics of a happier day, Then watch with me; perchance I may not die, Though the supremest hour now draws anigh Of life or death--O thou who madest me, The only thing on earth alike to thee, Why must I be unlike to thee in this? Consider, if thou dost not do amiss To slay the only thing that feareth death Or knows its name, of all things drawing breath Upon the earth: see now for no short hour, For no half-halting death, to reach me slower Than other men, I pray thee--what avail To add some trickling grains unto the tale Soon told, of minutes thou dost snatch away From out the midst of that unending day Wherein thou dwellest? rather grant me this To right me wherein thou hast done amiss, And give me life like thine for evermore."

So murmured he, contending very sore Against the coming death; but she meanwhile Faint with consuming love, made haste to pile The brands upon the hearth, and thereon cast Sweet incense, and the feathered shafts at last; Then, trembling, back unto the bed she crept, And lay down by his side, and no more wept, Nay scarce could think of death for very love That in her faithful heart for ever strove 'Gainst fear and grief: but now the incense-cloud The old familiar chamber did enshroud, And on the very verge of death drawn close Wrapt both their weary souls in strange repose, That through sweet sleep sent kindly images Of simple things; and in the midst of these, Whether it were but parcel of their dream, Or that they woke to it as some might deem, I know not, but the door was opened wide, And the King's name a voice long silent cried, And Phoebus on the very threshold trod, And yet in nothing liker to a god Than when he ruled Admetus' herds, for he Still wore the homespun coat men used to see Among the heifers in the summer morn, And round about him hung the herdsman's horn, And in his hand he bore the herdsman's spear And cornel bow, the prowling dog-wolfs fear, Though empty of its shafts the quiver was. He to the middle of the room did pass, And said, "Admetus, neither all for nought My coming to thee is, nor have I brought Good tidings to thee; poor man, thou shalt live If any soul for thee sweet life will give Enforced by none: for such a sacrifice Alone the fates can deem a fitting price For thy redemption; in no battle-field, Maddened by hope of glory life to yield, To give it up to heal no city's shame In hope of gaining long-enduring fame; For whoso dieth for thee must believe That thou with shame that last gift wilt receive, And strive henceforward with forgetfulness The honied draught of thy new life to bless. Nay, and moreover such a glorious heart Who loves thee well enough with life to part But for thy love, with life must lose love too, Which e'en when wrapped about in weeds of woe Is godlike life indeed to such an one. "And now behold, three days ere life is done Do the Fates give thee, and I, even I, Upon thy life have shed felicity And given thee love of men, that they in turn With fervent love of thy dear love might burn. The people love thee and thy silk-clad breast, Thine open doors have given thee better rest Than woods of spears or hills of walls might do. And even now in wakefulness and woe The city lies, calling to mind thy love Wearying with ceaseless prayers the gods above. But thou--thine heart is wise enough to know That they no whit from their decrees will go."

So saying, swiftly from the room he passed; But on the world no look Admetus cast, But peacefully turned round unto the wall As one who knows that quick death must befall: For in his heart he thought, "Indeed too well I know what men are, this strange tale to tell To those that live with me: yea, they will weep, And o'er my tomb most solemn days will keep, And in great chronicles will write my name, Telling to many an age my deeds and fame. For living men such things as this desire, And by such ways will they appease the fire Of love and grief: but when death comes to stare Full in men's faces, and the truth lays bare, How can we then have wish for anything, But unto life that gives us all to cling?" So said he, and with closed eyes did await, Sleeping or waking, the decrees of fate.

But now Alcestis rose, and by the bed She stood, with wild thoughts passing through her head. Dried were her tears, her troubled heart and sore Throbbed with the anguish of her love no more. A strange look on the dying man she cast, Then covered up her face and said, "O past! Past the sweet times that I remember well! Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell! Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine! How sweet to feel his arms about me twine, And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss To hear his praises! all to come to this, That now I durst not look upon his face, Lest in my heart that other thing have place. That which I knew not, that which men call hate. "O me, the bitterness of God and fate! A little time ago we two were one; I had not lost him though his life was done, For still was he in me--but now alone Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan, For I must die: how can I live to bear An empty heart about, the nurse of fear? How can I live to die some other tide, And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried About the portals of that weary land Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand. "Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone, How hadst thou borne a living soul to love! Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove, To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to brass, That through this wondrous world thy soul might pass, Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be Can a god give a god's delights to thee? Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again, If for one moment only, that sweet pain The love I had while still I thought to live! Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give My life, my hope?--But thou--I come to thee. Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me In silence let my last hour pass away, And men forget my bitter feeble day."

With that she laid her down upon the bed, And nestling to him, kissed his weary head, And laid his wasted hand upon her breast, Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest Fell on that chamber. The night wore away Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change On things unseen by night, by day not strange, But now half seen and strange; then came the sun, And therewithal the silent world and dun Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound, As men again their heap of troubles found, And woke up to their joy or misery. But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie, Until Admetus' ancient nurse drew near Unto the open door, and full of fear Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead; Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread, She cried, "Admetus! art thou dead indeed? Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed? Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!" But with her piercing cry the King awoke, And round about him wildly 'gan to stare, As a bewildered man who knows not where He has awakened: but not thin or wan His face was now, as of a dying man, But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear, As of a man who much of life may bear. And at the first, but joy and great surprise Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes; But as for something more at last he yearned, Unto his love with troubled brow he turned, For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas! Her lonely shadow even now did pass Along the changeless fields, oft looking back, As though it yet had thought of some great lack. And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed. And even as the colour lit the day The colour from her lips had waned away; Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness Had come again her faithful heart to bless, Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow, But of her eyes no secrets might he know, For, hidden by the lids of ivory, Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh.

Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung, Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue Refused to utter; yet the just-past night But dimly he remembered, and the sight Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword: Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew, That nought it was but her fond heart and true That all the marvel for his love had wrought, Whereby from death to life he had been brought; That dead, his life she was, as she had been His life's delight while still she lived a queen. And he fell wondering if his life were gain, So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain; Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes, For as a god he was. Then did he rise And gat him down unto the Council-place, And when the people saw his well-loved face Then cried aloud for joy to see him there. And earth again to them seemed blest and fair. And though indeed they did lament in turn, When of Alcestis' end they came to learn, Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least, The silence in the middle of a feast, When men have memory of their heroes slain. So passed the order of the world again, Victorious Summer crowning lusty Spring, Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting, And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain: And still and still the same the years went by.

But Time, who slays so many a memory, Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen; And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen, Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries. For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these, The shouters round the throne upon that day. And for Admetus, he, too, went his way, Though if he died at all I cannot tell; But either on the earth he ceased to dwell, Or else, oft born again, had many a name. But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame Grew greater, and about her husband's twined Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined. See I have told her tale, though I know not What men are dwelling now on that green spot Anigh Boebeis, or if Pheræ still, With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill Still shows its white walls to the rising sun. --The gods at least remember what is done.

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Strange felt the wanderers at his tale, for now Their old desires it seemed once more to show Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest, Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;-- --Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain Some space to try such deeds as now in vain They heard of amidst stories of the past; Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast From out their hands--they sighed to think of it, And how as deedless men they there must sit.

Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time, Whereby, in spite of hope long past away, In spite of knowledge growing day by day Of lives so wasted, in despite of death, With sweet content that eve they drew their breath, And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more Than that dead Queen's beside Boebéis' shore; Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both, Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth, Perchance, to have them told another way.-- So passed the sun from that fair summer day.

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June drew unto its end, the hot bright days Now gat from men as much of blame as praise, As rainless still they passed, without a cloud, And growing grey at last, the barley bowed Before the south-east wind. On such a day These folk amid the trellised roses lay, And careless for a little while at least, Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast: Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide; But through the thick trees wandered far and wide From sun to shade, and shade to sun again, Until they deemed the elders would be fain To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew: Then round about the grave old men they drew, Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet The grass seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet Unto the elders, as they stood around.

So through the calm air soon arose the sound Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke. "O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk, Would I could better tell a tale to-day; But hark to this, which while our good ship lay Within the Weser such a while agone, A Fleming told me, as we sat alone One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland, And all the other folk were gone a-land After their pleasure, like sea-faring men. Surely I deem it no great wonder then That I remember everything he said, Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led That keel and me on such a weary way-- Well, at the least it serveth you to-day."

THE LADY OF THE LAND.

ARGUMENT.

A certain man having landed on an island in the Greek Sea found there a beautiful damsel, whom he would fain have delivered from a strange and dreadful doom, but failing herein, he died soon afterwards.

It happened once, some men of Italy Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, And much good fortune had they on the sea: Of many a man they had the ransoming, And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing; And midst their voyage to an isle they came, Whereof my story keepeth not the name.

Now though but little was there left to gain, Because the richer folk had gone away, Yet since by this of water they were fain They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, Whence in a while some went ashore to play, Going but lightly armed in twos or threes, For midst that folk they feared no enemies.

And of these fellows that thus went ashore, One was there who left all his friends behind; Who going inland ever more and more, And being left quite alone, at last did find A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, A long-deserted ruined castle stood.

The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade, With gardens overlooked by terraces, And marble-pavéd pools for pleasure made, Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees; And he who went there, with but little ease Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet For tender women's dainty wandering feet.

The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear, The baffled stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry, Were all the sounds that mariner could hear, As through the wood he wandered painfully; But as unto the house he drew anigh, The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw, The once fair temple of a fallen law.

No image was there left behind to tell Before whose face the knees of men had bowed; An altar of black stone, of old wrought well, Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd, Seeking for things forgotten long ago, Praying for heads long ages laid a-low.

Close to the temple was the castle-gate, Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned, Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned To know the most of what might there be learned, And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear, To light on such things as all men hold dear.

Noble the house was, nor seemed built for war, But rather like the work of other days, When men, in better peace than now they are, Had leisure on the world around to gaze, And noted well the past times' changing ways; And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought, By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought.

Now as he looked about on all these things, And strove to read the mouldering histories, Above the door an image with wide wings, Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize, He dimly saw, although the western breeze, And years of biting frost and washing rain, Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain.

But this, though perished sore, and worn away, He noted well, because it seemed to be, After the fashion of another day, Some great man's badge of war, or armoury, And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see; But taking note of these things, at the last The mariner beneath the gateway passed.

And there a lovely cloistered court he found, A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry, And in the cloister briers twining round The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery Outworn by more than many years gone by, Because the country people, in their fear Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here;

And piteously these fair things had been maimed; There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might; Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed; The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light Bound with the cable of some coasting ship; And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip.

Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass, And found them fair still, midst of their decay, Though in them now no sign of man there was, And everything but stone had passed away That made them lovely in that vanished day; Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone And nought be left but heaps of mouldering stone.

But he, when all the place he had gone o'er. And with much trouble clomb the broken stair, And from the topmost turret seen the shore And his good ship drawn up at anchor there, Came down again, and found a crypt most fair Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall, And there he saw a door within the wall,

Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place Another on its hinges, therefore he Stood there and pondered for a little space, And thought, "Perchance some marvel I shall see, For surely here some dweller there must be, Because this door seems whole, and new, and sound. While nought but ruin I can see around."

So with that word, moved by a strong desire, He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand, And in a strange place, lit as by a fire Unseen but near, he presently did stand; And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned, As though in some Arabian plain he stood, Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood.

He moved not for awhile, but looking round, He wondered much to see the place so fair, Because, unlike the castle above ground, No pillager or wrecker had been there; It seemed that time had passed on otherwhere, Nor laid a finger on this hidden place, Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race.

With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom, The walls were hung a space above the head, Slim ivory chairs were set about the room, And in one corner was a dainty bed, That seemed for some fair queen apparelléd; And marble was the worst stone of the floor, That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er.