Part 4

Oh, cool as the flutter of fountains, And fresh as the fall of the dew, Wet as the hues of the rain-arch, In that vale, is the dawn, when, o'er mountains, Pearl-peaked and hyaline blue, Through the Memnonian blue, Her spirit, like music, comes slowly, A music of light and of fire, Leaving her footsteps in roses There on its summits, while holy, Fair on her brow is her tire, Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.

II

And still as the incense of altars, And dim as the deeps of a cloud, Mystic as winds of the woodlands, In that vale, is the night when she falters In the sorrowful folds of her shroud, The far-blowing dusk of her shroud, By the scarlet-strewn bier of her lover, The day, lying faded and fair In his chamber of purple and vair.-- When, above it, you see her uncover Her star-girdled darkness of hair-- Gold-hooped with the gold of the even-- And for the day's burial prepare, The spirit of night in the heaven, O'er that vale, is most hauntingly fair; So fair that you wish it were given That you in the rays of her hair, Might die! in her gold-girdled hair.

III

There lies in a valley, where mountains Have walled it from all that is ours, A garden entangled with flowers; Where the whisper of echoing fountains Makes song in the balm-breathing bowers: Where torrents, plunged down from wild masses Of granite, from cavern-pierced steeps, With thunders sonorous cleave passes, And madden the world with their leaps, The clamorous foam of their leaps.

IV

And, oh! when the sunlight comes heaping With glitter the mist of those chasms, The foam of those musical chasms, You may hear a lamenting and weeping, And see in the vastness far sweeping, In wild and æolian spasms, Down, down in those voluble chasms, The Spirits of Light and of Darkness. And the wave from the gray-hearted granite In rivers rolls rippling around; Meanders through shade-haunted forests, Where many rock-barriers can span it, And dash it in froth and in sound; Where the nights with their great moons can wan it, Or star its dark stillness profound.

V

And here with her harp doth she wander, That daughter of music, twice kissed Of the Spirits of Love and of Sorrow: Yea, here doth she wander and ponder, That maiden of moonlight and mist, With starlight on hair and on wrist; Yea, here doth she ponder and wander 'Mid blossoms with loveliness whist, 'Mid moonlight with fragrances kissed. And ever her being grows fonder Of forests where phantoms keep tryst, The people of moon and of mist: And often they troop to her singing, As she sits 'mid the undulant cedars-- All savage of wildness and scent-- Whose tops to her beauty are bent, Like the pennons and plumes of fierce leaders, In worship and testament: Like the pennons and plumes of fierce leaders, All ragged with battle and rent.

VI

And oft when the moon, like a palace Of witchcraft, shines white overhead, Making pearl of the foam of the torrent, She wakes her wild harp in the valleys Where the blossoms have built her a bed: She sits where a fountain of flowers Rains fragrance from branches around, The blossomed lianas around, Keeping time with their petal-sweet showers To her harp; with its strain interwound; Unfolding, it seems, to the sound: While her song is as redolence round her, And their fragrance as music, it seems, Whose touch and enchantment have bound her With shadows and whispers of dreams, And she seems but a part of her dreams, A creature created of dreams.

VII

One night as she whispered and wandered In her garden of music and flowers, She saw, in a ray of the moonlight, A youth fast asleep 'mid the flowers; A youth on a mantle of satin, A poppy-red robe 'mid the flowers.

VIII

Love housed 'neath his eyelids, that, slender As petals of roses, were pale: She bent and she kissed them and, tender, She murmured and bade them unveil, The blossoms beneath them unveil. And he woke and beheld her and panted:-- "At last I behold thee, O Song! O beautiful, pitiless Song! Thou, thou, who so wildly enchanted, And led me, eluded me long! Evaded and lured me so long!"

IX

Then she knelt on the mantle of satin, And plunged a long look in his eyes: She knelt on the mantle of scarlet, And kissed him on mouth and on eyes, And mingled her soul with his sighs. And then in a moment she knew it,-- He deemed her a part of his dream; And she smiled and she said, "I am Music! And thy soul--'twas my spirit that drew it, Thy soul, with a mystical gleam, A brightness, a glimmer, a gleam."

X

And he gazed at her strangely; and, sobbing, Cried out, "Yea; thy harp!--is it strung? Thy harp of wild gold, is it strung? With fingers of silver set throbbing Its chords with that song thou hast sung, So oft in my dreams thou hast sung."

XI

Then he ceased:--and his eyes--how they glistened! His eyes, that were haunted with pain, With longing and beauty and pain: And again he cried out, "Oh, that music! That proud and that perilous music! O God! for that tyrannous strain, To which in my dreams I have listened, Ah, God! I have listened in vain!" And he tossed on the mantle of satin His deep raven darkness of hair; And the song at her lips was ungathered, And she sat there to marvel and stare; Like marble, to wonder and stare.

XII

Then there welled from her lips all the glory Of music delirious with words; Of music that told the heart's story, And trembled with God-given words, And rang like the crossing of swords. And it seemed that the spirit of Beauty Swept through it with farewells and sighs; The spirits of Beauty and Duty, And Love with his beautiful eyes; And Heaven, and Hell with its cries; Sad Hell with a tempest of cries.

XIII

The rapture was there of all passion; The heartache of all we have lost: The sweetness was there that we fashion From love we have won or have lost, Its terror, its torment, and cost. And over it all was a fury Of wings that seemed beating above, Of stars and of winds and the glory Of God and the splendor of love, The splendor and triumph of love.

XIV

And then, from her poppy wings, Slumber Dropped petals of sleep on his eyes; The Spirit of Slumber with pinions Of vaporous silver, whose flutter Had mixed with the music's wild number, Lured down from the shadowy skies; Lured down from her drowsy dominions, To nest in his tired-out eyes.

XV

And in sleep he cried out to her,--stilling A moment the rush of her song, The rainbowing torrent of song,-- "Cease! cease! for the rapture is killing! The glory of light is too strong!-- Oh, cease! make an end of thy song!"-- But she, with the frenzy o'erflowing, Cried out in an anguish of passion, "Thy soul shall be one with my song, With me and the soul of my song. Take my hand! let us walk in the glowing Sweet heaven and hell of all song; Where the torrents of music are flowing, The rivers of music and song. Take my hand! Dost thou hear? We are going! We, too, to God's splendor belong! Let us walk in the light of His song, The thunder and flame of His song."

XVI

Then she flung in her song the emotion, Triumphant, of heart and of soul; Till the passion and pain were an ocean That swept her with billowing roll, As it seemed, to abysses of dole, Abysses of infinite dole.

XVII

And paler than moonlight and marble He lay on the red of that robe, Lay white at her feet on the scarlet, With silence-sealed lips and the glitter Of tears in each violet globe Of his eyes.--And she said: "It is bitter To see him so still on this robe, Like marble so still on this robe." Then she knelt and cried out, "Art thou living? Or dead?--Have I slain thee with song?-- I gave thee the best in my giving, But all that I gave thee seems wrong!-- No blessing, a curse was my song! A curse and a sorrow my song!"

XVIII

And she shattered her harp in her madness, And rent at her breasts and her hair; Then kissed him on mouth and on temples, And spoke to him smoothing the sadness, The calm of his brow that was fair, Was perfect and hopelessly fair. Then she wailed to the stars in the heaven, And railed at her song as a thief, Calling out, "For a curse wast thou given! Yea, thou! for a curse and a grief! A curse and an infinite grief!"

XIX

And the moon, it went down like a broken Great dagger of gold in the west; Like a dagger of gold that was broken, Her dagger of song, that had spoken, And pierced with its beauty his breast, Had ravished his soul from his breast. And she lay with her hair, deep and golden, Thick showered and shaken on his; Her arms around him were enfolden; Her lips clave to his with a kiss, The love and the grief of a kiss.

BLODEUWEDD

Not to that demon's son, whom Arthur erst, For necromancy, at Caerleon, first Graced greatly, Merlin,--not to him alone Did those lost learnings of white magic, known As sorcery and witchcraft, then belong. Taliesin, now, hath told us in a song Of one at Arvon, Math of Gwynedd; lord Of some vague cantrevs of the North; whose sword Beat back and slew a southern king, through wrath And puissance of Gwydion, whose path Thence on, with love, he honored.

Now this Math Was learned in wondrous witchcraft: as he willed, He wrought the invisible visible, and filled The sight with seeming shapes, which it believed Realities, nor knew it was deceived. For, at his word, the winds were wan with tents, And armies rose of airy elements; And brassy blasts of war from bugles brayed, And armored hosts in battle clanged and swayed, And at a word were not. And at his nod, Steeds, rich-accoutered, whinnying softly, trod The dædal earth; and hounds, of greater worth, And wirier, too, than dogs of mortal birth, Rose up, like forest fungus, from the earth Around th' astonished stag, or flying doe, Let Math but wish it or his trumpet blow. But only things that had their counterpart On earth could he make real through his art.

Now, to his castle, Math, through Gwydion,-- The son of Don,--the daughter dark of Don, The silver-circled Arianrod, had brought; A southern rose of beauty, whom Math thought To wed, in love and friendship, without blame, And at Caer Dathyl. When the maiden came Said Math, "Art thou a virgin?"--Like a flame Mantling, her answer angered, "Verily, I know not other, lord, than that I be!"-- So wrought he then through magic that the form Of her boy baby seemed upon her arm, White as a rose. "A Mary!--Yea!" laughed Math; "Forsooth, another Mary!" then in wrath Laid harsh hands on the babe and fiercely flung Far in the salt sea. But the strong winds clung Fast to the Elfin and the lithe waves swept Him safely shoreward dry; some fishers kept Him thus unseaed and christened Dylan, fair Son of the wave, and fostered him with care. Nor was this really hers. But Gwydion, Brother to Arianrod, before the sun Had time to glimpse it with one golden glaive, Swiftly,--as hoping the real babe to save,-- Some dim small body on the castle pave In raven velvet seized; and, hiding, he Stole this from court, to subtly raise to be A comely youth. In time, to Arianrod Came, swearing by the rood and blood of God He brought her back her son.

Quoth she: "More shame Dost thou disgrace thyself with, and more blame Dost damn thyself with, thus to mix our name With this dishonor, brother, than myself!" Then, waxing wroth, cried Gwydion, "The Elf Is thine then?--Tell me, wanton! is thy son Dylan, the fisher, or this fair-haired one, This youth?--God's curse!"--and daggered her with looks. And she in turn waxed fiery, saying, "Books Of magic I have read as well as Math! And now I tell thee, keep from out my path! Thou and thy bastard, he as well as thou! Thou dog! And on thy folly, listen, now I lay a threefold curse: behold! the first-- Until I name him, nameless be he! Cursed Be they who give him arms!--the second:--nor Shall he bear arms until I arm for war. And, lastly, know, however high his birth, He shall not wed a woman of the Earth!-- Malignity! to shame me with thy sin!" Then passed into her tower and locked her in.

But Gwydion, departing with the youth, Sware he would compass her; if not through truth, Through wiles and learnéd magic. And he wrought So that unbending Arianrod was brought To name the lad. Again he managed that, Though strange enchantments as of war, he gat Her to give arms. But then, not for his life, Howbeit, could he get the youth a wife. Persisting, desperate, at last the thing Wrought in him blusterous as a backward spring. Now Llew the youth was named. And Gwydion Made his complaint to Math, the mighty son Of Mathonwy.

Said Math: "Despair not. We With charms, illusions, and white sorcery Will seek to make--for mine are wondrous powers-- A woman for him out of forest flowers."

And so they toiled together one wan night, When the full moon hung low, and watched, a white Wild wisp-like face behind a mist. They took Blossoms of briars, blooming by a brook Shed from the April hills; and phantom blooms Of yellow broom that filtered faint perfumes; And primrose blossoms, frail, of rainy smell, Weak pink, dim-clustered in a glow-worm dell; Wild-apple sprigs, that tipsied bells of blaze, And in far, haunted hollows made a haze Of ghostly, fugitive fragrance; and the blue Of hollow harebells, hoary with the dew; The gold of kingcups, golden as low stars; And white of lilies,--rolled in limpid bars, Like sleepy foam,--that swayed aslant and spilled Slim nectar-cups of musk the rain had filled; And paly, wildwood wind-flowers; and the gloss And glow of celandine; and bulbs that boss And dot the oak-roots bulging up the moss; Last, on the elfin uplands, pulled the buds, That burn like spurts of moonlight when it suds The showering clouds, of blossomed meadow-sweet, And made a woman fair; from head to feet Complete in beauty. One far lovelier Than Branwen, daughter of the gray King Llyr; Or that dark daughter of Leodegrance, The stately Gwenhwyvar. And young romance Dreamed in the open Bibles of her eyes: Music her motion; and her speech, like sighs Of roses swinging in the wind and rain, And lilies dancing on the sunlit plain: And in her eyes and face there bloomed again The bluebell and the poppy; and fern and bud Gave grace and glory to her maidenhood: And all the attributes of all the flowers Were in her body, that was not like ours And yet was like: but in her brow and face Was love alone and beauty, and no trace, No least suggestion of an earthly pain, Or hate, or sorrow, or of worldly stain; But hope, high heart, and happiness of life. And Blodeuwedd they named her; and, for wife-- Baptizing her with light and dawn and dew-- Gave, that next morning, to the happy Llew.

AMADIS AT MIRAFLORES

I

MORNING

The quickening Day climbs to one star, That, cradled, rocks itself in morn; Whose airy opal, flaming far, Makes fire of the mountain tarn. The hosts of morning storm the sky With streaming splendor, their bright lips Blow laughter wild that shakes the rye, And, from the bough, the dew that drips On Oriana walking by.

The calling rooks swarm round the towers: A heron sweeps through deeps of glare: And Falconry among the bowers Whistles his falcon down the air: While in the woods the bugled Hunt, With bearded cheeks, blows wild a-mort As dies the boar; or, front to front, Upon the baying hounds, the hart Turns, antlering at the battle's brunt.

The heath-cock, stout amid his dames, Upon the purple-heathered hill, With glossy coat the morn enflames, Sounds to his rivals challenge shrill. Where, tossing white its plume of foam, The fountain leaps and twinkles by, Embodying dawn and all its bloom, My Oriana draweth nigh, Sweet as the heath-bell's wild perfume.

The mountain tarn is like a cloud Of fallen and reflecting blue; In azure deeps the larks are loud, The larks that soar through dawn and dew. A wild-swan, mirrored in the mere, Moves with its image breast to breast-- As our two souls as one appear When to my heart her heart is pressed, The heart of Oriana here.

II

EVENING

O sunset, from the springs of stars, Draw down thy cataracts of gold; And belt their streams with burning bars, Of ruby on which flame is rolled: Drench dingles with laburnum light; Drown every copse in violet blaze: Rain rose-light down; and, poppy-bright, Die downward o'er the hills of haze, And bring at last the stars of night!

The stars and moon! that silver world, That, like a spirit, faces west, Her foam-white feet with light empearled, Bearing white flame within her breast: Earth's sister sphere of fire and snow, Who shows to Earth her heart's pale heat, And bids her see its pulses glow, And hear their crystal currents beat With beauty, lighting all below.

O cricket, with thy elfin pipe, That tinkles in the grass and grain; And dove-pale buds, that, dropping, stripe The glen's blue night, and smell of rain; O nightingale, that so dost wail On yonder branch of blossoming snow, Thrill, fill the wild hart-haunted dale, Where Oriana, walking slow, Approaches thro' the moonlight pale.

She comes to meet me! Earth and air Grow radiant with another light. In her dark eyes and her dark hair Are all the stars and all the night. She comes! I clasp her! and it is As if no grief had ever been. The world takes fire from our kiss.-- There are no other women or men But Oriana and Amadis!

URGANDA

It is Sir Elid of the Sword, Of whom his wife, Helis, hath heard For three long years no wished-for word.

His armor dofft, he comes in fur And velvet, all the warrior, And takes her hand and kisses her.

"Thrice have I seen the summer die; And thrice the autumn, fading, lie: And heard the weary winter sigh,

"Since last, my lord, my own true heart, From me, thy wife, with love, didst part, And rode to war with Lisuarte:"--

So said Helis with many tears:-- "Still welcome, Elid! though long years Of silence, what with doubts and fears,

"Have made me deem that thou wast dead.-- Why dost thou stare so overhead?-- What is it that thy soul doth dread?"

He said to her: "My own, my best, To thee alone ... _Witch! wilt thou wrest This hour from me?_ ... shall be confessed The thing that will not let me rest.

"It was at Hallowmas I spurred Through woods wherein no wild thing stirred, No sound of brook, no song of bird.

"When softly down a tangled way A dim fair woman, white as day, Rode on a palfrey misty gray.

"Upon her brow a circlet burned Of jewels, and the fire, inurned Within them, changed, and turned and turned.

"I stared like one, who, wild and pale, Spurs, hag-led, through the night and hail: When, lo! adown a forest vale An angel with the Holy Grail.

"It vanishes; but, once beheld, The longing heart is never quelled, Its loveliness hath so enspelled.--

"She vanished. And I rode alone, Save for a voice that did intone, 'Urganda is she, the Unknown.

"'And never shalt thou clasp the form Of her who leads thee by a charm To follow her through sun and storm.'

"I can not stay for weal or woe. E'en now her magic bids me go, Soft-summoning through wind and snow."

* * * * *

Helis with some old song beguiles His hollow face until it smiles; And with her lute shapes sweeter wiles:

Till kingly figures, woven in The shadowy arras, seem to win Strange, ghostly life, and slay and sin.

Until her deep hair's golden glow Sweeps his dark curls as, praying low, She kneels, a marble-sculptured woe.

And then she left him there to rest, Aweary with his haggard quest, All in gray fur and velvet dressed....

At midnight through the vaulted roof She heard armed steps of ringing proof: She heard a charger's iron hoof.

The leaded lattice glowed, a square Of moonlight in the moonlit air: She flung it wide: what saw she there?

Sir Elid in the moonlight's beam, Stark, staring as if still a-dream Rode downward towards the rushing stream.

His helm and corselet had he on, And, in one gauntlet, silver-wan, His bugle-horn was upward drawn.

Upon his horn he blew his best; Then sang, it seemed, his merriest, "I ride upon my love's last quest: And on her breast at last shall rest."

Straight onward by some mighty will, Into the stream below the hill She saw him ride. Then all was still....

Not wider than her eyes are his That stare, where icy eddies kiss His lips. "Urganda's work is this!"

She cries, and where her warrior lies With horror in his face and eyes, She bends above his form and sighs.

And then she seems to hear a moan Beside her;--but she leans alone:-- Then laughter; and a cloud seems blown Before her eyes, that doth intone:

"Beware, Helis! beware! beware My curse! my kiss, that is despair! Kiss not his brow, lest unaware, Helis, Helis, my curse be there!"

HAWKING

I

I see them still, when poring o'er Old volumes of romantic lore, Ride forth to hawk, in days of yore, By woods and promontories: Knights in gold-lace, plumes and gems, Damsels crowned with anadems,-- Whose falcons perch on wrists, like milk, In hoods and jesses of green silk,-- From bannered Miraflores.

II

The laughing earth is young with dew; The deeps above are violet blue; And in the East a cloud or two Empearled with airy glories; And with merriment and singing, Silver bells of falcons ringing, Beauty, rosy with the dawn, Lightly rides o'er hill and lawn From towered Miraflores.

III

The torrent glitters from the crags; Down forest vistas browse the stags; And from wet beds of reeds and flags The frightened lapwing hurries: And the brawny wild-boar peereth At the cavalcade that neareth; Oft his shaggy-throated grunt Brings the king and court to hunt At royal Miraflores.

IV