Chapter 8

And passing through the city he went out Into the fat fields lying thereabout, And lo the spirit of the emerald stone With secret influence to himself unknown Guided the wandering of his errant feet, The servants of the errant soul; and sweet The meadows were, with babble of birds, and noise Of brooks, the water's voice and the wind's voice. Howbeit he gave small heed to any of them; And now the subtile spirit of the gem Led him along a winding way that ran Beyond the fields to where the woods began To spread green matwork for the mountains' feet; A region where the Silence had her seat And hearkened to the sounds that only she Can hear--the fall of dew on herb and tree; The voice of the growing of the grass; the night Down-fluttering breathless from the heaven's height; And autumn whispering unawares at times Strange secrets and dark sayings, wrapt in rhymes Wind-won from forest branches. At this place The old man rested for a little space, Forgetful that the day was wellnigh flown: But soon the urgent spirit of the stone Itself re-entered and possessed anew His soul; and led thereby, and wandering through A mile of trackless and untrodden ground, By favour of the rising moon he found A rude path, broken here and there by rills Which crossed it as they hurried from the hills. And going whitherso the wild path went, A two hours' journeying brought him, wellnigh spent With toiling upwards, to a mountain pass, A bleak lone place where no trees grew nor grass, But on each hand a peak of rock, high-reared, Uprose: afar the two like horns appeared Of some great beast, so tapering-tall they were. And now with forward gaze the wanderer Stood where the pass was highest and the track Went downward both ways; and behind his back The full moon shone, and lo before his face The bright sea glimmered at the mountain's base. It seemed, what way soever he might turn, His fate still led him to that watery bourn.

So journeying down the track which lay before, He came, an hour past midnight, to the shore, And, looking backward, far above espied The two sharp peaks, one peak on either side Of that lone pass; verily like a pair Of monstrous horns, the tips far-seen, up there: And in the nether space betwixt the two, A single monstrous eye the moon shone through.

Now all this while the spirit of the stone Had led him forward, he, the old man lone, Taking no thought of whither he was bound. And roaming now along the beach he found A creek, and in the creek, some little way From where it joined the sea, a pinnace lay Moored at the marge; and stepping thereinto, He sat him down, and from his bosom drew The mystic gem, and placed it at the prow, That he might watch its paly splendours, how They lightened here and there, and flashed aflame, Mocked at the moon and put the stars to shame. But hardly was the stone out of his hand, When the boat wrenched her moorings from the land, And swift as any captive bird set free Shot o'er the shimmering surface of the sea, The spirit of the emerald guiding her; And for a time the old man could not stir For very greatness of astonishment.

But merrily o'er the moonlit waters went The pinnace, till the land was out of sight, Far in the dreaming distance. All that night, Faster than ever wind in winter blew, Faster than quarrel flies the bow, she flew. A moment was a league in that wild flight From vast to vast of ocean and the night. And now the moon her lanthorn had withdrawn: And now the pale weak heralds of the dawn Lifted the lids of their blear eyes afar: The last belated straggler of a star Went home; and in her season due the morn Brake on a cold and silent sea forlorn-- A strange mute sea, where never wave hath stirred, Nor sound of any wandering wind is heard, Nor voice of sailors sailing merrily: A sea untraversed, an enchanted sea From all the world fate-folden; hemmed about Of linkèd Dreams; encompassed with a Doubt.

But not the less for lack of wind went she, The flying pinnace, o'er that silent sea, Till those dull waters of enchantment lay Behind her many a league. And now her way Was toward a shining tract of ocean, where Low winds with bland breath flattered the mild air, And low waves did together clasp and close, And skyward yearning from the sea there rose And seaward yearning from the sky there fell A Spirit of Deep Content Unspeakable: So midway meeting betwixt sky and sea, These twain are married for eternity, And rule the spirits of that Deep, and share The lordship of the legions of the air.

Here winds but came to rest them from their wars With far seas waged. Here Darkness had her stars Always, a nightly multitudinous birth. And entering on this happier zone of earth, The boat 'gan bate her speed, and by degrees Tempered her motion to the tranquil seas, As if she knew the land not far ahead, The port not far: so forward piloted By that sweet spirit and strong, she held her way Unveering. And a little past midday, The wanderer lifted up his eyes, and right Before him saw what seemed a great wall, white As alabaster, builded o'er the sea, High as the heaven; but drawing nearer he Perceived it was a mighty mist that lay Upon the ocean, stretching far away Northward and southward, and the sun appeared Powerless to melt its mass. And while he neared This cloudy barrier stretching north and south, A tale once told him by his mother's mouth, In childhood, while he sat upon her knee, Rose to remembrance: _how that on the sea. Sat somewhere a Great Mist which no sun's heat Could melt, nor wind make wander from, its seat. So great it was, the fastest ship would need Seven days to compass it, with all her speed. And they of deepest lore and wisest wit Deemed that an island in the midst of it Bloomed like a rosebush ring'd with snows, a place Of pleasance, folded in that white embrace And chill. But never yet would pilot steer Into the fog that wrapped it round, for fear Of running blindfold in that sightless mist On sunken reefs whereof no mariner wist: And so from all the world this happy isle Lay hidden_. Thus the queen, long since; and while He marvelled if the mist before his ken Could be the same she told of--even then, Hardly a furlong 'fore the pinnace' prow It lay: and now 'twas hard at hand: and now The boat had swept into the folds of it! But all that vision of white darkness--lit By the full splendour of the emerald stone That from the forepart of the pinnace shone-- Melted around her, as in sunder cleft By that strong spirit of light; and there was left A wandering space, behind her and before, Of radiance, roofed and walled with mist, the floor A liquid pavement large. And so she passed Through twilight immemorial, and at last Issued upon the other side, where lay The land no mortal knew before that day.

There wilding orchards faced the beach, and bare All manner of delicious fruit and rare, Such as in gardens of kings' palaces Trembles upon the sultry-scented trees, The soul of many sunbeams at its core. Well-pleased the wanderer landed on this shore, Beholding all its pleasantness, how sweet And soft, to the tired soul, to the tired feet. And so he sat him down beneath the boughs, And there a low wind seemed to drone and drowse Among the leaves as it were gone astray And like to faint forwearied by the way; Till the persistence of the sound begat An heaviness within him as he sat: So when Sleep chanced to come that way, he found A captive not unwilling to be bound, And on his body those fine fetters put Wherewith he bindeth mortals hand and foot.

When the tired sleeper oped again his eyes, 'Twas early morn, and he beheld the skies Glowing from those deep hours of rest and dew Wherein all creatures do themselves renew. The laughing leaves blink'd in the sun, throughout Those dewy realms of orchard thereabout; But green fields lay beyond, and farther still, Betwixt them and the sun, a great high hill Kept these in shadow, and the brighter made The fruitlands look for all that neighbouring shade. And he the solitary man uprose, His face toward the mountain beyond those Fair fields not yet acquainted with the sun; And crossed the fields, and climbed the hill, and won The top; and journeying down the eastern side Entered upon a grassy vale and wide, Where in the midst a pure stream ran, as yet A youngling, hardly able to forget The lofty place of its nativity, Nor lusting yet for union with the sea. And through this valley, taking for his guide The stream, and walking by the waterside, He wandered on, but had at whiles to ford The lesser brooks that from the mountains poured Into this greater; which by slow degrees, Enlarged with such continual soft increase, Became a river broad and fair, but still As clear as when it flowed a mountain-rill: And he the wanderer wandering by that stream Saw 'twas the river he had known in dream.

So day by day he journeyed; and it chanced One day he fared till night was well advanced Ere lying down to sleep; and when he waked Next morn, his bones and all his body ached, And on his temples lay a weary heat, And with sore pain he got upon his feet. Yet when he rose and hard at hand espied The City sloping to the riverside, With bright white walls and golden port agleam, Such as he saw them figured in the dream-- Then the blood leapt as fire along his veins And the o'erwearied limbs forgat their pains. But when he strove to make what speed he might Toward the happy haven full in sight, The feet that would have hastened thereunto Could not; and heavily, as old men do, He fell to earth, and groaned aloud and said, "Old man, what would'st thou, with thy silvered head, Yonder, where all their tresses be as gold Forever?--Thou art suffered to behold The city of thy search: what wilt thou more? Tarry thou here upon this river-shore; Thou mightest farther go nor find the grass Greener, whereon to lay thy head, and pass Into the deep dark populous empty land."

So spake the man, not able to withstand This dumb remonstrance of the flesh, now first Thwarting the soul. Howbeit a mighty thirst Consumed him, and he crawled unto the brink Of the clear stream hard by, that he might drink One draught thereof, and with the water still His deep desire. When lo a miracle! No sooner had he drunken than his whole Body was changed and did from crown to sole The likeness of its youthful self put on, The Prince of half-an-hundred years agone, Wearing the very garments that he wore What time his years were but a single score.

Then he remembered how that in The Dream One told him of the marvel of that stream, Whose waters are a well of youth eterne. And night and day its crystal heart doth yearn To wed its youthhood with the sea's old age; And faring on that bridal pilgrimage, Its waters past the shining city are rolled, And all the people drink and wax not old.

PART THE TENTH

That night within the City of Youth there stood Musicians playing to the multitude On many a gold and silver instrument Whose differing souls yet chimed in glad consent. And sooth-tongued singers, throated like the bird All darkness holds its breath to hear, were heard Chanting aloud before the comely folk, Chanting aloud till none-for listening spoke, Chanting aloud that all the city rang; And whoso will may hear the song they sang:--

I

O happy hearts, O youths and damsels, pray What new and wondrous thing hath chanced to-day, O happy hearts, what wondrous thing and new? Set the gold sun with kinglier-mightful glance, Rose the maid-moon with queenlier countenance, Came the stars forth a merrier madder crew, Than ever sun or maiden-moon before, Or jostling stars that shook the darkness' floor With night-wide tremor 'neath their dizzy dance?

Strong is the Sun, but strong alway was he; The Moon is fair, but ever fair showed she; The Stars are many, and who hath known them few? As now they be, so heretofore were they: What is the wondrous thing hath chanced to-day, O happy hearts, the wondrous thing and new, Whereof ye are glad together even more Than of the sunlight or the moonlight or The light o' the stars that strow the milky-way?

For all your many maidens have the head In goodly festal wise engarlanded, With flowers at noon the banquet of the bees, And leaves that in some grove at midday grew: And ever since the falling of the dew Your streets are full of pomps and pageantries, Laughter and song, feasting and dancing:--nay, Surely some wondrous thing hath chanced to-day; O happy hearts, what wondrous thing and new?

II

No, no, ye need not answer any word! Heard have we all--who lives and hath not heard?-- What thing the sovran Fates have done to-day; Who turn the tides of life which way they please, And sit themselves aloft, aloof, at ease: Dwellers in courts of marble silence they. No need to ask what thing the Fates have done Between the sunrise and the set of sun, Mute-moving in their twilight fastnesses!

Changeless, aloft, aloof, mute-moving, dim, In ancient fastnesses of twilight--him Have they not sent this day, the long-foretold, The long-foretold and much-desired, of whom 'Twas whilom written in the rolls of doom How in a dream he should this land behold, And hither come from worldwide wandering, Hither where all the folk should hail him king, Our king foredestined from his mother's womb?

Long time he tarried, but the time is past, And he hath come ye waited for, at last: The long-foretold, the much-desired, hath come. And ye command your minstrels noise abroad With lyre and tongue your joyance and his laud, And, sooth to say, the minstrels are not dumb. And ever in the pauses of our chant, So for exceeding perfect joy ye pant, We hear the beating of your hearts applaud!

III

And she our Queen--ah, who shall tell what hours She bode his coming in her palace-towers, Unmated she in all the land alone? 'Twas yours, O youths and maids, to clasp and kiss; Desiring and desired ye had your bliss: The Queen she sat upon her loveless throne. Sleeping she saw his face, but could not find Its phantom's phantom when she waked, nor wind About her finger one gold hair of his.

Often when evening sobered all the air, No doubt but she would sit and marvel where He tarried, by the bounds of what strange sea; And peradventure look at intervals Forth of the windows of her palace walls, And watch the gloaming darken fount and tree; And think on twilight shores, with dreaming caves Full of the groping of bewildered waves, Full of the murmur of their hollow halls.

As flowers desire the kisses of the rain, She his, and many a year desired in vain: She waits no more who waited long enow. Nor listeth he to wander any more Who went as go the winds from sea to shore, From shore to sea who went as the winds go. The winds do seek a place of rest; the flowers Look for the rain; but in a while the showers Come, and the winds lie down, their wanderings o'er.

ANGELO.

Seven moons, new moons, had eastward set their horns Averted from the sun; seven moons, old moons, Westward their sun-averted horns had set; Since Angelo had brought his young bride home, Lucia, to queen it in his Tuscan halls. And much the folk had marvelled on that day Seeing the bride how young and fair she was, How all unlike the groom; for she had known Twenty and five soft summers woo the world, He twice as many winters take 't by storm. And in those half-an-hundred winters,--ay, And in the summer's blaze, and blush of spring, And pomp of grave and grandiose autumntides,-- Full many a wind had beat upon his heart, Of grief and frustrate hope full many a wind, And rains full many, but no rains could damp The fuel that was stored within; which lay Unlighted, waiting for the tinder-touch, Until a chance spark fall'n from Lucia's eyes Kindled the fuel, and the fire was love: Not such as rises blown upon the wind, Goaded to flame by gusts of phantasy, But still, and needing no replenishment, Unquenchable, that would not be put out.

Albeit the lady Lucia's bosom lacked The ore had made her heart a richer mine Than earth's auriferous heart unsunned; from her Love went not out, in whom there was no love. Cold from the first, her breast grew frore, and bit Her kind lord's bosom with its stinging frost. Because he loved the fields and forests, made Few banquetings for highborn winebibbers, Eschewed the city and led no sumptuous life, She, courtly, sneered at his uncourtliness, Deeming his manners of a bygone mode. And for that he was gentle overmuch, And overmuch forbearant, she despised, Mocked, slighted, taunted him, and of her scorn Made a sharp shaft to wound his life at will. She filled her cup with hate and bade him drink, And he returned it brimming o'er with love.

And so seven moons had waxed and waned since these Were wedded. And it chanced, one morn of Spring Lucia bespake her spouse in even more Ungentle wise than was her wont, and he, For the first time, reproved her;--not as one That having from another ta'en ill words Will e'en cry quits and barter words as ill; But liker as a father, whom his child With insolent lips hath wounded, chides the child Less than he knows it had been wise to do, Saying within himself: "The time will come When thou wilt think on thy dead father, how Thou might'st have spoken gentlier unto him One day, when yet thy father was alive: So shall thy heart rebuke thy heart enow:"-- Ev'n thus did Angelo reprove his wife.

But though the words from his rough-bearded lips Were like sweet water from the mouth of some Rock-fountain hewn with elemental hands, They fell as water cast i' the fire, to be Consumed with hissing rage. Her wrath, let loose, Blew to and fro, and hither and thither, like A wind that seems to have forgotten whence It came, and whither it was bidden blow. She cursed the kinsfolk who had willed that she Should wed with him; and cursed herself that gave Ear to the utterance of their will; and cursed The day on which their will became her deed: Saying--and this he knew not until now-- "Fool, I should ne'er have wedded thee at all, No, neither thee nor any like to thee, Had not my father wellnigh forced me to 't." And he that hearkened, the Lord Angelo, Spake not a word, but bowed his head, and went Forth of his castle to the forest nigh, And roamed all day about the forest, filled With grief, and marvelling at her lack of love.

But that which sorelier bruised his breast than ev'n Lucia's exceeding lack of love for him, Was this new knowledge, that in taking her To wife--in the very act of taking her To wife--himself had crossed the secret will Of her whose will in all things it had been His soul's most perfect bliss to gratify. Wherefore, to make atonement, in some sort, For this one wrong he deemed that he had done The woman--this one crossing of her will-- He knelt him down under the brooding shade Of a huge oak, and vowed 'fore heaven a vow: To wit, that Lucia never afterward Should in his hearing utter forth a wish For aught of earthly but himself would see That wish fulfilled, if such fulfilment were An end that mortal man could compass. Then Uprising, he beheld the sinking sun A vast round eye gaze in upon the wood Through leafy lattice of its nether boughs: Whereat he turned him castlewards, and owned A lighter heart than he had borne that day.

Homeward his face no sooner had he set Than through the woods came riding unto him A stranger, of a goodly personage, Young, and right richly habited, who stayed His horse, and greeted Angelo, and said: "I pray you, sir, direct me how to find An hostel, if there be such hereabouts; For I have ridden far, and lost my way Among these woods, and twilight is at hand." Then he that heard replied to him that asked, Saying: "The nearest inn is farther hence Than mine own house; make therefore mine own house Your inn for this one night, and unto such Poor entertainment as my house affords You are most welcome." So the stranger thanked In courtly speeches the Lord Angelo, Gladly accepting hospitalities That were so gladly proffered; and the two Fared on together, host and guest that were To be, until they reached the castle, where Angelo dwelt, and where his fathers lived Before him, lords of land, in olden days.

And entering in, the castle's later lord Led the young signor to the chamber where The lady Lucia sat, who rose to give The stranger courteous welcome. (When she chose, Of looks and lips more gracious none than she.) But soon as she beheld the young man's face, A sudden pallor seized her own, and back She started, wellnigh swooning, but regained Her wonted self as suddenly, declared 'Twas but a momentary sickness went Arrow-like through her, sharp, but therewithal Brief as the breath's one ebb and flow; and which, Passing, had left her painless as before. And truly, from that moment she appeared More brightly beautiful, if Angelo Erred not, than she had looked for many a day.

So in brief while the stranger-guest sat down, With host and hostess, to a table charged With delicate meats, and fragrant fruits, and wine. And when the meal was over, and themselves Were with themselves alone--the serving-men Having withdrawn--a cheerful converse rose Concerning divers matters old and new. And Angelo that evening let his tongue Range more at freedom than he used; for though No man was less to prating given than he, Yet, when he liked his listener, he could make His mouth discourse in such a wise that few Had failed to give delighted audience. For he had learning, and, besides the lore Won from his books, a better wisdom owned-- A knowledge of the stuff whence books are made, The human mind and all it feeds upon. And, in his youth a wanderer, he had roamed O'er many countries, not as one who sees With eyes alone, and hearkens but with ears; Rather as who would slake the thirst of the soul By sucking wisdom from the breasts of the world.

Wherefore the hours flew lightly, winged with words; Till Angelo, from telling of his own Young days and early fortunes good and ill, Was with remembrance smitten, as it chanced, Of some old grief 'twas grief to think upon. And so he changed his theme o' the sudden, donned A shadowy mask of laboured pleasantry, And said: "My wife, sir, hath a pretty gift Of singing and of luting: it may be If you should let your tongue turn mendicant-- Not for itself but for its needy kin, Your ears--she might be got to give an alms For those twin brethren." Whereupon the guest Unto his hostess turned and smiling said: "That were indeed a golden alms your voice Could well afford, and never know itself The poorer, being a mint of suchlike coin." And she made answer archly: "I have oft Heard flatterers of a woman's singing say Her voice was silvery:--to compare 't with gold Is sure a new conceit. But, sir, you praise My singing, who have not yet heard me sing." And he: "I take it that a woman's speech Is to her singing what a bird's low chirp Is to _its_ singing: and if Philomel Chirp in the hearing of the woodman, he Knows 'tis the nightingale that chirps, and so Expects nought meaner than its sovereign song. Madam, 'tis thus your speaking-voice hath given Earnest of what your singing-voice will be; And therefore I entreat you not to dash The expectations you have raised so high, By your refusal." And she answered him: "Nay, if you think to hear a nightingale, I doubt refusal could not dash them more Than will compliance. But in very truth, The boon you crave so small and worthless is, 'Twere miserly to grudge it. Where's my lute?"