II.

[Another part of the Island. Enter Ariadne.]

_Ariadne_: Here, in the heart of this sea-moated isle, Where we, but last night, made a summer's lodge Of transient rest from many pendulous days Of swinging on the sick unquiet deep, Why left he me, so lone, so unattended? What converse had he with felonious Night, That underneath her dark consenting cloak, He stole unchallenged from his Ariadne? If, out of hope, I cannot answer that, Slant-eyed Conjecture at my elbow stands, To whisper me of things I would not hear. Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone! Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Oh how shall I, an unacquainted maid, So uninformed of whereabout I am, And in a wild completely solitary, Hope to find out my strangely absent lord! Sadness there is, and an unquiet fear, Within my heart, to trace these hereabouts Of idle woods, unthreaded labyrinths, Rude mannered brooks, unpastured meadow sides, All vagrant, voiceless, pathless, echoless, Oh for the farthest breath of mortal sound! From lacqueyed hall, or folded peasant hut,-- Some noontide echo sweetly voluble; Some song of toil reclining from the heat, Or low of kine, or neigh of tethered steeds, Or honest clamor of some shepherd dog, Laughter, or cries, or any living breath, To make inroad upon this dreariness. Methinks no shape of savage insolence, No den unblest, nor hour inopportune, Could daunt me now, nor warn my maiden feet From friendly parle, that am distract of heart, With doubt, desertion, utter loneliness. Death would I seek to run from lonely fear, And deem a hut a heaven, with company. Yea, now to question of my true heart's lord, And of the ports and alleys of this isle, Which way they lead the clueless wanderer To fields suburban, and the towers of men, I would confront the strangest things that haunt In horrid shades of brooding desolation: Griffin, or satyr, sphinx, or sybil ape, Or lop-eared demon from the dens of night, Let loose to caper out of Acheron. Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone! Who left that crock of water at my side? Who stole my dog that loved no one but me? Why was the tent unstruck, I unawaked, I left, most loved, and last to be forgotten By much obtaining, much indebted Theseus? Left to sleep on, to dream and slumber on; Nothing to know, save fancies of the air, While he, so strangly covert in his thoughts, Was softly stirring to be gone from me. Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Hast thou, in pleasant sport, deserted me? Is it a whim, a jest, a trick of task, To mesh me in another labyrinth? Could Theseus so make mirth of Ariadne? Unless he did, I would not think he could. And yet I will believe he is in jest. More false than that, he could not be to me, Since false to me, to his own self were false. Now do I hold in hope what I have heard, That love will sometimes cunning masks put on, Speak with strange tongues, and wear odd liveries, Transform himself to seemings most unlike, And still be love in fearful opposites. So may it be, but my immediate fear Jostles that hope aside, and I remember Of what my tutor Ætion did forewarn me. Oh fond old man! if thou didst know me here, Thou wouldst move heaven and earth to have me home. Much was his care of my uncaring youth, And, with a reverend and considerate wit, He curbed the frolic of my pupilage, Less by the bridle, than the feeding it With stories ending in moralities, With applications and similitudes Tacked to the merest leaf I looked upon, Till, so it was, we two did love each other, The sage and child, with mutual amity. Oft, hand in hand, we passed my father's gate, At evening, when the horizontal day Chequered his farewell on the western wall; Shying the court, where, for the frolic lords, Under the profaned silence of the rose, The syrinx, and the stringed sonorous shell, Governed the twinkling heeled Terpischore. We softly went and turned towards the bay, And found another world, contemplative Of shells and pebbles by the ocean shore. I do remember, once, on such an eve, Pacing the polished margin of the deep, We found two weeds that had embraced each other, And talked of friendship, love and sympathy. _My pupil sweet,_ said he, _beware of Love: For thou wilt shortly be besieged by him, From the four winds of heaven, because thou art Daughter of Minos, and already married To expectation of a royal dower. But O beware! for, listen what I say, By strong presentments I have moved thy father Bating a fair and well intending nay, To leave thy love to thine unmuffled eye. This is rare scope, my girl, O use it rarely, Be slow and nice in thy sweet liberty, And let discretion honor thee in choice. For love is like a cup with dregs at bottom! Hand it with care, and pleasant it shall be-- Snatch it, and thou may'st find its bitterness._ And now, my soon, my all sufficient lord, How shall I answer old Sir Oracle? It is too true that I have snatched my love, And taste already of its bitterness. But trifle not with love, my sportful Theseus. Affection, when it bears an outward eye, Be it of love, or social amity, Or open-lidded general charity, Becomes a holy universal thing-- The beauty of the soul, which, therein lodged, Surpasses every outward comeliness-- Makes fanes of shaggy shapes, and, of the fair, Such presences as fill the gates of heaven. Why is the dog, that knows no stint of heart, But roars a welcome like an untamed bear, And leaps a dirty-footed fierce caress, More valued than the sleek smooth mannered cat, That will not out of doors, whoever comes, But hugs the fire in graceful idleness? Birds of a glittering gilt, that lack a tongue, Are shamed to drooping with the euphony Of fond expression, and the voice beneath The russet jacket of the soul of song. What is that girdle of the Queen of Love, Wherewith, as with the shell of Orpheus, Things high and humble, the enthroned gods, And tenants of the far unvisited huts Of wildernesses, she alike subdues Unto the awe of perfect harmony? What else but sweetness tempered all one way, And looks of sociable benignity? Which when she chooseth to be all herself, She doth put on, and in the act thereof, Such thousand graces lacquey her about, And in her smile such plenitude of joy-- The extreme perfection of the divine gods-- Shines affable, as, to partake thereof, Hath oftentimes set Heaven in uproar. By these, and many special instances, It doth appear, or may be plainly shown, That, of all life, affection is the savor-- The soul of it--and beauty is but dross: Being but the outer iris--film of love, The fleeting shade of an eternal thing. Beauty--the cloudy mock of Tantalus; Daughter of Time, betrothèd unto Death, Who, all so soon as the lank anarch old Fingers her palm, and lips her for his bride, Suffers collapse, and straightway doth become A hideous comment of mortality. Know this, my lord, while thou dost run from me, The tide of true love hath its hours of ebb, If the attendant orb withdraw his light; And though there be a love as strong as death, There is a pride stronger than death or love; And whether 'tis that I am royal born, Or kingly blooded, or that once I was Sometimes a mistress in my father's court, I have of patience much--not overmuch-- And thou hadst best beware the boundary. Oh thou too cruel and injurious thorn! What hast thou done to my poor innocent hand! Thou art like Theseus, thou dost make me bleed; Offenceless I, yet thou dost make me bleed. This scratch I shall remember well, my lord! Deceiver false! deserter! runaway! My quick-heeled slave! my loose ungrateful bird! Where'er thou art, or if thou hear or no, Know that thou art from this time given o'er, To tarry and return what time thou wilt. It is most like that thou dost lurk not far, In twilight of some envious cave or bower. Well, if thou dost--why--lurk thy heart's content. Poor rogue! thou art not worth this weariness. I will not flutter more, nor cry to thee. Since thou art fledged, and toppled from the nest, Go--pick thy crumbs where thou canst find them best.