Part 14

Great among other kings, I said He was before he first was led Unto that castle of the fays, But soon he lost his happy days And all his goodly life was done. And first indeed his best-loved son, The very apple of his eye, Waged war against him bitterly; And when this son was overcome And taken, and folk led him home, And him the King had gone to meet, Meaning with gentle words and sweet To win him to his love again, By his own hand he found him slain. I know not if the doomed King yet Remembered the fay lady's threat, But troubles upon troubles came: His daughter next was brought to shame, Who unto all eyes seemed to be The image of all purity, And fleeing from the royal place The King no more beheld her face. Then next a folk that came from far Sent to the King great threats of war, But he, full-fed of victory, Deemed this a little thing to be, And thought the troubles of his home Thereby he well might overcome Amid the hurry of the fight. His foemen seemed of little might, Although they thronged like summer bees About the outlying villages, And on the land great ruin brought. Well, he this barbarous people sought With such an army as seemed meet To put the world beneath his feet; The day of battle came, and he, Flushed with the hope of victory, Grew happy, as he had not been Since he those glorious eyes had seen. They met,--his solid ranks of steel There scarcely more the darts could feel Of those new foemen, than if they Had been a hundred miles away:-- They met,--a storied folk were his To whom sharp war had long been bliss, A thousand years of memories Were flashing in their shielded eyes; And grave philosophers they had To bid them ever to be glad To meet their death and get life done Midst glorious deeds from sire to son. And those they met were beasts, or worse, To whom life seemed a jest, a curse; Of fame and name they had not heard; Honour to them was but a word, A word spoke in another tongue; No memories round their banners clung, No walls they knew, no art of war, By hunger were they driven afar Unto the place whereon they stood, Ravening for bestial joys and blood.

No wonder if these barbarous men Were slain by hundreds to each ten Of the King's brave well-armoured folk, No wonder if their charges broke To nothing, on the walls of steel, And back the baffled hordes must reel. So stood throughout a summer day Scarce touched the King's most fair array, Yet as it drew to even-tide The foe still surged on every side, As hopeless hunger-bitten men, About his folk grown wearied then. Therewith the King beheld that crowd Howling and dusk, and cried aloud, "What do ye, warriors? and how long Shall weak folk hold in check the strong? Nay, forward banners! end the day And show these folk how brave men play." The young knights shouted at his word, But the old folk in terror heard The shouting run adown the line, And saw men flush as if with wine-- "O Sire," they said, "the day is sure, Nor will these folk the night endure Beset with misery and fears." Alas I they spoke to heedless ears; For scarce one look on them he cast But forward through the ranks he passed, And cried out, "Who will follow me To win a fruitful victory?" And toward the foe in haste he spurred, And at his back their shouts he heard, Such shouts as he ne'er heard again.

They met--ere moonrise all the plain Was filled by men in hurrying flight The relics of that shameful fight; The close array, the full-armed men, The ancient fame availed not then, The dark night only was a friend To bring that slaughter to an end; And surely there the King had died. But driven by that back-rushing tide Against his will he needs must flee; And as he pondered bitterly On all that wreck that he had wrought, From time to time indeed he thought Of the fay woman's dreadful threat.

"But everything was not lost yet; Next day he said, great was the rout And shameful beyond any doubt, But since indeed at eventide The flight began, not many died, And gathering all the stragglers now His troops still made a gallant show-- Alas! it was a show indeed; Himself desponding, did he lead His beaten men against the foe, Thinking at least to lie alow Before the final rout should be But scarce upon the enemy Could these, whose shaken banners shook The frightened world, now dare to look; Nor yet could the doomed King die there A death he once had held most fair; Amid unwounded men he came Back to his city, bent with shame, Unkingly, midst his great distress, Yea, weeping at the bitterness Of women's curses that did greet His passage down the troubled street But sight of all the things they loved, The memory of their manhood moved Within the folk, and aged men And boys must think of battle then. And men that had not seen the foe Must clamour to the war to go. So a great army poured once more From out the city, and before The very gates they fought again, But their late valour was in vain; They died indeed, and that was good, But nought they gained for all the blood Poured out like water; for the foe, Men might have stayed a while ago, A match for very gods were grown, So like the field in June-tide mown The King's men fell, and but in vain The remnant strove the town to gain; Whose battlements were nought to stay An untaught foe upon that day, Though many a tale the annals told Of sieges in the days of old, When all the world then knew of war From that fair place was driven afar.

As for the King, a charmed life He seemed to bear; from out that strife He came unhurt, and he could see, As down the valley he did flee With his most wretched company, His palace flaming to the sky. Then in the very midst of woe His yearning thoughts would backward go Unto the castle of the fay; He muttered, "Shall I curse that day, The last delight that I have had, For certainly I then was glad? And who knows if what men call bliss Had been much better now than this When I am hastening to the end." That fearful rest, that dreaded friend, That Death, he did not gain as yet; A band of men he soon did get, A ruined rout of bad and good, With whom within the tangled wood, The rugged mountain, he abode, And thenceforth oftentimes they rode Into the fair land once called his, And yet but little came of this, Except more woe for Heaven to see Some little added misery Unto that miserable realm: The barbarous foe did overwhelm The cities and the fertile plain, And many a peaceful man was slain, And many a maiden brought to shame. And yielded towns were set aflame; For all the land was masterless. Long dwelt the King in great distress, From wood to mountain ever tost, Mourning for all that he had lost, Until it chanced upon a day, Asleep in early morn he lay, And in a vision there did see Clad all in black, that fay lady Whereby all this had come to pass, But dim as in a misty glass: She said, "I come thy death to tell Yet now to thee may say 'farewell,' For in a short space wilt thou be Within an endless dim country Where thou may'st well win woe or bliss," Therewith she stooped his lips to kiss And vanished straightway from his sight. So waking there he sat upright And looked around, but nought could see And heard but song-birds' melody, For that was the first break of day.

Then with a sigh adown he lay And slept, nor ever woke again, For in that hour was he slain By stealthy traitors as he slept. He of a few was much bewept, But of most men was well forgot While the town's ashes still were hot The foeman on that day did burn. As for the land, great Time did turn The bloody fields to deep green grass, And from the minds of men did pass The memory of that time of woe, And at this day all things are so As first I said; a land it is Where men may dwell in rest and bliss If so they will--Who yet will not, Because their hasty hearts are hot With foolish hate, and longing vain The sire and dam of grief and pain.

* * * * *

Neath the bright sky cool grew the weary earth, And many a bud in that fair hour had birth Upon the garden bushes; in the west The sky got ready for the great sun's rest, And all was fresh and lovely; none the less Although those old men shared the happiness Of the bright eve, 'twas mixed with memories Of how they might in old times have been wise, Not casting by for very wilfulness What wealth might come their changing life to bless; Lulling their hearts to sleep, amid the cold Of bitter times, that so they might behold Some joy at last, e'en if it lingered long. That, wearing not their souls with grief and wrong, They still might watch the changing world go by, Content to live, content at last to die. Alas! if they had reached content at last It was perforce when all their strength was past; And after loss of many days once bright, With foolish hopes of unattained delight.

AUGUST.

Across the gap made by our English hinds, Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds The withy round the hurdles of his fold; Down in the foss the river fed of old, That through long lapse of time has grown to be The little grassy valley that you see.

Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still, The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear The barley mowers on the trenchéd hill, The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir, All little sounds made musical and clear Beneath the sky that burning August gives. While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.

Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these, Must we still waste them, craving for the best, Like lovers o'er the painted images Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed? Have we been happy on our day of rest? Thine eyes say "yes,"--but if it came again, Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.

* * * * *

Now came fulfilment of the year's desire, The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire Grew heavy-headed, dreading its decay, And blacker grew the elm-trees day by day. About the edges of the yellow corn, And o'er the gardens grown somewhat outworn The bees went hurrying to fill up their store; The apple-boughs bent over more and more; With peach and apricot the garden wall, Was odorous, and the pears began to fall From off the high tree with each freshening breeze. So in a house bordered about with trees, A little raised above the waving gold The Wanderers heard this marvellous story told, While 'twixt the gleaming flasks of ancient wine, They watched the reapers' slow advancing line.

PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE.

ARGUMENT.

A man of Cyprus, a sculptor named Pygmalion, made an image of a woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the image alive indeed, and a woman, and Pygmalion wedded her.

At Amathus, that from the southern side Of Cyprus, looks across the Syrian sea, There did in ancient time a man abide Known to the island-dwellers, for that he Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, And day by day still greater honour won, Which man our old books call Pygmalion.

Yet in the praise of men small joy he had, But walked abroad with downcast brooding face. Nor yet by any damsel was made glad; For, sooth to say, the women of that place Must seem to all men an accursed race, Who with the Turner of all Hearts once strove And now their hearts must carry lust for love.

Upon a day it chanced that he had been About the streets, and on the crowded quays, Rich with unopened wealth of bales, had seen The dark-eyed merchants of the southern seas In chaffer with the base Propoetides, And heavy-hearted gat him home again, His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain.

And there upon his images he cast His weary eyes, yet little noted them, As still from name to name his swift thought passed. For what to him was Juno's well-wrought hem, Diana's shaft, or Pallas' olive-stem? What help could Hermes' rod unto him give, Until with shadowy things he came to live?

Yet note, that though, while looking on the sun, The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring May chide his useless labour never done, For all his murmurs, with no other thing He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting, And thus in thought's despite the world goes on; And so it was with this Pygmalion.

Unto the chisel must he set his hand, And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace, About a work begun, that there doth stand, And still returning to the self-same place, Unto the image now must set his face, And with a sigh his wonted toil begin, Half-loathed, half-loved, a little rest to win.

The lessening marble that he worked upon, A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, And in such guise the work had he begun, Because when he the untouched block did see In wandering veins that form there seemed to be, Whereon he cried out in a careless mood, "O lady Venus, make this presage good!

"And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, And, not without rich golden ornament, Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade." So spoke he, but the goddess, well content, Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, That like the first artificer he wrought, Who made the gift that woe to all men brought.

And yet, but such as he was wont to do, At first indeed that work divine he deemed, And as the white chips from the chisel flew Of other matters languidly he dreamed, For easy to his hand that labour seemed, And he was stirred with many a troubling thought, And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought.

And yet, again, at last there came a day When smoother and more shapely grew the stone And he, grown eager, put all thought away But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, And he would gaze at what his hands had done, Until his heart with boundless joy would swell That all was wrought so wonderfully well.

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, And with the pride that by his mastery This thing was done, whose equal far and wide In no town of the world a man could see, Came burning longing that the work should be E'en better still, and to his heart there came A strange and strong desire he could not name.

The night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed, A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair; Though through the night still of his work he dreamed, And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were, That thence he could behold the marble hair; Nought was enough, until with steel in hand He came before the wondrous stone to stand.

No song could charm him, and no histories Of men's misdoings could avail him now, Nay, scarcely seaward had he turned his eyes, If men had said, "The fierce Tyrrhenians row Up through the bay, rise up and strike a blow For life and goods;" for nought to him seemed dear But to his well-loved work to be anear.

Then vexed he grew, and knowing not his heart, Unto himself he said, "Ah, what is this, That I who oft was happy to depart, And wander where the boughs each other kiss 'Neath the west wind, now have no other bliss But in vain smoothing of this marble maid, Whose chips this month a drachma had outweighed?

"Lo I will get me to the woods and try If I my woodcraft have forgotten quite, And then, returning, lay this folly by, And eat my fill, and sleep my sleep anight, And 'gin to carve a Hercules aright Upon the morrow, and perchance indeed The Theban will be good to me at need."

With that he took his quiver and his bow, And through the gates of Amathus he went, And toward the mountain slopes began to go, Within the woods to work out his intent. Fair was the day, the honied beanfield's scent The west wind bore unto him, o'er the way The glittering noisy poplar leaves did play.

All things were moving; as his hurried feet Passed by, within the flowery swathe he heard The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred On the field's edge; the brown bee by him whirred, Or murmured in the clover flowers below. But he with bowed-down head failed not to go.

At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said, "Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by, The day is getting ready to be dead; No rest, and on the border of the sky Already the great banks of dark haze lie; No rest--what do I midst this stir and noise? What part have I in these unthinking joys?"

With that he turned, and toward the city-gate Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came, And cast his heart into the hands of fate; Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame That strange and strong desire without a name; Till panting, thinking of nought else, once more His hand was on the latch of his own door.

One moment there he lingered, as he said, "Alas! what should I do if she were gone?" But even with that word his brow waxed red To hear his own lips name a thing of stone, As though the gods some marvel there had done, And made his work alive; and therewithal In turn great pallor on his face did fall.

But with a sigh he passed into the house, Yet even then his chamber-door must hold, And listen there, half blind and timorous, Until his heart should wax a little bold; Then entering, motionless and white and cold, He saw the image stand amidst the floor All whitened now by labour done before.

Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, E'en as he used to pass the long days by; But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, And on the floor the useless steel he flung, And, weeping loud, about the image clung.

"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then, That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed That many such as thou are loved of men, Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead Into their net, and smile to see them bleed; But these the god's made, and this hand made thee Who wilt not speak one little word to me."

Then from the image did he draw aback To gaze on it through tears: and you had said, Regarding it, that little did it lack To be a living and most lovely maid; Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand,

The other held a fair rose over-blown; No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes Seemed as if even now great love had shown Unto them, something of its sweet surprise, Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries, And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed, As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed.

Reproachfully beholding all her grace, Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, And then at last he turned away his face As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide; And thus a weary while did he abide, With nothing in his heart but vain desire, The ever-burning, unconsuming fire.

But when again he turned his visage round His eyes were brighter and no more he wept, As if some little solace he had found, Although his folly none the more had slept, Rather some new-born god-sent madness kept His other madness from destroying him, And made the hope of death wax faint and dim;

For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet Unto the chamber where he used to lie, So in a fair niche to his bed anigh, Unwitting of his woe, they set it down, Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown.

Then to his treasury he went, and sought Fair gems for its adornment, but all there Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and nought, Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair. So he, departing, through the streets 'gan fare, And from the merchants at a mighty cost Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost.

These then he hung her senseless neck around, Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone, Then cast himself before her on the ground, Praying for grace for all that he had done In leaving her untended and alone; And still with every hour his madness grew Though all his folly in his heart he knew.

At last asleep before her feet he lay, Worn out with passion, yet this burning pain Returned on him, when with the light of day He woke and wept before her feet again; Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain, Into his garden passed, and therefrom bore New spoil of flowers his love to lay before.

A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid, Was in his house, that he a while ago At some great man's command had deftly made, And this he now must take and set below Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow About sweet wood, and he must send her thence The odour of Arabian frankincense.

Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said, "Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak, But I perchance shall know when I am dead, If this has been some goddess' sport, to seek A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak To set her glorious image, so that he, Loving the form of immortality,

"May make much laughter for the gods above: Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee Then take my life away, for I will love Till death unfeared at last shall come to me, And give me rest, if he of might may be To slay the love of that which cannot die, The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pass by."