Part 7

Now on his back a bag had he, To bear what treasure he might win, And therewith now did he begin To go adown the winding stair; And found the walls all painted fair With images of many a thing, Warrior and priest, and queen and king, But nothing knew what they might be. Which things full clearly could he see, For lamps were hung up here and there Of strange device, but wrought right fair, And pleasant savour came from them. At last a curtain, on whose hem Unknown words in red gold were writ, He reached, and softly raising it Stepped back, for now did he behold A goodly hall hung round with gold, And at the upper end could see Sitting, a glorious company: Therefore he trembled, thinking well They were no men, but fiends of hell. But while he waited, trembling sore, And doubtful of his late-earned lore, A cold blast of the outer air Blew out the lamps upon the stair And all was dark behind him; then Did he fear less to face those men Than, turning round, to leave them there While he went groping up the stair. Yea, since he heard no cry or call Or any speech from them at all, He doubted they were images Set there some dying king to please By that Great Master of the art; Therefore at last with stouter heart He raised the cloth and entered in In hope that happy life to win, And drawing nigher did behold That these were bodies dead and cold Attired in full royal guise, And wrought by art in such a wise That living they all seemed to be, Whose very eyes he well could see, That now beheld not foul or fair, Shining as though alive they were. And midmost of that company An ancient king that man could see, A mighty man, whose beard of grey A foot over his gold gown lay; And next beside him sat his queen Who in a flowery gown of green And golden mantle well was clad, And on her neck a collar had Too heavy for her dainty breast; Her loins by such a belt were prest That whoso in his treasury Held that alone, a king might be. On either side of these, a lord Stood heedfully before the board, And in their hands held bread and wine For service; behind these did shine The armour of the guards, and then The well-attiréd serving-men, The minstrels clad in raiment meet; And over against the royal seat Was hung a lamp, although no flame Was burning there, but there was set Within its open golden fret A huge carbuncle, red and bright; Wherefrom there shone forth such a light That great hall was as clear by it, As though by wax it had been lit, As some great church at Easter-tide. Now set a little way aside, Six paces from the daïs stood An image made of brass and wood, In likeness of a full-armed knight Who pointed 'gainst the ruddy light A huge shaft ready in a bow. Pondering how he could come to know What all these marvellous matters meant, About the hall the Scholar went, Trembling, though nothing moved as yet; And for awhile did he forget The longings that had brought him there In wondering at these marvels fair; And still for fear he doubted much One jewel of their robes to touch.

But as about the hall he passed He grew more used to them at last, And thought, "Swiftly the time goes by, And now no doubt the day draws nigh Folk will be stirring: by my head A fool I am to fear the dead, Who have seen living things enow, Whose very names no man can know, Whose shapes brave men might well affright More than the lion in the night Wandering for food;" therewith he drew Unto those royal corpses two, That on dead brows still wore the crown; And midst the golden cups set down The rugged wallet from his back, Patched of strong leather, brown and black. Then, opening wide its mouth, took up From off the board, a golden cup The King's dead hand was laid upon, Whose unmoved eyes upon him shone And recked no more of that last shame Than if he were the beggar lame, Who in old days was wont to wait For a dog's meal beside the gate. Of which shame nought our man did reck. But laid his hand upon the neck Of the slim Queen, and thence undid The jewelled collar, that straight slid Down her smooth bosom to the board. And when these matters he had stored Safe in his sack, with both their crowns, The jewelled parts of their rich gowns, Their shoes and belts, brooches and rings, And cleared the board of all rich things, He staggered with them down the hall. But as he went his eyes did fall Upon a wonderful green stone, Upon the hall-floor laid alone; He said, "Though thou art not so great To add by much unto the weight Of this my sack indeed, yet thou, Certes, would make me rich enow, That verily with thee I might Wage one-half of the world to fight The other half of it, and I The lord of all the world might die;-- I will not leave thee;" therewithal He knelt down midmost of the hall, Thinking it would come easily Into his hand; but when that he Gat hold of it, full fast it stack, So fuming, down he laid his sack, And with both hands pulled lustily, But as he strained, he cast his eye Back to the daïs; there he saw The bowman image 'gin to draw The mighty bowstring to his ear, So, shrieking out aloud for fear, Of that rich stone he loosed his hold And catching up his bag of gold, Gat to his feet: but ere he stood The evil thing of brass and wood Up to his ear the notches drew; And clanging, forth the arrow flew, And midmost of the carbuncle Clanging again, the forked barbs fell, And all was dark as pitch straightway.

So there until the judgment day Shall come and find his bones laid low And raise them up for weal or woe, This man must bide; cast down he lay While all his past life day by day In one short moment he could see Drawn out before him, while that he In terror by that fatal stone Was laid, and scarcely dared to moan. But in a while his hope returned, And then, though nothing he discerned, He gat him up upon his feet, And all about the walls he beat To find some token of the door, But never could he find it more, For by some dreadful sorcery All was sealed close as it might be And midst the marvels of that hall This scholar found the end of all.

But in the town on that same night, An hour before the dawn of light, Such storm upon the place there fell, That not the oldest man could tell Of such another: and thereby The image was burnt utterly, Being stricken from the clouds above; And folk deemed that same bolt did move The pavement where that wretched one Unto his foredoomed fate had gone, Because the plate was set again Into its place, and the great rain Washed the earth down, and sorcery Had hid the place where it did lie. So soon the stones were set all straight, But yet the folk, afraid of fate, Where once the man of cornel wood Through many a year of bad and good Had kept his place, set up alone Great Jove himself, cut in white stone, But thickly overlaid with gold. "Which," saith my tale, "you may behold Unto this day, although indeed Some Lord or other, being in need, Took every ounce of gold away." But now, this tale in some past day Being writ, I warrant all is gone, Both gold and weather-beaten stone.

Be merry, masters, while ye may, For men much quicker pass away.

* * * * *

They praised the tale, and for awhile they talked Of other tales of treasure-seekers balked, And shame and loss for men insatiate stored, Nitocris' tomb, the Niblungs' fatal hoard, The serpent-guarded treasures of the dead; Then of how men would be rememberéd When they are gone; and more than one could tell Of what unhappy things therefrom befell; Or how by folly men have gained a name; A name indeed, not hallowed by the fame Of any deeds remembered: and some thought,-- "Strange hopes and fears for what shall be but nought To dead men! better it would be to give What things they may, while on the earth they live Unto the earth, and from the bounteous earth To take their pay of sorrow or of mirth, Hatred or love, and get them on their way; And let the teeming earth fresh troubles make For other men, and ever for their sake Use what they left, when they are gone from it."

But while amid such musings they did sit, Dark night being come, men lighted up the hall, And the chief man for minstrelsy did call, And other talk their dull thoughts chased away, Nor did they part till night was mixed with day.

JUNE.

O June, O June, that we desired so, Wilt thou not make us happy on this day? Across the river thy soft breezes blow Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away, Above our heads rustle the aspens grey, Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset, No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.

See, we have left our hopes and fears behind To give our very hearts up unto thee; What better place than this then could we find By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea, That guesses not the city's misery, This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names, This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?

Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take; And if indeed but pensive men we seem, What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake From out the arms of this rare happy dream And wish to leave the murmur of the stream, The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds, And all thy thousand peaceful happy words.

* * * * *

Now in the early June they deemed it good That they should go unto a house that stood On their chief river, so upon a day With favouring wind and tide they took their way Up the fair stream; most lovely was the time Even amidst the days of that fair clime, And still the wanderers thought about their lives, And that desire that rippling water gives To youthful hearts to wander anywhere. So midst sweet sights and sounds a house most fair They came to, set upon the river side Where kindly folk their coming did abide; There they took land, and in the lime-trees' shade Beneath the trees they found the fair feast laid, And sat, well pleased; but when the water-hen Had got at last to think them harmless men, And they with rest, and pleasure, and old wine, Began to feel immortal and divine, An elder spoke, "O gentle friends, the day Amid such calm delight now slips away, And ye yourselves are grown so bright and glad I care not if I tell you something sad; Sad, though the life I tell you of passed by, Unstained by sordid strife or misery; Sad, because though a glorious end it tells, Yet on the end of glorious life it dwells, And striving through all things to reach the best Upon no midway happiness will rest."

THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS.

ARGUMENT

Admetus, King of Pheræ in Thessaly, received unwittingly Apollo as his servant, by the help of whom he won to wife Alcestis, daughter of Pelias: afterwards too, as in other things, so principally in this, Apollo gave him help, that when he came to die, he obtained of the Fates for him, that if another would die willingly in his stead, then he should live still; and when to every one else this seemed impossible, Alcestis gave her life for her husband's.

Midst sunny grass-clad meads that slope adown To lake Boebeis stands an ancient town, Where dwelt of old a lord of Thessaly, The son of Pheres and fair Clymene, Who had to name Admetus: long ago The dwellers by the lake have ceased to know His name, because the world grows old, but then He was accounted great among great men; Young, strong, and godlike, lacking nought at all Of gifts that unto royal men might fall In those old simple days, before men went To gather unseen harm and discontent, Along with all the alien merchandise That rich folk need, too restless to be wise.

Now on the fairest of all autumn eves, When midst the dusty, crumpled, dying leaves The black grapes showed, and every press and vat Was newly scoured, this King Admetus sat Among his people, wearied in such wise By hopeful toil as makes a paradise Of the rich earth; for light and far away Seemed all the labour of the coming day, And no man wished for more than then he had, Nor with another's mourning was made glad. There in the pillared porch, their supper done, They watched the fair departing of the sun; The while the soft-eyed well-girt maidens poured The joy of life from out the jars long stored Deep in the earth, while little like a king, As we call kings, but glad with everything, The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life, So free from sickening fear and foolish strife. But midst the joy of this festivity, Turning aside he saw a man draw nigh, Along the dusty grey vine-bordered road That had its ending at his fair abode; He seemed e'en from afar to set his face Unto the King's adornéd reverend place, And like a traveller went he wearily, And yet as one who seems his rest to see. A staff he bore, but nowise was he bent With scrip or wallet; so withal he went Straight to the King's high seat, and standing near, Seemed a stout youth and noble, free from fear, But peaceful and unarmed; and though ill clad, And though the dust of that hot land he had Upon his limbs and face, as fair was he As any king's son you might lightly see, Grey-eyed and crisp-haired, beautiful of limb, And no ill eye the women cast on him. But kneeling now, and stretching forth his hand, He said, "O thou, the king of this fair land, Unto a banished man some shelter give, And help me with thy goods that I may live: Thou hast good store, Admetus, yet may I, Who kneel before thee now in misery, Give thee more gifts before the end shall come Than all thou hast laid safely in thine home." "Rise up, and be my guest," Admetus said, "I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread, The land is wide, and bountiful enow. What thou canst do, to-morrow thou shalt show, And be my man, perchance; but this night rest Not questioned more than any passing guest. Yea, even if a great king thou hast spilt, Thou shall not answer aught but as thou wilt." Then the man rose and said, "O King, indeed Of thine awarded silence have I need, Nameless I am, nameless what I have done Must be through many circles of the sun. But for to-morrow--let me rather tell On this same eve what things I can do well, And let me put mine hand in thine and swear To serve thee faithfully a changing year; Nor think the woods of Ossa hold one beast That of thy tenderest yearling shall make feast, Whiles that I guard thy flocks, and thou shalt bear Thy troubles easier when thou com'st to hear The music I can make. Let these thy men Witness against me if I fail thee, when War falls upon thy lovely land and thee." Then the King smiled, and said, "So let it be, Well shalt thou serve me, doing far less than this, Nor for thy service due gifts shalt thou miss: Behold I take thy faith with thy right hand, Be thou true man unto this guarded land. Ho ye! take this my guest, find raiment meet Wherewith to clothe him; bathe his wearied feet, And bring him back beside my throne to feast." But to himself he said, "I am the least Of all Thessalians if this man was born In any earthly dwelling more forlorn Than a king's palace." Then a damsel slim Led him inside, nought loth to go with him, And when the cloud of steam had curled to meet Within the brass his wearied dusty feet, She from a carved press brought him linen fair, And a new-woven coat a king might wear, And so being clad he came unto the feast, But as he came again, all people ceased What talk they held soever, for they thought A very god among them had been brought; And doubly glad the king Admetus was At what that dying eve had brought to pass, And bade him sit by him and feast his fill. So there they sat till all the world was still, And 'twixt the pillars their red torches' shine Held forth unto the night a joyous sign.

* * * * *

So henceforth did this man at Pheræ dwell, And what he set his hand to wrought right well, And won much praise and love in everything, And came to rule all herdsmen of the King; But for two things in chief his fame did grow; And first that he was better with the bow Than any 'twixt Olympus and the sea, And then that sweet, heart-piercing melody He drew out from the rigid-seeming lyre, And made the circle round the winter fire More like to heaven than gardens of the May. So many a heavy thought he chased away From the King's heart, and softened many a hate, And choked the spring of many a harsh debate; And, taught by wounds, the snatchers of the wolds Lurked round the gates of less well-guarded folds. Therefore Admetus loved him, yet withal, Strange doubts and fears upon his heart did fall; For morns there were when he the man would meet, His hair wreathed round with bay and blossoms sweet, Gazing distraught into the brightening east, Nor taking heed of either man or beast, Or anything that was upon the earth. Or sometimes, midst the hottest of the mirth, Within the King's hall, would he seem to wake As from a dream, and his stringed tortoise take And strike the cords unbidden, till the hall Filled with the glorious sound from wall to wall, Trembled and seemed as it would melt away, And sunken down the faces weeping lay That erewhile laughed the loudest; only he Stood upright, looking forward steadily With sparkling eyes as one who cannot weep, Until the storm of music sank to sleep.

But this thing seemed the doubtfullest of all Unto the King, that should there chance to fall A festal day, and folk did sacrifice Unto the gods, ever by some device The man would be away: yet with all this His presence doubled all Admetus' bliss, And happy in all things he seemed to live, And great gifts to his herdsman did he give. But now the year came round again to spring, And southward to Iolchos went the King; For there did Pelias hold a sacrifice Unto the gods, and put forth things of price For men to strive for in the people's sight; So on a morn of April, fresh and bright, Admetus shook the golden-studded reins, And soon from windings of the sweet-banked lanes The south wind blew the sound of hoof and wheel, Clatter of brazen shields and clink of steel Unto the herdsman's ears, who stood awhile Hearkening the echoes with a godlike smile, Then slowly gat him foldwards, murmuring, "Fair music for the wooing of a King." But in six days again Admetus came, With no lost labour or dishonoured name; A scarlet cloak upon his back he bare A gold crown on his head, a falchion fair Girt to his side; behind him four white steeds, Whose dams had fed full in Nisæan meads; All prizes that his valiant hands had won Within the guarded lists of Tyro's son. Yet midst the sound of joyous minstrelsy No joyous man in truth he seemed to be; So that folk looking on him said, "Behold, The wise King will not show himself too bold Amidst his greatness: the gods too are great, And who can tell the dreadful ways of fate?" Howe'er it was, he gat him through the town, And midst their shouts at last he lighted down At his own house, and held high feast that night; And yet by seeming had but small delight In aught that any man could do or say: And on the morrow, just at dawn of day, Rose up and clad himself, and took his spear. And in the fresh and blossom-scented air Went wandering till he reach Boebeis' shore; Yet by his troubled face set little store By all the songs of birds and scent of flowers; Yea, rather unto him the fragrant hours Were grown but dull and empty of delight. So going, at the last he came in sight Of his new herdsman, who that morning lay Close by the white sand of a little bay The teeming ripple of Boebeis lapped; There he in cloak of white-wooled sheepskin wrapped Against the cold dew, free from trouble sang, The while the heifers' bells about him rang And mingled with the sweet soft-throated birds And bright fresh ripple: listen, then, these words Will tell the tale of his felicity, Halting and void of music though they be.

SONG.

O Dwellers on the lovely earth, Why will ye break your rest and mirth To weary us with fruitless prayer; Why will ye toil and take such care For children's children yet unborn, And garner store of strife and scorn To gain a scarce-remembered name, Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame? And if the gods care not for you, What is this folly ye must do To win some mortal's feeble heart? O fools! when each man plays his part, And heeds his fellow little more Than these blue waves that kiss the shore Take heed of how the daisies grow. O fools! and if ye could but know How fair a world to you is given.

O brooder on the hills of heaven, When for my sin thou drav'st me forth, Hadst thou forgot what this was worth, Thine own hand had made? The tears of men, The death of threescore years and ten, The trembling of the timorous race-- Had these things so bedimmed the place Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know To what a heaven the earth might grow If fear beneath the earth were laid, If hope failed not, nor love decayed.