The Earthly Paradise Part 15

But the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke At sun-rising curled round about her head, Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke Down in the street, and he by something led, He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid, And through the freshness of the morn must see The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy;

Damsels and youths in wonderful attire, And in their midst upon a car of gold An image of the Mother of Desire, Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown old Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold, Coloured like flame, enwrought with precious things, Most fit to be the prize of striving kings.

Then he remembered that the manner was That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take Thrice in the year, and through the city pa.s.s, And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake; And through the clouds a light there seemed to break When he remembered all the tales well told About her glorious kindly deeds of old.

So his unfinished prayer he finished not, But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet, And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed hot, He clad himself with fresh attire and meet For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head, And followed after as the G.o.ddess led.

But long and vain unto him seemed the way Until they came unto her house again; Long years, the while they went about to lay The honey-hiding dwellers on the plain, The sweet companions of the yellowing grain Upon her golden altar; long and long Before, at end of their delicious song,

They stripped her of her weed with reverend hands And showed the ivory limbs his hand had wrought; Yea, and too long e'en then ere those fair bands, Dispersing here and there, the shadow sought Of Indian spice-trees o'er the warm sea brought And toward the splas.h.i.+ng of the fountain turned, Mocked the noon sun that o'er the cloisters burned.

But when the crowd of wors.h.i.+ppers was gone And through the golden dimness of the place The G.o.ddess' very servants paced alone, Or some lone damsel murmured of her case Apart from prying eyes, he turned his face Unto that image made with toil and care, In days when unto him it seemed most fair.

Dusky and dim, though rich with gems and gold, The house of Venus was; high in the dome The burning sun-light you could now behold, From nowhere else the light of day might come, To shame the Shame-faced Mother's lovely home; A long way off the shrine, the fresh sea-breeze, Now just arising, brushed the myrtle-trees.

The torches of the flower-crowned, singing band Erewhile, indeed, made more than daylight there, Lighting the painted tales of many a land, And carven heroes, with their unused glare; But now a few soft, glimmering lamps there were And on the altar a thin, flickering flame Just showed the golden letters of her name.

Blue in the dome yet hung the incense-cloud, And still its perfume lingered all around; And, trodden by the light-foot, fervent crowd, Thick lay the summer flowers upon the ground, And now from far-off halls uprose the sound Of Lydian music, and the dancer's cry, As though some door were opened suddenly.

So there he stood, some help from her to gain, Bewildered by that twilight midst of day; Downcast with listening to the joyous strain He had no part in, hopeless with delay Of all the fair things he had meant to say; Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast, From stammering lips and pale these words there pa.s.sed,--

"O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know What thing it is I need, when even I, Bent down before thee in this shame and woe, Can frame no set of words to tell thee why I needs must pray, O help me or I die!

Or slay me, and in slaying take from me Even a dead man's feeble memory.

"Say not thine help I have been slow to seek; Here have I been from the first hour of morn, Who stand before thy presence faint and weak, Of my one poor delight left all forlorn; Trembling with many fears, the hope outworn I had when first I left my love, my shame, To call upon thine oft-sung glorious name."

He stopped to catch his breath, for as a sob Did each word leave his mouth; but suddenly, Like a live thing, the thin flame 'gan to throb And gather force, and then shot up on high A steady spike of light, that drew anigh The sunbeam in the dome, then sank once more Into a feeble flicker as before.

But at that sight the nameless hope he had That kept him living midst unhappiness, Stirred in his breast, and with changed face and glad Unto the image forward must he press With words of praise his first word to redress, But then it was as though a thick black cloud Altar, and fire, and ivory limbs did shroud.

He staggered back, amazed and full of awe, But when, with anxious eyes, he gazed around, About him still the wors.h.i.+ppers he saw Sunk in their wonted works, with no surprise At what to him seemed awful mysteries; Therewith he sighed and said, "This, too, I dream, No better day upon my life shall beam."

And yet for long upon the place he gazed Where other folk beheld the lovely Queen; And while he looked the dusky veil seemed raised, And every thing was as it erst had been; And then he said, "Such marvels I have seen As some sick man may see from off his bed: Ah, I am sick, and would that I were dead!"

Therewith, not questioning his heart at all, He turned away and left the holy place, When now the wide sun reddened towards his fall, And a fresh west wind held the clouds in chase; But coming out, at first he hid his face Dazed with the light, and in the porch he stood, Nor wished to move, or change his dreary mood.

Yet in a while the freshness of the eve Pierced to his weary heart, and with a sigh He raised his head, and slowly 'gan to leave The high carved pillars; and so presently Had pa.s.sed the grove of whispering myrtles by, And, mid the many noises of the street, Made himself brave the eyes of men to meet.

Thronged were the ways with folk in gay attire, Nursing the end of that festivity; Girls fit to move the moody man's desire Brushed past him, and soft dainty minstrelsy He heard amid the laughter, and might see, Through open doors, the garden's green delight, Where pensive lovers waited for the night;

Or resting dancers round the fountain drawn, With faces flushed unto the breeze turned round, Or wandering o'er the fragrant trodden lawn, Took up their fallen garlands from the ground, Or languidly their scattered tresses bound, Or let their gathered raiment fall adown, With eyes downcast beneath their lovers' frown.

What hope Pygmalion yet might have, when he First left the pillars of the dreamy place, Amid such sights had vanished utterly.

He turned his weary eyes from face to face, Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace He gat towards home, and still was murmuring, "Ah life, sweet life! the only G.o.dlike thing!"

And as he went, though longing to be there Whereas his sole desire awaited him, Yet did he loath to see the image fair, White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb, And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim That unto some strange region he might come, Nor ever reach again his loveless home.

Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, And, as a man awaking from a dream, Seemed waked from his old folly; nought seemed good In all the things that he before had deemed At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed Cold light of day--he found himself alone, Reft of desire, all love and madness gone.

And yet for that past folly must he weep, As one might mourn the parted happiness That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep; And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless The hard life left of toil and loneliness, Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet Emmeshed for ever in the memory's net.

Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen, I thank thee that my prayer was not for nought, Truly a present helper hast thou been To those who faithfully thy throne have sought!

Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought, Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me, That I thine happy slave henceforth may be?"

Thus to his chamber at the last he came, And, pus.h.i.+ng through the still half-opened door, He stood within; but there, for very shame Of all the things that he had done before, Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor, Thinking of all that he had done and said Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid.

Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air So gaining courage, did he raise his face Unto the work his hands had made so fair, And cried aloud to see the niche all bare Of that sweet form, while through his heart again There shot a pang of his old yearning pain.

Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, A shaft of new desire now pierced him through, And therewithal a soft voice called his name, And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame, He saw betwixt him and the setting sun The lively image of his loved one.

He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, Her very lips, were such as he had made, And though her tresses fell but in such guise As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed In that fair garment that the priests had laid Upon the G.o.ddess on that very morn, Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn.

Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear, Simple and sweet as she was wont to be, And all at once her silver voice rang clear, Filling his soul with great felicity, And thus she spoke, "Pygmalion, come to me, O dear companion of my new-found life, For I am called thy lover and thy wife.

"Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say That was with me e'en now, _Pygmalion,_ _My new-made soul I give to thee to-day,_ _Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won,_ _And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon!_ _Come love, and walk with me between the trees,_ _And feel the freshness of the evening breeze._

_"Sweep mine hair round thy neck; behold my feet,_ _The oft-kissed feet thou thoughtst should never move,_ _Press down the daisies! draw me to thee, sweet,_ _And feel the warm heart of thy living love_ _Beat against thine, and bless the Seed of Jove_ _Whose loving tender heart hath wrought all this,_ _And wrapped us both in such a cloud of bliss._

"Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean!

Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen: But this I know, I would we were more nigh, I have not heard thy voice but in the cry Thou utteredst then, when thou believedst gone The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone."

She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes Gazed into his; but he the fingers caught And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies Pa.s.sing all words, yea, well-nigh pa.s.sing thought, Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought, Felt the warm life within her heaving breast As in his arms his living love he pressed.

But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say, "Wilt thou not speak, O love? why dost thou weep?

Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day, Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep This that thou holdest, but in dreamy sleep?

Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen, And hand in hand walk through thy garden green;

"Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me, Full many things whereof I wish to know, And as we walk from whispering tree to tree Still more familiar to thee shall I grow, And such things shalt thou say unto me now As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone, A madman, kneeling to a thing of stone."

But at that word a smile lit up his eyes And therewithal he spake some loving word, And she at first looked up in grave surprise When his deep voice and musical she heard, And clung to him as grown somewhat afeard; Then cried aloud and said, "O mighty one!

What joy with thee to look upon the sun."

Then into that fair garden did they pa.s.s And all the story of his love he told, And as the twain went o'er the dewy gra.s.s, Beneath the risen moon could he behold The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen bold, He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth this?

Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss?"

Then both her white arms round his neck she threw And sobbing said, "O love, what hurteth me?

When first the sweetness of my life I knew, Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee A little pain and great felicity Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow?"

"O sweet," he said, "this thing is even love, Whereof I told thee; that all wise men fear, But yet escape not; nay, to G.o.ds above, Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near.

But let my happy ears I pray thee hear Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth."

"My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise, Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell, But listen: when I opened first mine eyes I stood within the niche thou knowest well, And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear, And but a strange confused noise could hear.

"At last mine eyes could see a woman fair, But awful as this round white moon o'erhead.

So that I trembled when I saw her there, For with my life was born some touch of dread, And therewithal I heard her voice that said, 'Come down, and learn to love and be alive, For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'

"Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much, Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all, Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch, And when her fingers thereupon did fall, Thought came unto my life, and therewithal I knew her for a G.o.ddess, and began To murmur in some tongue unknown to man.