The Earthly Paradise Part 17

But while he sat and waited for the day A sudden light across the bare rock streamed, Which at the first he noted not, but deemed The moon her fleecy veil had broken through; But ruddier indeed this new light grew Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal Soft far-off music on his ears did fall; Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death.

An easy thing like this to yield my breath, Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear, No dreadful sights to tell me it is near; Yea, G.o.d, I thank Thee!" but with that last word It seemed to him that he his own name heard Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past; With that he gat unto his feet at last, But still awhile he stood, with sunken head, And in a low and trembling voice he said, "Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go?

I pray Thee unto me some token show."

And, as he said this, round about he turned, And in the east beheld a light that burned As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear The coming change that he believed so near, Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought Unto the very heaven to be brought: And though he felt alive, deemed it might be That he in sleep had died full easily.

Then toward that light did he begin to go, And still those strains he heard, far off and low, That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed, But like the light of some unseen bright flame Shone round about, until at last he came Unto the dreary islet's other sh.o.r.e, And then the minstrelsy he heard no more, And softer seemed the strange light unto him, But yet or ever it had grown quite dim, Beneath its waning light could he behold A mighty palace set about with gold, Above green meads and groves of summer trees Far-off across the welter of the seas; But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight, And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light, Which soothly was but darkness to him now, His sea-girt island prison did but show.

But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully, And said, "Alas! and when will this go by And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream Of life that once so dear a thing did seem, That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be?

Here will I sit until he come to me, And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin, That so a little calm I yet may win Before I stand within the awful place."

Then down he sat and covered up his face.

Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide, Nor waiting thus for death could he abide, For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain Of hope of life had touched his soul again-- If he could live awhile, if he could live!

The mighty being, who once was wont to give The gift of life to many a trembling man; Who did his own will since his life began; Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free Still cast aside the thought of what might be; Must all this then be lost, and with no will, Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil, Nor know what he is doing any more?

Soon he arose and paced along the sh.o.r.e, And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; But nought he saw except the old sad sight, The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, The white upspringing of the spurts of spray Amidst that ma.s.s of timbers, the rent bones Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones Once cast like him upon this deadly isle.

He stopped his pacing in a little while, And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth, And gazing at the ruin underneath, He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, Not caring aught if thus his life should end; But safely amidst all this did he descend The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily.

But now, amid the clamour of the waves, And was.h.i.+ng to-and-fro of beams and staves, Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress, And all those days of fear and loneliness, The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, And yet his footing somehow did he keep Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee.

So quickly on from wreck to wreck he pa.s.sed, And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, And there a moment stood unsteadily, Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, And poised himself to meet the coming death, Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain Over the was.h.i.+ng waves he heard again, And from the dimness something bright he saw Across the waste of waters towards him draw; And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last Unto his very feet a boat was cast, Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed With cus.h.i.+ons soft; far fitter to have weighed From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, Than struggle with that huge confused sea; But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, "What tales are these about the newly dead The heathen told? what matter, let all pa.s.s; This moment as one dead indeed I was, And this must be what I have got to do, I yet perchance may light on something new Before I die; though yet perchance this keel Unto the wondrous ma.s.s of charmed steel Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt Into the boat, and o'er the cus.h.i.+ons crept From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, Nor any oars, nor were the cus.h.i.+ons fair Made wet by any das.h.i.+ng of the sea.

Now while he pondered how these things could be, The boat began to move therefrom at last, But over him a drowsiness was cast, And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pa.s.s, He clean forgot his death and where he was.

At last he woke up to a sunny day, And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, Where in the green waves did the low bank dip Its fresh and green gra.s.s-covered daisied lip; But Ogier looking thence no more could see That sad abode of death and misery, Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; Then from the golden cus.h.i.+ons did he rise, And wondering still if this were Paradise He stepped ash.o.r.e, but drew Courtain his sword And muttered therewithal a holy word.

Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, For with their quivering song the air was sweet; Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, And on his head the blossoms down did rain, Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail For lamentations o'er his changed lot; Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, For what then seemed to him a weary way, Whereon his steps he needs must often stay And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord Had small respect in glorious days long past.

But still he crept along, and at the last Came to a gilded wicket, and through this Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss, If that might last which needs must soon go by: There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh He said, "O G.o.d, a sinner I have been, And good it is that I these things have seen Before I meet what Thou hast set apart To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart; But who within this garden now can dwell Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?"

A little further yet he staggered on, Till to a fountain-side at last he won, O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed.

There he sank down, and laid his weary head Beside the mossy roots, and in a while He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle; That splas.h.i.+ng fount the weary sea did seem, And in his dream the fair place but a dream; But when again to feebleness he woke Upon his ears that heavenly music broke, Not faint or far as in the isle it was, But e'en as though the minstrels now did pa.s.s Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt, E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about, Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain; And yet his straining gaze was but in vain, Death stole so fast upon him, and no more Could he behold the blossoms as before, No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground, A heavy mist seemed gathering all around, And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be, And round his head there breathed deliciously Sweet odours, and that music never ceased.

But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice Sent from the world he loved so well of old, And all his life was as a story told, And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile E'en as a child asleep, but in a while It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed, For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed, As though from some sweet face and golden hair, And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair, And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears, Broken as if with flow of joyous tears; "Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long?

Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!"

Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord, Too long, too long; and yet one little word Right many a year agone had brought me here."

Then to his face that face was drawn anear, He felt his head raised up and gently laid On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said, "Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend!

Who knoweth when our linked life shall end, Since thou art come unto mine arms at last, And all the turmoil of the world is past?

Why do I linger ere I see thy face As I desired it in that mourning place So many years ago--so many years, Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?"

"Alas!" he said, "what mockery then is this That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss?

No longer can I think upon the earth, Have I not done with all its grief and mirth?

Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love Should come once more my dying heart to move, Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls Outside St. Omer's--art thou she? her name Which I remembered once mid death and fame Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday, Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay: Baldwin the fair--what hast thou done with him Since Charlot slew him? All, mine eyes wax dim; Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die?

Did I forget thee in the days gone by?

Then let me die, that we may meet again!"

He tried to move from her, but all in vain, For life had well-nigh left him, but withal He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall, And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there Set on some ring, and still he could not speak, And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak.

But, ah! what land was this he woke unto?

What joy was this that filled his heart anew?

Had he then gained the very Paradise?

Trembling, he durst not at the first arise, Although no more he felt the pain of eld, Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld Beside him the white flowers and blades of gra.s.s; He durst not speak, lest he some monster was.

But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still, Apart from every earthly fear and ill; Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this, That I like thee may live in double bliss?"

Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun, But as he might have risen in old days To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze; But, looking round, he saw no change there was In the fair place wherethrough he first did pa.s.s, Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes, Now looked no worse than very Paradise; Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair Still sent its glittering stream forth into air, And by its basin a fair woman stood, And as their eyes met his new-healed blood Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat.

The fairest of all creatures did she seem; So fresh and delicate you well might deem That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest, Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt A child before her had the wise man felt, And with the pleasure of a thousand years Her lips were fas.h.i.+oned to move joy or tears Among the longing folk where she might dwell, To give at last the kiss unspeakable.

In such wise was she clad as folk may be, Who, for no shame of their humanity, For no sad changes of the imperfect year, Rather for added beauty, raiment wear; For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days, Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet That bound the sandals to her dainty feet, Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head, And on her breast there lay a ruby red.

So with a supplicating look she turned To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned, And held out both her white arms lovingly, As though to greet him as he drew anigh.

Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I So cured of all my evils suddenly, That certainly I felt no mightier, when, Amid the backward rush of beaten men, About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme?

Alas! I fear that in some dream I am."

"Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is That such a name G.o.d gives unto our bliss; I know not, but if thou art such an one As I must deem, all days beneath the sun That thou hadst had, shall be but dreams indeed To those that I have given thee at thy need.

For many years ago beside the sea When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee: Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes, That thou mayst see what these my mysteries Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years, Pa.s.sed amidst joy, thy new born body bears, Nor while thou art with me, and on this sh.o.r.e Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more.

Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand, The hope and fear of many a warring land, And I will show thee wherein lies the spell, Whereby this happy change upon thee fell."

Like a shy youth before some royal love, Close up to that fair woman did he move, And their hands met; yet to his changed voice He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel, And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal As her light raiment, driven by the wind, Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind His lips the treasure of her lips did press, And round him clung her perfect loveliness.

For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then She drew herself from out his arms again, And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand, And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,-- "O Ogier, when thou camest here to-day, I feared indeed, that in my play with fate, I might have seen thee e'en one day too late, Before this ring thy finger should embrace; Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold; My father dying gave it me, nor told The manner of its making, but I know That it can make thee e'en as thou art now Despite the laws of G.o.d--shrink not from me Because I give an impious gift to thee-- Has not G.o.d made me also, who do this?

But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss, Am of the fays, and live their changeless life, And, like the G.o.ds of old, I see the strife That moves the world, unmoved if so I will; For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill, Have never touched like you of Adam's race; And while thou dwellest with me in this place Thus shalt thou be--ah, and thou deem'st, indeed, That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand How thou art come into a happy land?-- Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing, And tell thee of it many a joyous thing; But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain, Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again Thou wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss; And so with us no otherwise it is, Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away Even as yet, though that shall be to-day.

"But for the love and country thou hast won, Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon, That is both thine and mine; and as for me, Morgan le Fay men call me commonly Within the world, but fairer names than this I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss."

Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain, That she had brought him here this life to gain?

For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind He watched the kisses of the wandering wind Within her raiment, or as some one sees The very best of well-wrought images When he is blind with grief, did he behold The wandering tresses of her locks of gold Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed The hand that in his own hand lay at rest: His eyes, grown dull with changing memories, Could make no answer to her glorious eyes: Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught, With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought, Unfinished in the old days; and withal He needs must think of what might chance to fall In this life new-begun; and good and bad Tormented him, because as yet he had A worldly heart within his frame made new, And to the deeds that he was wont to do Did his desires still turn. But she a while Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile, And let his hand fall down; and suddenly Sounded sweet music from some close nearby, And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me, That thou thy new life and delights mayst see."

And gently with that word she led him thence, And though upon him now there fell a sense Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment, As hand in hand through that green place they went, Yet therewithal a strain of tender love A little yet his restless heart did move.

So through the whispering trees they came at last To where a wondrous house a shadow cast Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied gra.s.s Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pa.s.s, Playing about in carelessness and mirth, Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth; And from the midst a band of fair girls came, With flowers and music, greeting him by name, And praising him; but ever like a dream He could not break, did all to Ogier seem.

And he his old world did the more desire, For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire, That through the world of old so bright did burn: Yet was he fain that kindness to return, And from the depth of his full heart he sighed.

Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught, But still with kind love lighting up her face She led him through the door of that fair place, While round about them did the damsels press; And he was moved by all that loveliness As one might be, who, lying half asleep In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep Over the tulip-beds: no more to him Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim, Amidst that dream, although the first surprise Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir.

And so at last he came, led on by her Into a hall wherein a fair throne was, And hand in hand thereto the twain did pa.s.s; And there she bade him sit, and when alone He took his place upon the double throne, She cast herself before him on her knees, Embracing his, and greatly did increase The shame and love that vexed his troubled heart: But now a line of girls the crowd did part, Lovelier than all, and Ogier could behold One in their midst who bore a crown of gold Within her slender hands and delicate; She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did wait Until the Queen arose and took the crown, Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adown And kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worth Thy miserable days of strife on earth, That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?"

Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burned With sudden memories, and thereto had he Made answer, but she raised up suddenly The crown she held and set it on his head, "Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead; Thou wert dead with them also, but for me; Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!"

Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty wave Of love swept o'er his soul, as though the grave Did really hold his body; from his seat He rose to cast himself before her feet; But she clung round him, and in close embrace The twain were locked amidst that thronging place.

Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won, And in the happy land of Avallon Quick glide the years o'er his unchanging head; There saw he many men the world thought dead, Living like him in sweet forgetfulness Of all the troubles that did once oppress Their vainly-struggling lives--ah, how can I Tell of their joy as though I had been nigh?

Suffice it that no fear of death they knew, That there no talk there was of false or true, Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there; That everything was bright and soft and fair, And yet they wearied not for any change, Nor unto them did constancy seem strange.

Love knew they, but its pain they never had, But with each other's joy were they made glad; Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire, Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desire That turns to ashes all the joys of earth, Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearth Of kind and loving hearts to spend it on, Nor dreamed of discontent when all was won; Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame; Still was the calm flow of their lives the same, And yet, I say, they wearied not of it-- So did the promised days by Ogier flit.

Think that a hundred years have now pa.s.sed by, Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to die Beside the fountain; think that now ye are In France, made dangerous with wasting war; In Paris, where about each guarded gate, Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait, And press around each new-come man to learn If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn, Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain, Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine?

Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants?

That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes?

When will they come? or rather is it true That a great band the Constable o'erthrew Upon the marshes of the lower Seine, And that their long-s.h.i.+ps, turning back again, Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore Were driven here and there and cast ash.o.r.e?

Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men Came hurrying in, they asked them o'er again, And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant, Still got new lies, or tidings very scant.

But now amidst these men at last came one, A little ere the setting of the sun, With two stout men behind him, armed right well, Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell, With doubtful eyes upon their master stared, Or looked about like troubled men and scared.

And he they served was noteworthy indeed; Of ancient fas.h.i.+on were his arms and weed, Rich past the wont of men in those sad times; His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes, But lovely as the image of a G.o.d Carved in the days before on earth Christ trod; But solemn were his eyes, and grey as gla.s.s, And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was: A mighty man he was, and taller far Than those who on that day must bear the war The pagans waged: he by the warders stayed Scarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyed And showed his pa.s.s; then, asked about his name And from what city of the world he came, Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight, That he was come midst the king's men to fight From St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazed Down on the thronging street as one amazed, And answered no more to the questioning Of frightened folk of this or that sad thing; But, ere he pa.s.sed on, turned about at last And on the wondering guard a strange look cast, And said, "St. Mary! do such men as ye Fight with the wasters from across the sea?

Then, certes, are ye lost, however good Your hearts may be; not such were those who stood Beside the Hammer-bearer years agone."

So said he, and as his fair armour shone With beauty of a time long pa.s.sed away, So with the music of another day His deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk.

Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke, That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought, Surely good succour to our side is brought; For here is Charlemaine come off his tomb To save his faithful city from its doom."

"Yea," said another, "this is certain news, Surely ye know how all the carvers use To carve the dead man's image at the best, That guards the place where he may lie at rest; Wherefore this living image looks indeed, Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed, To have but thirty summers."

At the name Of Charlemaine, he turned to whence there came The mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow, And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how; So with a half-sigh soon sank back again Into his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein, And silently went on upon his way.

And this was Ogier: on what evil day Has he then stumbled, that he needs must come, Midst war and ravage, to the ancient home Of his desires? did he grow weary then, And wish to strive once more with foolish men For worthless things? or is fair Avallon Sunk in the sea, and all that glory gone?

Nay, thus it happed--One day she came to him And said, "Ogier, thy name is waxing dim Upon the world that thou rememberest not; The heathen men are thick on many a spot Thine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore; And G.o.d will give His wonted help no more.

Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mind To give thy banner once more to the wind?

Since greater glory thou shalt win for this Than erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss: For men are dwindled both in heart and frame, Nor holds the fair land any such a name As thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers; The world is worser for these hundred years."

From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire, And in his voice was something of desire, To see the land where he was used to be, As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me, Thou art the wisest; it is more than well Within this peaceful place with thee to dwell: Nor ill perchance in that old land to die, If, dying, I keep not the memory Of this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she, "As to thy dying, that shall never be, Whiles that thou keep'st my ring--and now, behold, I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold, And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wast Ere on the loadstone rock thy s.h.i.+p was cast: Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still, And I will guard thy life from every ill."