The Earthly Paradise Part 7

But when night came, in arms Admetus lay Across the threshold of the bride-chamber, And nought amiss that night he noted there, But durst not enter, though about the door Young poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor, Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey, Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay.

But when the whole three days and nights were done, The herdsman came with rising of the sun, And said, "Admetus, now rejoice again, Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain, And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss; And if thou askest for a sign of this, Take thou this token; make good haste to rise, And get unto the garden-close that lies Below these windows sweet with greenery, And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see, Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming, Though this is but the middle of the spring."

Nor was it otherwise than he had said, And on that day with joy the twain were wed, And 'gan to lead a life of great delight; But the strange woeful history of that night, The monstrous car, the promise to the King, All these through weary hours of chiselling Were wrought in stone, and in Diana's wall Set up, a joy and witness unto all.

But neither so would winged time abide, The changing year came round to autumn-tide, Until at last the day was fully come When the strange guest first reached Admetus' home.

Then, when the sun was reddening to its end, He to Admetus' brazen porch did wend, Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart, Then said he, "King, the time has come to part.

Come forth, for I have that to give thine ear No man upon the earth but thou must hear."

Then rose the King, and with a troubled look His well-steeled spear within his hand he took, And by his herdsman silently he went As to a peaked hill his steps he bent, Nor did the parting servant speak one word, As up they climbed, unto his silent lord, Till from the top he turned about his head From all the glory of the gold light, shed Upon the hill-top by the setting sun, For now indeed the day was well-nigh done, And all the eastern vale was grey and cold; But when Admetus he did now behold, Panting beside him from the steep ascent, One much-changed G.o.dlike look on him he bent.

And said, "O mortal, listen, for I see Thou deemest somewhat of what is in me; Fear not! I love thee, even as I can Who cannot feel the woes and ways of man In spite of this my seeming, for indeed Now thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed, And what my name is I would tell thee now, If men who dwell upon the earth as thou Could hear the name and live; but on the earth.

With strange melodious stories of my birth, Phoebus men call me, and Latona's son.

"And now my servitude with thee is done, And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth, This handful, that within its little girth Holds that which moves you so, O men that die; Behold, to-day thou hast felicity, But the times change, and I can see a day When all thine happiness shall fade away; And yet be merry, strive not with the end, Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend This year has won thee who shall never fail; But now indeed, for nought will it avail To say what I may have in store for thee, Of gifts that men desire; let these things be, And live thy life, till death itself shall come, And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home, Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold, That here have been the terror of the wold, Take these, and count them still the best of all Thine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fall By any way the worst extremity, Call upon me before thou com'st to die, And lay these shafts with incense on a fire, That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire."

He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was still An odorous mist had stolen up the hill, And to Admetus first the G.o.d grew dim, And then was but a lovely voice to him, And then at last the sun had sunk to rest, And a fresh wind blew lightly from the west Over the hill-top, and no soul was there; But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair, Rustled dry leaves about the windy place, Where even now had been the G.o.dlike face, And in their midst the bra.s.s-bound quiver lay.

Then, going further westward, far away, He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan 'Neath the white sky, but never any man, Except a grey-haired shepherd driving down From off the long slopes to his fold-yard brown His woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went, Singing for labour done and sweet content Of coming rest; with that he turned again, And took the shafts up, never sped in vain, And came unto his house most deep in thought Of all the things the varied year had brought.

Thenceforth in bliss and honour day by day His measured span of sweet life wore away.

A happy man he was; no vain desire Of foolish fame had set his heart a-fire; No care he had the ancient bounds to change, Nor yet for him must idle soldiers range From place to place about the burdened land, Or thick upon the ruined cornfields stand; For him no trumpets blessed the bitter war, Wherein the right and wrong so mingled are, That hardly can the man of single heart Amid the sickening turmoil choose his part; For him sufficed the changes of the year, The G.o.d-sent terror was enough of fear For him; enough the battle with the earth, The autumn triumph over drought and dearth.

Better to him than wolf-moved battered s.h.i.+elds, O'er poor dead corpses, seemed the stubble-fields Danced down beneath the moon, until the night Grew dreamy with a shadowy sweet delight, And with the high-risen moon came pensive thought, And men in love's despite must grow distraught And loiter in the dance, and maidens drop Their gathered raiment, and the fifer stop His dancing notes the pensive drone that chid, And as they wander to their dwellings, hid By the black shadowed trees, faint melody, Mournful and sweet, their soft good-night must be.

Far better spoil the gathering vat bore in Unto the pressing shed, than midst the din Of falling houses in war's waggon lies Besmeared with redder stains than Tyrian dyes; Or when the temple of the sea-born one With glittering crowns and gallant raiment shone, Fairer the maidens seemed by no chain bound, But such as amorous arms might cast around Their lovely bodies, than the wretched band Who midst the s.h.i.+pmen by the gangway stand; Each lonely in her speechless misery, And thinking of the worse time that shall be, When midst of folk who scarce can speak her name, She bears the uttermost of toil and shame.

Better to him seemed that victorious crown, That midst the reverent silence of the town He oft would set upon some singer's brow Than was the conqueror's diadem, blest now By lying priests, soon, bent and b.l.o.o.d.y, hung Within the thorn by linnets well besung, Who think but little of the corpse beneath, Though ancient lands have trembled at his breath.

But to this King--fair Ceres' gifts, the days Whereon men sung in flushed Lyaeus' praise Tales of old time, the bloodless sacrifice Unto the G.o.ddess of the downcast eyes And soft persuading lips, the ringing lyre Unto the bearer of the holy fire Who once had been amongst them--things like these Seemed meet to him men's yearning to appease, These were the triumphs of the peaceful king.

And so, betwixt seed-time and harvesting, With little fear his life must pa.s.s away; And for the rest, he, from the self-same day That the G.o.d left him, seemed to have some share In that same G.o.dhead he had harboured there: In all things grew his wisdom and his wealth, And folk beholding the fair state and health Wherein his land was, said, that now at last A fragment of the Golden Age was cast Over the place, for there was no debate, And men forgot the very name of hate.

Nor failed the love of her he erst had won To hold his heart as still the years wore on, And she, no whit less fair than on the day When from Iolchos first she pa.s.sed away, Did all his will as though he were a G.o.d, And loving still, the downward way she trod.

Honour and love, plenty and peace, he had; Nor lacked for aught that makes a wise man glad, That makes him like a rich well-honoured guest Scarce sorry when the time comes, for the rest, That at the end perforce must bow his head.

And yet--was death not much remembered, As still with happy men the manner is?

Or, was he not so pleased with this world's bliss, As to be sorry when the time should come When but his name should hold his ancient home While he dwelt nowhere? either way indeed, Will be enough for most men's daily need, And with calm faces they may watch the world, And note men's lives. .h.i.ther and thither hurled, As folk may watch the unfolding of a play-- Nor this, nor that was King Admetus' way, For neither midst the sweetness of his life Did he forget the ending of the strife, Nor yet for heavy thoughts of pa.s.sing pain Did all his life seem lost to him or vain, A wasteful jest of Jove, an empty dream; Rather before him did a vague hope gleam, That made him a great-hearted man and wise, Who saw the deeds of men with far-seeing eyes, And dealt them pitying justice still, as though The inmost heart of each man he did know; This hope it was, and not his kingly place That made men's hearts rejoice to see his face Rise in the council hall; through this, men felt That in their midst a son of man there dwelt Like and unlike them, and their friend through all; And still as time went on, the more would fall This glory on the King's beloved head, And round his life fresh hope and fear were shed.

Yet at the last his good days pa.s.sed away, And sick upon his bed Admetus lay, 'Twixt him and death nought but a lessening veil Of hasty minutes, yet did hope not fail, Nor did bewildering fear torment him then, But still as ever, all the ways of men Seemed dear to him: but he, while yet his breath Still held the gateway 'gainst the arms of death, Turned to his wife, who, bowed beside the bed, Wept for his love, and dying goodlihead, And bade her put all folk from out the room, Then going to the treasury's rich gloom To bear the arrows forth, the Lycian's gift.

So she, amidst her blinding tears, made s.h.i.+ft To find laid in the inmost treasury Those shafts, and brought them unto him, but he, Beholding them, beheld therewith his life, Both that now past, with many marvels rife, And that which he had hoped he yet should see.

Then spoke he faintly, "Love, 'twixt thee and me A film has come, and I am failing fast: And now our ancient happy life is past; For either this is death's dividing hand, And all is done, or if the shadowy land I yet escape, full surely if I live The G.o.d with life some other gift will give, And change me unto thee: e'en at this tide Like a dead man among you all I bide, Until I once again behold my guest, And he has given me either life or rest: Alas, my love! that thy too loving heart Nor with my life or death can have a part.

O cruel words! yet death is cruel too: Stoop down and kiss me, for I yearn for you E'en as the autumn yearneth for the sun."

"O love, a little time we have been one, And if we now are twain weep not therefore; For many a man on earth desireth sore To have some mate upon the toilsome road, Some sharer of his still increasing load, And yet for all his longing and his pain His troubled heart must seek for love in vain, And till he dies still must he be alone-- But now, although our love indeed is gone, Yet to this land as thou art leal and true Set now thine hand to what I bid thee do, Because I may not die; rake up the brands Upon the hearth, and from these trembling hands Cast incense thereon, and upon them lay These shafts, the relics of a happier day, Then watch with me; perchance I may not die, Though the supremest hour now draws anigh Of life or death--O thou who madest me, The only thing on earth alike to thee, Why must I be unlike to thee in this?

Consider, if thou dost not do amiss To slay the only thing that feareth death Or knows its name, of all things drawing breath Upon the earth: see now for no short hour, For no half-halting death, to reach me slower Than other men, I pray thee--what avail To add some trickling grains unto the tale Soon told, of minutes thou dost s.n.a.t.c.h away From out the midst of that unending day Wherein thou dwellest? rather grant me this To right me wherein thou hast done amiss, And give me life like thine for evermore."

So murmured he, contending very sore Against the coming death; but she meanwhile Faint with consuming love, made haste to pile The brands upon the hearth, and thereon cast Sweet incense, and the feathered shafts at last; Then, trembling, back unto the bed she crept, And lay down by his side, and no more wept, Nay scarce could think of death for very love That in her faithful heart for ever strove 'Gainst fear and grief: but now the incense-cloud The old familiar chamber did enshroud, And on the very verge of death drawn close Wrapt both their weary souls in strange repose, That through sweet sleep sent kindly images Of simple things; and in the midst of these, Whether it were but parcel of their dream, Or that they woke to it as some might deem, I know not, but the door was opened wide, And the King's name a voice long silent cried, And Phoebus on the very threshold trod, And yet in nothing liker to a G.o.d Than when he ruled Admetus' herds, for he Still wore the homespun coat men used to see Among the heifers in the summer morn, And round about him hung the herdsman's horn, And in his hand he bore the herdsman's spear And cornel bow, the prowling dog-wolfs fear, Though empty of its shafts the quiver was.

He to the middle of the room did pa.s.s, And said, "Admetus, neither all for nought My coming to thee is, nor have I brought Good tidings to thee; poor man, thou shalt live If any soul for thee sweet life will give Enforced by none: for such a sacrifice Alone the fates can deem a fitting price For thy redemption; in no battle-field, Maddened by hope of glory life to yield, To give it up to heal no city's shame In hope of gaining long-enduring fame; For whoso dieth for thee must believe That thou with shame that last gift wilt receive, And strive henceforward with forgetfulness The honied draught of thy new life to bless.

Nay, and moreover such a glorious heart Who loves thee well enough with life to part But for thy love, with life must lose love too, Which e'en when wrapped about in weeds of woe Is G.o.dlike life indeed to such an one.

"And now behold, three days ere life is done Do the Fates give thee, and I, even I, Upon thy life have shed felicity And given thee love of men, that they in turn With fervent love of thy dear love might burn.

The people love thee and thy silk-clad breast, Thine open doors have given thee better rest Than woods of spears or hills of walls might do.

And even now in wakefulness and woe The city lies, calling to mind thy love Wearying with ceaseless prayers the G.o.ds above.

But thou--thine heart is wise enough to know That they no whit from their decrees will go."

So saying, swiftly from the room he pa.s.sed; But on the world no look Admetus cast, But peacefully turned round unto the wall As one who knows that quick death must befall: For in his heart he thought, "Indeed too well I know what men are, this strange tale to tell To those that live with me: yea, they will weep, And o'er my tomb most solemn days will keep, And in great chronicles will write my name, Telling to many an age my deeds and fame.

For living men such things as this desire, And by such ways will they appease the fire Of love and grief: but when death comes to stare Full in men's faces, and the truth lays bare, How can we then have wish for anything, But unto life that gives us all to cling?"

So said he, and with closed eyes did await, Sleeping or waking, the decrees of fate.

But now Alcestis rose, and by the bed She stood, with wild thoughts pa.s.sing through her head.

Dried were her tears, her troubled heart and sore Throbbed with the anguish of her love no more.

A strange look on the dying man she cast, Then covered up her face and said, "O past!

Past the sweet times that I remember well!

Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell!

Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine!

How sweet to feel his arms about me twine, And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss To hear his praises! all to come to this, That now I durst not look upon his face, Lest in my heart that other thing have place.

That which I knew not, that which men call hate.

"O me, the bitterness of G.o.d and fate!

A little time ago we two were one; I had not lost him though his life was done, For still was he in me--but now alone Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan, For I must die: how can I live to bear An empty heart about, the nurse of fear?

How can I live to die some other tide, And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried About the portals of that weary land Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand.

"Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone, How hadst thou borne a living soul to love!

Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove, To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to bra.s.s, That through this wondrous world thy soul might pa.s.s, Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be Can a G.o.d give a G.o.d's delights to thee?

Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again, If for one moment only, that sweet pain The love I had while still I thought to live!

Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give My life, my hope?--But thou--I come to thee.

Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me In silence let my last hour pa.s.s away, And men forget my bitter feeble day."

With that she laid her down upon the bed, And nestling to him, kissed his weary head, And laid his wasted hand upon her breast, Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest Fell on that chamber. The night wore away Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change On things unseen by night, by day not strange, But now half seen and strange; then came the sun, And therewithal the silent world and dun Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound, As men again their heap of troubles found, And woke up to their joy or misery.

But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie, Until Admetus' ancient nurse drew near Unto the open door, and full of fear Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead; Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread, She cried, "Admetus! art thou dead indeed?

Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed?

Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!"

But with her piercing cry the King awoke, And round about him wildly 'gan to stare, As a bewildered man who knows not where He has awakened: but not thin or wan His face was now, as of a dying man, But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear, As of a man who much of life may bear.

And at the first, but joy and great surprise Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes; But as for something more at last he yearned, Unto his love with troubled brow he turned, For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas!

Her lonely shadow even now did pa.s.s Along the changeless fields, oft looking back, As though it yet had thought of some great lack.

And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed.

And even as the colour lit the day The colour from her lips had waned away; Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness Had come again her faithful heart to bless, Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow, But of her eyes no secrets might he know, For, hidden by the lids of ivory, Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh.

Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung, Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue Refused to utter; yet the just-past night But dimly he remembered, and the sight Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword: Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew, That nought it was but her fond heart and true That all the marvel for his love had wrought, Whereby from death to life he had been brought; That dead, his life she was, as she had been His life's delight while still she lived a queen.

And he fell wondering if his life were gain, So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain; Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes, For as a G.o.d he was.

Then did he rise And gat him down unto the Council-place, And when the people saw his well-loved face Then cried aloud for joy to see him there.

And earth again to them seemed blest and fair.

And though indeed they did lament in turn, When of Alcestis' end they came to learn, Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least, The silence in the middle of a feast, When men have memory of their heroes slain.

So pa.s.sed the order of the world again, Victorious Summer crowning l.u.s.ty Spring, Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting, And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain: And still and still the same the years went by.

But Time, who slays so many a memory, Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen; And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen, Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries.

For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these, The shouters round the throne upon that day.

And for Admetus, he, too, went his way, Though if he died at all I cannot tell; But either on the earth he ceased to dwell, Or else, oft born again, had many a name.

But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame Grew greater, and about her husband's twined Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined.

See I have told her tale, though I know not What men are dwelling now on that green spot Anigh Boebeis, or if Pherae still, With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill Still shows its white walls to the rising sun.

--The G.o.ds at least remember what is done.

Strange felt the wanderers at his tale, for now Their old desires it seemed once more to show Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest, Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;-- --Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain Some s.p.a.ce to try such deeds as now in vain They heard of amidst stories of the past; Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast From out their hands--they sighed to think of it, And how as deedless men they there must sit.

Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time, Whereby, in spite of hope long past away, In spite of knowledge growing day by day Of lives so wasted, in despite of death, With sweet content that eve they drew their breath, And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more Than that dead Queen's beside Boebeis' sh.o.r.e; Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both, Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth, Perchance, to have them told another way.-- So pa.s.sed the sun from that fair summer day.

June drew unto its end, the hot bright days Now gat from men as much of blame as praise, As rainless still they pa.s.sed, without a cloud, And growing grey at last, the barley bowed Before the south-east wind. On such a day These folk amid the trellised roses lay, And careless for a little while at least, Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast: Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide; But through the thick trees wandered far and wide From sun to shade, and shade to sun again, Until they deemed the elders would be fain To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew: Then round about the grave old men they drew, Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet The gra.s.s seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet Unto the elders, as they stood around.

So through the calm air soon arose the sound Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke.