The Earthly Paradise Part 8

"O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk, Would I could better tell a tale to-day; But hark to this, which while our good s.h.i.+p lay Within the Weser such a while agone, A Fleming told me, as we sat alone One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland, And all the other folk were gone a-land After their pleasure, like sea-faring men.

Surely I deem it no great wonder then That I remember everything he said, Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led That keel and me on such a weary way-- Well, at the least it serveth you to-day."

THE LADY OF THE LAND.

ARGUMENT.

A certain man having landed on an island in the Greek Sea found there a beautiful damsel, whom he would fain have delivered from a strange and dreadful doom, but failing herein, he died soon afterwards.

It happened once, some men of Italy Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, And much good fortune had they on the sea: Of many a man they had the ransoming, And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing; And midst their voyage to an isle they came, Whereof my story keepeth not the name.

Now though but little was there left to gain, Because the richer folk had gone away, Yet since by this of water they were fain They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, Whence in a while some went ash.o.r.e to play, Going but lightly armed in twos or threes, For midst that folk they feared no enemies.

And of these fellows that thus went ash.o.r.e, One was there who left all his friends behind; Who going inland ever more and more, And being left quite alone, at last did find A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, A long-deserted ruined castle stood.

The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade, With gardens overlooked by terraces, And marble-paved pools for pleasure made, Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees; And he who went there, with but little ease Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet For tender women's dainty wandering feet.

The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear, The baffled stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry, Were all the sounds that mariner could hear, As through the wood he wandered painfully; But as unto the house he drew anigh, The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw, The once fair temple of a fallen law.

No image was there left behind to tell Before whose face the knees of men had bowed; An altar of black stone, of old wrought well, Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd, Seeking for things forgotten long ago, Praying for heads long ages laid a-low.

Close to the temple was the castle-gate, Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned, Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned To know the most of what might there be learned, And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear, To light on such things as all men hold dear.

n.o.ble the house was, nor seemed built for war, But rather like the work of other days, When men, in better peace than now they are, Had leisure on the world around to gaze, And noted well the past times' changing ways; And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought, By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought.

Now as he looked about on all these things, And strove to read the mouldering histories, Above the door an image with wide wings, Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize, He dimly saw, although the western breeze, And years of biting frost and was.h.i.+ng rain, Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain.

But this, though perished sore, and worn away, He noted well, because it seemed to be, After the fas.h.i.+on of another day, Some great man's badge of war, or armoury, And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see; But taking note of these things, at the last The mariner beneath the gateway pa.s.sed.

And there a lovely cloistered court he found, A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry, And in the cloister briers twining round The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery Outworn by more than many years gone by, Because the country people, in their fear Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here;

And piteously these fair things had been maimed; There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might; Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed; The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light Bound with the cable of some coasting s.h.i.+p; And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip.

Therefrom unto the chambers did he pa.s.s, And found them fair still, midst of their decay, Though in them now no sign of man there was, And everything but stone had pa.s.sed away That made them lovely in that vanished day; Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone And nought be left but heaps of mouldering stone.

But he, when all the place he had gone o'er.

And with much trouble clomb the broken stair, And from the topmost turret seen the sh.o.r.e And his good s.h.i.+p drawn up at anchor there, Came down again, and found a crypt most fair Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall, And there he saw a door within the wall,

Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place Another on its hinges, therefore he Stood there and pondered for a little s.p.a.ce, And thought, "Perchance some marvel I shall see, For surely here some dweller there must be, Because this door seems whole, and new, and sound.

While nought but ruin I can see around."

So with that word, moved by a strong desire, He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand, And in a strange place, lit as by a fire Unseen but near, he presently did stand; And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned, As though in some Arabian plain he stood, Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood.

He moved not for awhile, but looking round, He wondered much to see the place so fair, Because, unlike the castle above ground, No pillager or wrecker had been there; It seemed that time had pa.s.sed on otherwhere, Nor laid a finger on this hidden place, Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race.

With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom, The walls were hung a s.p.a.ce above the head, Slim ivory chairs were set about the room, And in one corner was a dainty bed, That seemed for some fair queen apparelled; And marble was the worst stone of the floor, That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er.

The wanderer trembled when he saw all this, Because he deemed by magic it was wrought; Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss, Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought, Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought That there perchance some devil lurked to slay The heedless wanderer from the light of day.

Over against him was another door Set in the wall, so, casting fear aside, With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor, And there again the silver latch he tried And with no pain the door he opened wide, And entering the new chamber cautiously The glory of great heaps of gold could see.

Upon the floor uncounted medals lay, Like things of little value; here and there Stood golden caldrons, that might well outweigh The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware, And golden cups were set on tables fair, Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings.

The walls and roof with gold were overlaid, And precious raiment from the wall hung down; The fall of kings that treasure might have stayed, Or gained some longing conqueror great renown, Or built again some G.o.d-destroyed old town; What wonder, if this plunderer of the sea Stood gazing at it long and dizzily?

But at the last his troubled eyes and dazed He lifted from the glory of that gold, And then the image, that well-nigh erased Over the castle-gate he did behold, Above a door well wrought in coloured gold Again he saw; a naked girl with wings Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings.

And even as his eyes were fixed on it A woman's voice came from the other side, And through his heart strange hopes began to flit That in some wondrous land he might abide Not dying, master of a deathless bride, So o'er the gold which now he scarce could see He went, and pa.s.sed this last door eagerly.

Then in a room he stood wherein there was A marble bath, whose br.i.m.m.i.n.g water yet Was scarcely still; a vessel of green gla.s.s Half full of odorous ointment was there set Upon the topmost step that still was wet, And jewelled shoes and women's dainty gear, Lay cast upon the varied pavement near.

In one quick glance these things his eyes did see, But speedily they turned round to behold Another sight, for throned on ivory There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold, Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town.

Naked she was, the kisses of her feet Upon the floor a dying path had made From the full bath unto her ivory seat; In her right hand, upon her bosom laid, She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay Dreaming awake of some long vanished day.

Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep, Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low, Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow, And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow, As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame Across the web of many memories came.

There stood the man, scarce daring to draw breath For fear the lovely sight should fade away; Forgetting heaven, forgetting life and death, Trembling for fear lest something he should say Unwitting, lest some sob should yet betray His presence there, for to his eager eyes Already did the tears begin to rise.

But as he gazed she moved, and with a sigh Bent forward, dropping down her golden head; "Alas, alas! another day gone by, Another day and no soul come," she said; "Another year, and still I am not dead!"

And with that word once more her head she raised, And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed.

Then he imploring hands to her did reach, And toward her very slowly 'gan to move And with wet eyes her pity did beseech, And seeing her about to speak he strove From trembling lips to utter words of love; But with a look she stayed his doubtful feet, And made sweet music as their eyes did meet.

For now she spoke in gentle voice and clear, Using the Greek tongue that he knew full well; "What man art thou, that thus hast wandered here.

And found this lonely chamber where I dwell?

Beware, beware! for I have many a spell; If greed of power and gold have led thee on, Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won.

"But if thou com'st here, knowing of my tale, In hope to bear away my body fair, Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear; So once again I bid thee to beware, Because no base man things like this may see, And live thereafter long and happily."

"Lady," he said, "in Florence is my home, And in my city n.o.ble is my name; Neither on peddling voyage am I come, But, like my fathers, bent to gather fame; And though thy face has set my heart a-flame Yet of thy story nothing do I know, But here have wandered heedlessly enow.

"But since the sight of thee mine eyes did bless, What can I be but thine? what wouldst thou have?

From those thy words, I deem from some distress By deeds of mine thy dear life I might save; O then, delay not! if one ever gave His life to any, mine I give to thee; Come, tell me what the price of love must be?

"Swift death, to be with thee a day and night And with the earliest dawning to be slain?

Or better, a long year of great delight, And many years of misery and pain?

Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain?

A sorry merchant am I on this day, E'en as thou wiliest so must I obey."

She said, "What brave words! nought divine am I, But an unhappy and unheard-of maid Compelled by evil fate and destiny To live, who long ago should have been laid Under the earth within the cypress shade.

Hearken awhile, and quickly shalt thou know What deed I pray thee to accomplish now.

"G.o.d grant indeed thy words are not for nought!

Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day To such a dreadful life I have been brought: Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay What man soever takes my grief away; Ah! I will love thee, if thou lovest me But well enough my saviour now to be.