 |
Come, love, and look on the Fathers' Hall, And the folk of the kindred one and all!
For now the Fathers' House is kind, And all the ill is left behind.
And Goldilocks and Goldilocks Shall dwell in the land of the Wheaten Shocks."
LOVE IS ENOUGH
OR
THE FREEING OF PHARAMOND
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
GILES, } Peasant-folk. JOAN, his Wife, }
THE EMPEROR.
THE EMPRESS.
THE MAYOR.
A COUNCILLOR.
MASTER OLIVER, King Pharamond's Foster-father.
A NORTHERN LORD.
KING PHARAMOND.
AZALAIS, his Love.
KING THEOBALD.
HONORIUS, the Councillor.
LOVE.
LOVE IS ENOUGH
ARGUMENT
This story, which is told by way of a morality set before an Emperor and Empress newly wedded, showeth of a King whom nothing but Love might satisfy, who left all to seek Love, and, having found it, found this also, that he had enough, though he lacked all else.
In the streets of a great town where the people are gathered together thronging to see the Emperor and Empress pass.
GILES
Look long, Joan, while I hold you so, For the silver trumpets come arow.
JOAN
O the sweet sound! the glorious sight! O Giles, Giles, see this glittering Knight!
GILES
Nay 'tis the Marshalls'-sergeant, sweet— —Hold, neighbour, let me keep my feet!— There, now your head is up again; Thus held up have you aught of pain?
JOAN
Nay, clear I see, and well at ease! God's body! what fair Kings be these?
GILES
The Emperor's chamberlains, behold Their silver shoes and staves of gold. Look, look! how like some heaven come down The maidens go with girded gown!
JOAN
Yea, yea, and this last row of them Draw up their kirtles by the hem, And scatter roses e'en like those About my father's garden-close.
GILES
Ah! have I hurt you? See the girls Whose slim hands scatter very pearls.
JOAN
Hold me fast, Giles! here comes one Whose raiment flashes down the sun.
GILES
O sweet mouth! O fair lids cast down! O white brow! O the crown, the crown!
JOAN
How near! if nigher I might stand By one ell, I could touch his hand.
GILES
Look, Joan! if on this side she were Almost my hand might touch her hair.
JOAN
Ah me! what is she thinking on?
GILES
Is he content now all is won?
JOAN
And does she think as I thought, when Betwixt the dancing maids and men, Twixt the porch rose-boughs blossomed red I saw the roses on my bed?
GILES
Hath he such fear within his heart As I had, when the wind did part The jasmine-leaves, and there within The new-lit taper glimmered thin?
THE MUSIC
(As the EMPEROR and EMPRESS enter.)
LOVE IS ENOUGH; though the World be a-waning And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder; Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter, The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
THE EMPEROR
The spears flashed by me, and the swords swept round, And in war's hopeless tangle was I bound, But straw and stubble were the cold points found, For still thy hands led down the weary way.
THE EMPRESS
Through hall and street they led me as a queen, They looked to see me proud and cold of mien, I heeded not though all my tears were seen, For still I dreamed of thee throughout the day.
THE EMPEROR
Wild over bow and bulwark swept the sea Unto the iron coast upon our lee, Like painted cloth its fury was to me, For still thy hands led down the weary way.
THE EMPRESS
They spoke to me of war within the land, They bade me sign defiance and command; I heeded not though thy name left my hand, For still I dreamed of thee throughout the day.
THE EMPEROR
But now that I am come, and side by side We go, and men cry gladly on the bride And tremble at the image of my pride, Where is thy hand to lead me down the way?
THE EMPRESS
But now that thou art come, and heaven and earth Are laughing in the fulness of their mirth, A shame I knew not in my heart has birth— —Draw me through dreams unto the end of day!
THE EMPEROR
Behold, behold, how weak my heart is grown Now all the heat of its desire is known! Pearl beyond price I fear to call mine own, Where is thy hand to lead me down the way?
THE EMPRESS
Behold, behold, how little I may move! Think in thy heart how terrible is Love, O thou who know'st my soul as God above— —Draw me through dreams unto the end of day!
The stage for the play in another part of the street, and the people thronging all about.
GILES
Here, Joan, this is so good a place 'Tis worth the scramble and the race! There is the Empress just sat down, Her white hands on her golden gown, While yet the Emperor stands to hear The welcome of the bald-head Mayor Unto the show; and you shall see The player-folk come in presently. The king of whom is e'en that one, Who wandering but a while agone Stumbled upon our harvest-home That August when you might not come. Betwixt the stubble and the grass Great mirth indeed he brought to pass. But liefer were I to have seen Your nimble feet tread down the green In threesome dance to pipe and fife.
JOAN
Thou art a dear thing to my life, And nought good have I far to seek— But hearken! for the Mayor will speak.
THE MAYOR
Since your grace bids me speak without stint or sparing A thing little splendid I pray you to see: Early is the day yet, for we near the dawning Drew on chains dear-bought, and gowns done with gold; So may ye high ones hearken an hour A tale that our hearts hold worthy and good, Of Pharamond the Freed, who, a king feared and honoured, Fled away to find love from his crown and his folk. E'en as I tell of it somewhat I tremble Lest we, fearful of treason to the love that fulfils you, Should seem to make little of the love that ye give us, Of your lives full of glory, of the deeds that your lifetime Shall gleam with for ever when we are forgotten. Forgive it for the greatness of that Love who compels us.— Hark! in the minster-tower minish the joy-bells, And all men are hushed now these marvels to hear.
THE EMPEROR (to the MAYOR)
We thank your love, that sees our love indeed Toward you, toward Love, toward life of toil and need: We shall not falter though your poet sings Of all defeat, strewing the crowns of kings About the thorny ways where Love doth wend, Because we know us faithful to the end Toward you, toward Love, toward life of war and deed, And well we deem your tale shall help our need.
(To the EMPRESS)
So many hours to pass before the sun Shall blush ere sleeping, and the day be done! How thinkest thou, my sweet, shall such a tale For lengthening or for shortening them avail?
THE EMPRESS
Nay, dreamland has no clocks the wise ones say, And while our hands move at the break of day We dream of years: and I am dreaming still And need no change my cup of joy to fill: Let them say on, and I shall hear thy voice Telling the tale, and in its love rejoice.
THE MUSIC
(As the singers enter and stand before the curtain, the player-king and player-maiden in the midst.)
_LOVE IS ENOUGH: have no thought for to-morrow If ye lie down this even in rest from your pain, Ye who have paid for your bliss with great sorrow: For as it was once so it shall be again. Ye shall cry out for death as ye stretch forth in vain.
Feeble hands to the hands that would help but they may not, Cry out to deaf ears that would hear if they could; Till again shall the change come, and words your lips say not Your hearts make all plain in the best wise they would And the world ye thought waning is glorious and good:
And no morning now mocks you and no nightfall is weary, The plains are not empty of song and of deed: The sea strayeth not, nor the mountains are dreary; The wind is not helpless for any man's need, Nor falleth the rain but for thistle and weed.
O surely this morning all sorrow is hidden, All battle is hushed for this even at least; And no one this noontide may hunger, unbidden To the flowers and the singing and the joy of your feast Where silent ye sit midst the world's tale increased.
Lo, the lovers unloved that draw nigh for your blessing! For your tale makes the dreaming whereby yet they live The dreams of the day with their hopes of redressing, The dreams of the night with the kisses they give, The dreams of the dawn wherein death and hope strive.
Ah, what shall we say then, but that earth threatened often Shall live on for ever that such things may be, That the dry seed shall quicken, the hard earth shall soften, And the spring-bearing birds flutter north o'er the sea, That earth's garden may bloom round my love's feet and me?_
THE EMPEROR
Lo you, my sweet, fair folk are one and all And with good grace their broidered robes do fall, And sweet they sing indeed: but he, the King, Look but a little how his fingers cling To her's, his love that shall be in the play— His love that hath been surely ere to-day: And see, her wide soft eyes cast down at whiles Are opened not to note the people's smiles But her love's lips, and dreamily they stare As though they sought the happy country, where They two shall be alone, and the world dead.
THE EMPRESS
Most faithful eyes indeed look from the head The sun has burnt, and wind and rain has beat, Well may he find her slim brown fingers sweet. And he—methinks he trembles, lest he find That song of his not wholly to her mind. Note how his grey eyes look askance to see Her bosom heaving with the melody His heart loves well: rough with the wind and rain His cheek is, hollow with some ancient pain; The sun has burned and blanched his crispy hair, And over him hath swept a world of care And left him careless, rugged, and her own; Still fresh desired, still strange and new, though known.
THE EMPEROR
His eyes seem dreaming of the mysteries Deep in the depths of her familiar eyes, Tormenting and alluring; does he dream, As I ofttime this morn, how they would seem Loved but unloving?—Nay the world's too sweet That we the ghost of such a pain should meet— Behold, she goes, and he too, turning round, Remembers that his love must yet be found, That he is King and loveless in this story Wrought long ago for some dead poet's glory.
[Exeunt players behind the curtain.
Enter before the curtain LOVE crowned as a King.
LOVE
All hail, my servants! tremble ye, my foes! A hope for these I have, a fear for those Hid in this tale of Pharamond the Freed. To-day, my Faithful, nought shall be your need Of tears compassionate:—although full oft The crown of love laid on my bosom soft Be woven of bitter death and deathless fame, Bethorned with woe, and fruited thick with shame. —This for the mighty of my courts I keep, Lest through the world there should be none to weep Except for sordid loss; and not to gain But satiate pleasure making mock of pain. —Yea, in the heaven from whence my dreams go forth Are stored the signs that make the world of worth: There is the wavering wall of mighty Troy About my Helen's hope and Paris' joy: There lying neath the fresh dyed mulberry-tree The sword and cloth of Pyramus I see: There is the number of the joyless days Wherein Medea won no love nor praise: There is the sand my Ariadne pressed; The footprints of the feet that knew no rest While o'er the sea forth went the fatal sign: The asp of Egypt, the Numidian wine, My Sigurd's sword, my Brynhild's fiery bed, The tale of years of Gudrun's drearihead, And Tristram's glaive, and Iseult's shriek are here, And cloister-gown of joyless Guenevere.
Save you, my Faithful! how your loving eyes Grow soft and gleam with all these memories! But on this day my crown is not of death: My fire-tipped arrows, and my kindling breath Are all the weapons I shall need to-day. Nor shall my tale in measured cadence play About the golden lyre of Gods long gone, Nor dim and doubtful 'twixt the ocean's moan Wail out about the Northern fiddle-bow, Stammering with pride or quivering shrill with woe. Rather caught up at hazard is the pipe That mixed with scent of roses over ripe, And murmur of the summer afternoon, May charm you somewhat with its wavering tune 'Twixt joy and sadness: whatsoe'er it saith, I know at least there breathes through it my breath
OF PHARAMOND THE FREED
_Scene: In the Kings Chamber of Audience.
MASTER OLIVER and many LORDS and COUNCILLORS_.
A COUNCILLOR
Fair Master Oliver, thou who at all times Mayst open thy heart to our lord and master, Tell us what tidings thou hast to deliver; For our hearts are grown heavy, and where shall we turn to If thus the king's glory, our gain and salvation, Must go down the wind amid gloom and despairing?
MASTER OLIVER
Little may be looked for, fair lords, in my story, To lighten your hearts of the load lying on them. For nine days the king hath slept not an hour, And taketh no heed of soft words or beseeching. Yea, look you, my lords, if a body late dead In the lips and the cheeks should gain some little colour, And arise and wend forth with no change in the eyes, And wander about as if seeking its soul— Lo, e'en so sad is my lord and my master; Yea, e'en so far hath his soul drifted from us.
A COUNCILLOR
What say the leeches? Is all their skill left them?
MASTER OLIVER
Nay, they bade lead him to hunt and to tilting, To set him on high in the throne of his honour To judge heavy deeds: bade him handle the tiller, And drive through the sea with the wind at its wildest; All things he was wont to hold kingly and good. So we led out his steed and he straight leapt upon him With no word, and no looking to right nor to left, And into the forest we fared as aforetime: Fast on the king followed, and cheered without stinting The hounds to the strife till the bear stood at bay; Then there he alone by the beech-trees alighted; Barehanded, unarmoured, he handled the spear-shaft, And blew up the death on the horn of his father; Yet still in his eyes was no look of rejoicing, And no life in his lips; but I likened him rather To King Nimrod carved fair on the back of the high-seat When the candles are dying, and the high moon is streaming Through window and luffer white on the lone pavement Whence the guests are departed in the hall of the palace.— —Rode we home heavily, he with his rein loose, Feet hanging free from the stirrups, and staring At a clot of the bear's blood that stained his green kirtle;— Unkingly, unhappy, he rode his ways homeward.
A COUNCILLOR
Was this all ye tried, or have ye more tidings? For the wall tottereth not at first stroke of the ram.
MASTER OLIVER
Nay, we brought him a-board the Great Dragon one dawning, When the cold bay was flecked with the crests of white billows And the clouds lay alow on the earth and the sea; He looked not aloft as they hoisted the sail, But with hand on the tiller hallooed to the shipmen In a voice grown so strange, that it scarce had seemed stranger If from the ship Argo, in seemly wise woven On the guard-chamber hangings, some early grey dawning Great Jason had cried, and his golden locks wavered. Then e'en as the oars ran outboard, and dashed In the wind-scattered foam and the sails bellied out, His hand dropped from the tiller, and with feet all uncertain And dull eye he wended him down to the midship, And gazing about for the place of the gangway Made for the gate of the bulwark half open, And stood there and stared at the swallowing sea, Then turned, and uncertain went wandering back sternward, And sat down on the deck by the side of the helmsman, Wrapt in dreams of despair; so I bade them turn shoreward, And slowly he rose as the side grated stoutly 'Gainst the stones of the quay and they cast forth the hawser.— Unkingly, unhappy, he went his ways homeward.
A COUNCILLOR
But by other ways yet had thy wisdom to travel; How else did ye work for the winning him peace?
MASTER OLIVER
We bade gather the knights for the goodliest tilting, There the ladies went lightly in glorious array; In the old arms we armed him whose dints well he knew That the night dew had dulled and the sea salt had sullied: On the old roan yet sturdy we set him astride; So he stretched forth his hand to lay hold of the spear Neither laughing nor frowning, as lightly his wont was When the knights are awaiting the voice of the trumpet. It awoke, and back beaten from barrier to barrier Was caught up by knights' cries, by the cry of the king.— —Such a cry as red Mars in the Council-room window May awake with some noon when the last horn is winded, And the bones of the world are dashed grinding together. So it seemed to my heart, and a horror came o'er me, As the spears met, and splinters flew high o'er the field, And I saw the king stay when his course was at swiftest, His horse straining hard on the bit, and he standing Stiff and stark in his stirrups, his spear held by the midmost, His helm cast a-back, his teeth set hard together; E'en as one might, who, riding to heaven, feels round him The devils unseen: then he raised up the spear As to cast it away, but therewith failed his fury, He dropped it, and faintly sank back in the saddle, And, turning his horse from the press and the turmoil, Came sighing to me, and sore grieving I took him And led him away, while the lists were fallen silent As a fight in a dream that the light breaketh through.— To the tune of the clinking of his fight-honoured armour Unkingly, unhappy, he went his ways homeward.
A COUNCILLOR
What thing worse than the worst in the budget yet lieth?
MASTER OLIVER
To the high court we brought him, and bade him to hearken The pleading of his people, and pass sentence on evil. His face changed with great pain, and his brow grew all furrowed, As a grim tale was told there of the griefs of the lowly; Till he took up the word, mid the trembling of tyrants, As his calm voice and cold wrought death on ill doers— —E'en so might King Minos in marble there carven Mid old dreaming of Crete give doom on the dead, When the world and its deeds are dead too and buried.— But lo, as I looked, his clenched hands were loosened, His lips grew all soft, and his eyes were beholding Strange things we beheld not about and above him. So he sat for a while, and then swept his robe round him And arose and departed, not heeding his people, The strange looks, the peering, the rustle and whisper; But or ever he gained the gate that gave streetward, Dull were his eyes grown, his feet were grown heavy, His lips crooned complaining, as onward he stumbled;— Unhappy, unkingly, he went his ways homeward.
A COUNCILLOR
Is all striving over then, fair Master Oliver?
MASTER OLIVER
All mine, lords, for ever! help who may help henceforth I am but helpless: too surely meseemeth He seeth me not, and knoweth no more Me that have loved him. Woe worth the while, Pharamond, That men should love aught, love always as I loved! Mother and sister and the sweetling that scorned me, The wind of the autumn-tide over them sweepeth, All are departed, but this one, the dear one— I should die or he died and be no more alone, But God's hatred hangs round me, and the life and the glory That grew with my waning life fade now before it, And leaving no pity depart through the void.
A COUNCILLOR
This is a sight full sorry to see These tears of an elder! But soft now, one cometh.
MASTER OLIVER
The feet of the king: will ye speak or begone?
A NORTHERN LORD
I will speak at the least, whoever keeps silence, For well it may be that the voice of a stranger Shall break through his dreaming better than thine; And lo now a word in my mouth is a-coming, That the king well may hearken: how sayst thou, fair master, Whose name now I mind not, wilt thou have me essay it?
MASTER OLIVER
Try whatso thou wilt, things may not be worser. [Enter KING. Behold, how he cometh weighed down by his woe!
(To the KING)
All hail, lord and master! wilt thou hearken a little These lords high in honour whose hearts are full heavy Because thy heart sickeneth and knoweth no joy?—
(To the COUNCILLORS)
Ah, see you! all silent, his eyes set and dreary, His lips moving a little—how may I behold it?
THE NORTHERN LORD
May I speak, king? dost hearken? many matters I have To deal with or death. I have honoured thee duly Down in the north there; a great name I have held thee; Rough hand in the field, ready righter of wrong, Reckless of danger, but recking of pity. But now—is it false what the chapmen have told us, And are thy fair robes all thou hast of a king? Is it bragging and lies, that thou beardless and tender Weptst not when they brought thy slain father before thee, Trembledst not when the leaguer that lay round thy city Made a light for these windows, a noise for thy pillow? Is it lies what men told us of thy singing and laughter As thou layst in thy lair fled away from lost battle? Is it lies how ye met in the depths of the mountains, And a handful rushed down and made nought of an army? Those tales of your luck, like the tide at its turning, Trusty and sure howso slowly it cometh, Are they lies? Is it lies of wide lands in the world, How they sent thee great men to lie low at thy footstool In five years thenceforward, and thou still a youth? Are they lies, these fair tidings, or what see thy lords here— Some love-sick girl's brother caught up by that sickness, As one street beggar catches the pest from his neighbour?
KING PHARAMOND
What words are these of lies and love-sickness? Why am I lonely among all this brawling? O foster-father, is all faith departed That this hateful face should be staring upon me?
THE NORTHERN LORD
Lo, now thou awakest; so tell me in what wise I shall wend back again: set a word in my mouth To meet the folks' murmur, and give heart to the heavy; For there man speaks to man that thy measure is full, And thy five-years-old kingdom is falling asunder.
[KING draws his sword.
Yea, yea, a fair token thy sword were to send them; Thou dost well to draw it; (KING brandishes his sword over the lord's head, as if to strike him): soft sound is its whistle; Strike then, O king, for my wars are well over, And dull is the way my feet tread to the grave!
KING PHARAMOND (sheathing his sword)
Man, if ye have waked me, I bid you be wary Lest my sword yet should reach you; ye wot in your northland What hatred he winneth who waketh the shipman From the sweet rest of death mid the welter of waves; So with us may it fare; though I know thee full faithful, Bold in field and in council, most fit for a king. —Bear with me. I pray you that to none may be meted Such a measure of pain as my soul is oppressed with. Depart all for a little, till my spirit grows lighter, Then come ye with tidings, and hold we fair council, That my countries may know they have yet got a king. [Exeunt all but OLIVER and KING. Come, my foster-father, ere thy visage fade from me, Come with me mid the flowers some opening to find In the clouds that cling round me; if thou canst remember Thine old lovingkindness when I was a king.
THE MUSIC
_ Love is enough; it grew up without heeding In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding, As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.
And what do ye say then?—that Spring long departed Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers; —That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers; We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.
Nay, Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason, And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended; But this is the harvest and the garnering season, And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.
It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding, Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure, Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure; There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding, But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure. _
Enter before the curtain LOVE clad as an image-maker.
LOVE
How mighty and how fierce a king is here The stayer of falling folks, the bane of fear! Fair life he liveth, ruling passing well, Disdaining praise of Heaven and hate of Hell; And yet how goodly to us Great in Heaven Are such as he, the waning world that leaven! How well it were that such should never die! How well it were at least that memory Of such should live, as live their glorious deeds! —But which of all the Gods think ye it needs To shape the mist of Rumour's wavering breath Into a golden dream that fears no death? Red Mars belike?—since through his field is thrust The polished plough-share o'er the helmets' rust!— Apollo's beauty?—surely eld shall spare Smooth skin, and flashing eyes, and crispy hair!— Nay, Jove himself?—the pride that holds the low Apart, despised, to mighty tales must grow!— Or Pallas?—for the world that knoweth nought, By that great wisdom to the wicket brought, Clear through the tangle evermore shall see! —O Faithful, O Beloved, turn to ME! I am the Ancient of the Days that were I am the Newborn that To-day brings here, I am the Life of all that dieth not; Through me alone is sorrow unforgot.
My Faithful, knowing that this man should live, I from the cradle gifts to him did give Unmeet belike for rulers of the earth; As sorrowful yearning in the midst of mirth, Pity midst anger, hope midst scorn and hate. Languor midst labour, lest the day wax late, And all be wrong, and all be to begin. Through these indeed the eager life did win That was the very body to my soul; Yet, as the tide of battle back did roll Before his patience: as he toiled and grieved O'er fools and folly, was he not deceived, But ever knew the change was drawing nigh, And in my mirror gazed with steadfast eye. Still, O my Faithful, seemed his life so fair That all Olympus might have left him there Until to bitter strength that life was grown, And then have smiled to see him die alone, Had I not been.——Ye know me; I have sent A pain to pierce his last coat of content: Now must he tear the armour from his breast And cast aside all things that men deem best, And single-hearted for his longing strive That he at last may save his soul alive.
How say ye then, Beloved? Ye have known The blossom of the seed these hands have sown; Shall this man starve in sorrow's thorny brake? Shall Love the faithful of his heart forsake?
In the King's Garden. KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER.
MASTER OLIVER
In this quiet place canst thou speak, O my King, Where nought but the lilies may hearken our counsel?
KING PHARAMOND
What wouldst thou have of me? why came we hither?
MASTER OLIVER
Dear lord, thou wouldst speak of the woe that weighs on thee.
KING PHARAMOND
Wouldst thou bear me aback to the strife and the battle? Nay, hang up my banner: 'tis all passed and over!
MASTER OLIVER
Speak but a little, lord! have I not loved thee?
KING PHARAMOND
Yea,—thou art Oliver: I saw thee a-lying A long time ago with the blood on thy face, When my father wept o'er thee for thy faith and thy valour.
MASTER OLIVER
Years have passed over, but my faith hath not failed me; Spent is my might, but my love not departed. Shall not love help—yea, look long in my eyes! There is no more to see if thou sawest my heart.
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, thou art Oliver, full of all kindness! Have patience, for now is the cloud passing over— Have patience and hearken—yet shalt thou be shamed.
MASTER OLIVER
Thou shalt shine through thy shame as the sun through the haze When the world waiteth gladly the warm day a-coming: As great as thou seem'st now, I know thee for greater Than thy deeds done and told of: one day I shall know thee: Lying dead in my tomb I shall hear the world praising.
KING PHARAMOND
Stay thy praise—let me speak, lest all speech depart from me. —There is a place in the world, a great valley That seems a green plain from the brow of the mountains, But hath knolls and fair dales when adown there thou goest: There are homesteads therein with gardens about them, And fair herds of kine and grey sheep a-feeding, And willow-hung streams wend through deep grassy meadows, And a highway winds through them from the outer world coming: Girthed about is the vale by a grey wall of mountains, Rent apart in three places and tumbled together In old times of the world when the earth-fires flowed forth: And as you wend up these away from the valley You think of the sea and the great world it washes; But through two you may pass not, the shattered rocks shut them. And up through the third there windeth a highway, And its gorge is fulfilled by a black wood of yew-trees. And I know that beyond, though mine eyes have not seen it, A city of merchants beside the sea lieth.—— I adjure thee, my fosterer, by the hand of my father, By thy faith without stain, by the days unforgotten, When I dwelt in thy house ere the troubles' beginning, By thy fair wife long dead and thy sword-smitten children, By thy life without blame and thy love without blemish, Tell me how, tell me when, that fair land I may come to! Hide it not for my help, for my honour, but tell me, Lest my time and thy time be lost days and confusion!
MASTER OLIVER
O many such lands!—O my master, what ails thee? Tell me again, for I may not remember. —I prayed God give thee speech, and lo God hath given it— May God give me death! if I dream not this evil.
KING PHARAMOND
Said I not when thou knew'st it, all courage should fail thee? But me—my heart fails not, I am Pharamond as ever. I shall seek and shall find—come help me, my fosterer! —Yet if thou shouldst ask for a sign from that country What have I to show thee—I plucked a blue milk-wort From amidst of the field where she wandered fair-footed— It was gone when I wakened—and once in my wallet I set some grey stones from the way through the forest— These were gone when I wakened—and once as I wandered A lock of white wool from a thorn-bush I gathered; It was gone when I wakened—the name of that country— Nay, how should I know it?—but ever meseemeth 'Twas not in the southlands, for sharp in the sunset And sunrise the air is, and whiles I have seen it Amid white drift of snow—ah, look up, foster-father!
MASTER OLIVER
O woe, woe is me that I may not awaken! Or else, art thou verily Pharamond my fosterling, The Freed and the Freer, the Wise, the World's Wonder?
KING PHARAMOND
Why fainteth thy great heart? nay, Oliver, hearken, E'en such as I am now these five years I have been. Through five years of striving this dreamer and dotard Has reaped glory from ruin, drawn peace from destruction.
MASTER OLIVER
Woe's me! wit hath failed me, and all the wise counsel I was treasuring up down the wind is a-drifting— Yet what wouldst thou have there if ever thou find it? Are the gates of heaven there? is Death bound there and helpless?
KING PHARAMOND
Nay, thou askest me this not as one without knowledge, For thou know'st that my love in that land is abiding.
MASTER OLIVER
Yea—woe worth the while—and all wisdom hath failed me: Yet if thou wouldst tell me of her, I will hearken Without mocking or mourning, if that may avail thee.
KING PHARAMOND
Lo, thy face is grown kind—Thou rememberest the even When I first wore the crown after sore strife and mourning?
MASTER OLIVER
Who shall ever forget it? the dead face of thy father, And thou in thy fight-battered armour above it, Mid the passion of tears long held back by the battle; And thy rent banner o'er thee and the ring of men mail-clad, Victorious to-day, since their ruin but a spear-length Was thrust away from them.—Son, think of thy glory And e'en in such wise break the throng of these devils!
KING PHARAMOND
Five years are passed over since in the fresh dawning On the field of that fight I lay wearied and sleepless Till slumber came o'er me in the first of the sunrise; Then as there lay my body rapt away was my spirit, And a cold and thick mist for a while was about me, And when that cleared away, lo, the mountain-walled country 'Neath the first of the sunrise in e'en such a spring-tide As the spring-tide our horse-hoofs that yestereve trampled: By the withy-wrought gate of a garden I found me 'Neath the goodly green boughs of the apple full-blossomed; And fulfilled of great pleasure I was as I entered The fair place of flowers, and wherefore I knew not. Then lo, mid the birds' song a woman's voice singing. Five years passed away, in the first of the sunrise. [He is silent, brooding.
MASTER OLIVER
God help us if God is!—for this man, I deemed him More a glory of God made man for our helping Than a man that should die: all the deeds he did surely, Too great for a man's life, have undone the doer.
KING PHARAMOND (rousing himself)
Thou art waiting, my fosterer, till I tell of her singing And the words that she sang there: time was when I knew them; But too much of strife is about us this morning, And whiles I forget and whiles I remember. [Falls a-musing again.
MASTER OLIVER
But a night's dream undid him, and he died, and his kingdom By unheard-of deeds fashioned, was tumbled together, By false men and fools to be fought for and ruined. Such words shall my ghost see the chronicler writing In the days that shall be:—ah—what wouldst thou, my fosterling? Knowest thou not how words fail us awaking That we seemed to hear plain amid sleep and its sweetness? Nay, strive not, my son, rest awhile and be silent; Or sleep while I watch thee: full fair is the garden, Perchance mid the flowers thy sweet dream may find thee, And thou shalt have pleasure and peace for a little.— (Aside) And my soul shall depart ere thou wak'st peradventure.
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, thou deemest me mad: a dream thou mayst call it, But not such a dream as thou know'st of: nay, hearken! For what manner of dream then is this that remembers The words that she sang on that morning of glory;— O love, set a word in my mouth for our meeting; Cast thy sweet arms about me to stay my hearts beating! Ah, thy silence, thy silence! nought shines on the darkness! —O close-serried throng of the days that I see not! [Falls a-musing again.
MASTER OLIVER
Thus the worse that shall be, the bad that is, bettereth. —Once more he is speechless mid evil dreams sunken.
KING PHARAMOND (speaking very low).
Hold silence, love, speak not of the sweet day departed; Cling close to me, love, lest I waken sad-hearted! [Louder to OLIVER. Thou starest, my fosterer: what strange thing beholdst thou? A great king, a strong man, that thou knewest a child once: Pharamond the fair babe: Pharamond the warrior; Pharamond the king, and which hast thou feared yet? And why wilt thou fear then this Pharamond the lover? Shall I fail of my love who failed not of my fame? Nay, nay, I shall live for the last gain and greatest.
MASTER OLIVER
I know not—all counsel and wit is departed, I wait for thy will; I will do it, my master.
KING PHARAMOND
Through the boughs of the garden I followed the singing To a smooth space of sward: there the unknown desire Of my soul I beheld,—wrought in shape of a woman.
MASTER OLIVER
O ye warders of Troy-walls, join hands through the darkness, Tell us tales of the Downfall, for we too are with you!
KING PHARAMOND
As my twin sister, young of years was she and slender, Yellow blossoms of spring-tide her hands had been gathering, But the gown-lap that held them had fallen adown And had lain round her feet with the first of the singing; Now her singing had ceased, though yet heaved her bosom As with lips lightly parted and eyes of one seeking She stood face to face with the Love that she knew not, The love that she longed for and waited unwitting; She moved not, I breathed not—till lo, a horn winded, And she started, and o'er her came trouble and wonder, Came pallor and trembling; came a strain at my heartstrings As bodiless there I stretched hands toward her beauty, And voiceless cried out, as the cold mist swept o'er me. Then again clash of arms, and the morning watch calling, And the long leaves and great twisted trunks of the chesnuts, As I sprang to my feet and turned round to the trumpets And gathering of spears and unfolding of banners That first morn of my reign and my glory's beginning.
MASTER OLIVER
O well were we that tide though the world was against us.
KING PHARAMOND
Hearken yet!—through that whirlwind of danger and battle, Beaten back, struggling forward, we fought without blemish On my banner spear-rent in the days of my father, On my love of the land and the longing I cherished For a tale to be told when I, laid in the minster, Might hear it no more; was it easy of winning, Our bread of those days? Yet as wild as the work was, Unforgotten and sweet in my heart was that vision, And her eyes and her lips and her fair body's fashion Blest all times of rest, rent the battle asunder, Turned ruin to laughter and death unto dreaming; And again and thrice over again did I go there Ere spring was grown winter: in the meadows I met her, By the sheaves of the corn, by the down-falling apples, Kind and calm, yea and glad, yet with eyes of one seeking. —Ah the mouth of one waiting, ere all shall be over!— But at last in the winter-tide mid the dark forest Side by side did we wend down the pass: the wind tangled Mid the trunks and black boughs made wild music about us, But her feet on the scant snow and the sound of her breathing Made music much better: the wood thinned, and I saw her, As we came to the brow of the pass; for the moon gleamed Bitter cold in the cloudless black sky of the winter. Then the world drew me back from my love, and departing I saw her sweet serious look pass into terror And her arms cast abroad—and lo, clashing of armour, And a sword in my hand, and my mouth crying loud, And the moon and cold steel in the doorway burst open And thy doughty spear thrust through the throat of the foeman My dazed eyes scarce saw—thou rememberest, my fosterer?
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, Theobald the Constable had watched but unduly; We were taken unwares, and wild fleeing there was O'er black rock and white snow—shall such times come again, son?
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, full surely they shall; have thou courage, my fosterer!— Day came thronging on day, month thrust month aside, Amid battle and strife and the murder of glory, And still oft and oft to that land was I led And still through all longing I young in Love's dealings, Never called it a pain: though, the battle passed over, The council determined, back again came my craving: I knew not the pain, but I knew all the pleasure, When now, as the clouds o'er my fortune were parting, I felt myself waxing in might and in wisdom; And no city welcomed the Freed and the Freer, And no mighty army fell back before rumour Of Pharamond's coming, but her heart bid me thither, And the blithest and kindest of kingfolk ye knew me. Then came the high tide of deliverance upon us, When surely if we in the red field had fallen The stocks and the stones would have risen to avenge us. —Then waned my sweet vision midst glory's fulfilment, And still with its waning, hot waxed my desire: And did ye not note then that the glad-hearted Pharamond Was grown a stern man, a fierce king, it may be? Did ye deem it the growth of my manhood, the hardening Of battle and murder and treason about me? Nay, nay, it was love's pain, first named and first noted When a long time went past, and I might not behold her. —Thou rememberest a year agone now, when the legate Of the Lord of the Waters brought here a broad letter Full of prayers for good peace and our friendship thenceforward— —He who erst set a price on the lost head of Pharamond— How I bade him stand up on his feet and be merry, Eat his meat by my side and drink out of my beaker, In memory of days when my meat was but little And my drink drunk in haste between saddle and straw. But lo! midst of my triumph, as I noted the feigning Of the last foeman humbled, and the hall fell a murmuring, And blithely the horns blew, Be glad, spring prevaileth, —As I sat there and changed not, my soul saw a vision: All folk faded away, and my love that I long for Came with raiment a-rustling along the hall pavement, Drawing near to the high-seat, with hands held out a little, Till her hallowed eyes drew me a space into heaven, And her lips moved to whisper, 'Come, love, for I weary!' Then she turned and went from me, and I heard her feet falling On the floor of the hall, e'en as though it were empty Of all folk but us twain in the hush of the dawning. Then again, all was gone, and I sat there a smiling On the faint-smiling legate, as the hall windows quivered With the rain of the early night sweeping across them. Nought slept I that night, yet I saw her without sleeping:— Betwixt midnight and morn of that summer-tide was I Amidst of the lilies by her house-door to hearken If perchance in her chamber she turned amid sleeping: When lo, as the East 'gan to change, and stars faded Were her feet on the stairs, and the door opened softly, And she stood on the threshold with the eyes of one seeking, And there, gathering the folds of her gown to her girdle, Went forth through the garden and followed the highway, All along the green valley, and I ever beside her, Till the light of the low sun just risen was falling On her feet in the first of the pass—and all faded. Yet from her unto me had gone forth her intent, And I saw her face set to the heart of that city, And the quays where the ships of the outlanders come to, And I said: She is seeking, and shall I not seek? The sea is her prison wall; where is my prison? —Yet I said: Here men praise me, perchance men may love me If I live long enough for my justice and mercy To make them just and merciful—one who is master Of many poor folk, a man pity moveth Love hath dealt with in this wise, no minstrel nor dreamer. The deeds that my hand might find for the doing Did desire undo them these four years of fight? And now time and fair peace in my heart have begotten More desire and more pain, is the day of deeds done with? Lo here for my part my bonds and my prison!— Then with hands holding praise, yet with fierce heart belike Did I turn to the people that I had delivered— And the deeds of this year passed shall live peradventure! But now came no solace of dreams in the night-tide From that day thenceforward; yet oft in the council, Mid the hearkening folk craving for justice or mercy, Mid the righting of wrongs and the staying of ruin, Mid the ruling a dull folk, who deemed all my kingship A thing due and easy as the dawning and sunset To the day that God made once to deal with no further— —Mid all these a fair face, a sad face, could I fashion, And I said, She is seeking, and shall I not seek? —Tell over the days of the year of hope's waning; Tell over the hours of the weary days wearing: Tell over the minutes of the hours of thy waking, Then wonder he liveth who fails of his longing!
MASTER OLIVER
What wouldst thou have, son, wherein I might help thee?
KING PHARAMOND
Hearken yet:—for a long time no more I beheld her Till a month agone now at the ending of Maytide; And then in the first of the morning I found me Fulfilled of all joy at the edge of the yew-wood; Then lo, her gown's flutter in the fresh breeze of morning, And slower and statelier than her wont was aforetime And fairer of form toward the yew-wood she wended. But woe's me! as she came and at last was beside me With sobbing scarce ended her bosom was heaving, Stained with tears was her face, and her mouth was yet quivering With torment of weeping held back for a season. Then swiftly my spirit to the King's bed was wafted While still toward the sea were her weary feet wending. —Ah surely that day of all wrongs that I hearkened Mine own wrongs seemed heaviest and hardest to bear— Mine own wrongs and hers—till that past year of ruling Seemed a crime and a folly. Night came, and I saw her Stealing barefoot, bareheaded amidst of the tulips Made grey by the moonlight: and a long time Love gave me To gaze on her weeping—morn came, and I wakened— I wakened and said: Through the World will I wander, Till either I find her, or find the World empty.
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, son, wilt thou go? Ah thou knowest from of old time My words might not stay thee from aught thou wert willing; And e'en so it must be now. And yet hast thou asked me To go with thee, son, if aught I might help thee?— Ah me, if thy face might gladden a little I should meet the world better and mock at its mocking: If thou goest to find her, why then hath there fallen This heaviness on thee? is thy heart waxen feeble?
KING PHARAMOND
O friend, I have seen her no more, and her mourning Is alone and unhelped—yet to-night or to-morrow Somewhat nigher will I be to her love and her longing. Lo, to thee, friend, alone of all folk on the earth These things have I told: for a true man I deem thee Beyond all men call true; yea, a wise man moreover And hardy and helpful; and I know thy heart surely That thou holdest the world nought without me thy fosterling. Come, leave all awhile! it may be as time weareth With new life in our hands we shall wend us back hither.
MASTER OLIVER
Yea; triumph turns trouble, and all the world changeth, Yet a good world it is since we twain are together.
KING PHARAMOND
Lo, have I not said it?—thou art kinder than all men. Cast about then, I pray thee, to find us a keel Sailing who recketh whither, since the world is so wide. Sure the northlands shall know of the blessings she bringeth, And the southlands be singing of the tales that foretold her.
MASTER OLIVER
Well I wot of all chapmen—and to-night weighs a dromond Sailing west away first, and then to the southlands. Since in such things I deal oft they know me, but know not King Pharamond the Freed, since now first they sail hither. So make me thy messenger in a fair-writ broad letter And thyself make my scrivener, and this very night sail we.— O surely thy face now is brightening and blesseth me! Peer through these boughs toward the bay and the haven, And high masts thou shalt see, and white sails hanging ready.
[Exit OLIVER.
KING PHARAMOND
Dost thou weep now, my darling, and are thy feet wandering On the ways ever empty of what thou desirest? Nay, nay, for thou know'st me, and many a night-tide Hath Love led thee forth to a city unknown: Thou hast paced through this palace from chamber to chamber Till in dawn and stars' paling I have passed forth before thee: Thou hast seen thine own dwelling nor known how to name it: Thine own dwelling that shall be when love is victorious. Thou hast seen my sword glimmer amidst of the moonlight, As we rode with hoofs muffled through waylaying murder. Through the field of the dead hast thou fared to behold me, Seen me waking and longing by the watch-fires' flicker; Thou hast followed my banner amidst of the battle And seen my face change to the man that they fear, Yet found me not fearful nor turned from beholding: Thou hast been at my triumphs, and heard the tale's ending Of my wars, and my winning through days evil and weary: For this eve hast thou waited, and wilt be peradventure By the sea-strand to-night, for thou wottest full surely That the word is gone forth, and the world is a-moving. —Abide me, beloved! to-day and to-morrow Shall be little words in the tale of our loving, When the last morn ariseth, and thou and I meeting From lips laid together tell tales of these marvels.
THE MUSIC
_Love is enough: draw near and behold me Ye who pass by the way to your rest and your laughter, And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after; For the strong of the world have bought me and sold me And my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter. —Pass by me, and hearken, and think of me not!
Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken, And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying. Is this the grey rack o'er the sun's face a-flying? Or is it your faces his brightness that darken? Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing? —Pass by me, and hearken, and pity me not!
Ye know not how void is your hope and your living: Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me! Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me, There is soft speech between us and words of forgiving Till in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me. —Pass by me, and hearken, and waken me not!
Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me? Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter, And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after! Nay this I sell not,—though ye bought me and sold me,— For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter. —Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not!_
Enter before the curtain LOVE clad as a maker of Pictured Cloths.
LOVE
That double life my faithful king has led My hand has untwined, and old days are dead As in the moon the sails run up the mast. Yea, let this present mingle with the past, And when ye see him next think a long tide Of days are gone by; for the world is wide, And if at last these hands, these lips shall meet, What matter thorny ways and weary feet?
A faithful king, and now grown wise in love: Yet from of old in many ways I move The hearts that shall be mine: him by the hand Have I led forth, and shown his eyes the land Where dwells his love, and shown him what she is: He has beheld the lips that he shall kiss, The eyes his eyes shall soften, and the cheek His voice shall change, the limbs he maketh weak: —All this he hath as in a picture wrought— But lo you, 'tis the seeker and the sought: For her no marvels of the night I make, Nor keep my dream-smiths' drowsy heads awake; Only about her have I shed a glory Whereby she waiteth trembling for a story That she shall play in,—and 'tis not begun: Therefore from rising sun to setting sun There flit before her half-formed images Of what I am, and in all things she sees Something of mine: so single is her heart Filled with the worship of one set apart To be my priestess through all joy and sorrow; So sad and sweet she waits the certain morrow. —And yet sometimes, although her heart be strong, You may well think I tarry over-long: The lonely sweetness of desire grows pain, The reverent life of longing void and vain: Then are my dream-smiths mindful of my lore: They weave a web of sighs and weeping sore, Of languor, and of very helplessness, Of restless wandering, lonely dumb distress, Till like a live thing there she stands and goes, Gazing at Pharamond through all her woes. Then forth they fly, and spread the picture out Before his eyes, and how then may he doubt She knows his life, his deeds, and his desire? How shall he tremble lest her heart should tire? —It is not so; his danger and his war, His days of triumph, and his years of care, She knows them not—yet shall she know some day The love that in his lonely longing lay.
What, Faithful—do I lie, that overshot My dream-web is with that which happeneth not? Nay, nay, believe it not!—love lies alone In loving hearts like fire within the stone: Then strikes my hand, and lo, the flax ablaze! —Those tales of empty striving, and lost days Folk tell of sometimes—never lit my fire Such ruin as this; but Pride and Vain-desire, My counterfeits and foes, have done the deed. Beware, beloved! for they sow the weed Where I the wheat: they meddle where I leave, Take what I scorn, cast by what I receive, Sunder my yoke, yoke that I would dissever, Pull down the house my hands would build for ever.
_Scene: In a Forest among the Hills of a Foreign Land.
KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER_.
KING PHARAMOND
Stretch forth thine hand, foster-father, I know thee, And fain would be sure I am yet in the world: Where am I now, and what things have befallen? Why am I so weary, and yet have wrought nothing?
MASTER OLIVER
Thou hast been sick, lord, but thy sickness abateth.
KING PHARAMOND
Thou art sad unto weeping: sorry rags are thy raiment, For I see thee a little now: where am I lying?
MASTER OLIVER
On the sere leaves thou liest, lord, deep in the wild wood
KING PHARAMOND
What meaneth all this? was I not Pharamond, A worker of great deeds after my father, Freer of my land from murder and wrong, Fain of folks' love, and no blencher in battle?
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, thou wert king and the kindest under heaven.
KING PHARAMOND
Was there not coming a Queen long desired, From a land over sea, my life to fulfil?
MASTER OLIVER
Belike it was so—but thou leftst it untold of.
KING PHARAMOND
Why weepest thou more yet? O me, which are dreams, Which are deeds of my life mid the things I remember?
MASTER OLIVER
Dost thou remember the great council chamber, O my king, and the lords there gathered together With drawn anxious faces one fair morning of summer, And myself in their midst, who would move thee to speech?
KING PHARAMOND
A brawl I remember, some wordy debating, Whether my love should be brought to behold me. Sick was I at heart, little patience I had.
MASTER OLIVER
Hast thou memory yet left thee, how an hour thereafter We twain lay together in the midst of the pleasance 'Neath the lime-trees, nigh the pear-tree, beholding the conduit?
KING PHARAMOND
Fair things I remember of a long time thereafter— Of thy love and thy faith and our gladness together
MASTER OLIVER
And the thing that we talked of, wilt thou tell me about it?
KING PHARAMOND
We twain were to wend through the wide world together Seeking my love—O my heart! is she living?
MASTER OLIVER
God wot that she liveth as she hath lived ever.
KING PHARAMOND
Then soon was it midnight, and moonset, as we wended Down to the ship, and the merchant-folks' babble. The oily green waves in the harbour mouth glistened, Windless midnight it was, but the great sweeps were run out, As the cable came rattling mid rich bales on the deck, And slow moved the black side that the ripple was lapping, And I looked and beheld a great city behind us By the last of the moon as the stars were a-brightening, And Pharamond the Freed grew a tale of a singer, With the land of his fathers and the fame he had toiled for. Yet sweet was the scent of the sea-breeze arising; And I felt a chain broken, a sickness put from me As the sails drew, and merchant-folk, gathered together On the poop or the prow, 'gan to move and begone, Till at last 'neath the far-gazing eyes of the steersman By the loitering watch thou and I were left lonely, And we saw by the moon the white horses arising Where beyond the last headland the ocean abode us, Then came the fresh breeze and the sweep of the spray, And the beating of ropes, and the empty sails' thunder, As we shifted our course toward the west in the dawning; Then I slept and I dreamed in the dark I was lying, And I heard her sweet breath and her feet falling near me, And the rustle of her raiment as she sought through the darkness, Sought, I knew not for what, till her arms clung about me With a cry that was hers, that was mine as I wakened.
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, a sweet dream it was, as thy dreams were aforetime.
KING PHARAMOND
Nay not so, my fosterer: thy hope yet shall fail thee If thou lookest to see me turned back from my folly, Lamenting and mocking the life of my longing. Many such have I had, dear dreams and deceitful, When the soul slept a little from all but its search, And lied to the body of bliss beyond telling; Yea, waking had lied still but for life and its torment. Not so were those dreams of the days of my kingship, Slept my body—or died—but my soul was not sleeping, It knew that she touched not this body that trembled At the thought of her body sore trembling to see me; It lied of no bliss as desire swept it onward, Who knows through what sundering space of its prison; It saw, and it heard, and it hoped, and was lonely, Had no doubt and no joy, but the hope that endureth. —Woe's me I am weary: wend we forward to-morrow?
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, well it may be if thou wilt but be patient, And rest thee a little, while time creepeth onward.
KING PHARAMOND
But tell me, has the fourth year gone far mid my sickness?
MASTER OLIVER
Nay, for seven days only didst thou lie here a-dying, As full often I deemed: God be thanked it is over! But rest thee a little, lord; gather strength for the striving.
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, for once again sleep meseems cometh to struggle With the memory of times past: come tell thou, my fosterer, Of the days we have fared through, that dimly before me Are floating, as I look on thy face and its trouble.
MASTER OLIVER
Rememberest thou aught of the lands where we wended?
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, many a thing—as the moonlit warm evening When we stayed by the trees in the Gold-bearing Land, Nigh the gate of the city, where a minstrel was singing That tale of the King and his fate, o'er the cradle Foretold by the wise of the world; that a woman Should win him to love and to woe, and despairing In the last of his youth, the first days of his manhood.
MASTER OLIVER
I remember the evening; but clean gone is the story: Amid deeds great and dreadful, should songs abide by me?
KING PHARAMOND
They shut the young king in a castle, the tale saith, Where never came woman, and never should come, And sadly he grew up and stored with all wisdom, Not wishing for aught in his heart that he had not, Till the time was come round to his twentieth birthday. Then many fair gifts brought his people unto him, Gold and gems, and rich cloths, and rare things and dear-bought, And a book fairly written brought a wise man among them, Called the Praising of Prudence; wherein there was painted The image of Prudence:—and that, what but a woman, E'en she forsooth that the painter found fairest;— Now surely thou mindest what needs must come after?
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, somewhat indeed I remember the misery Told in that tale, but all mingled it is With the manifold trouble that met us full often, E'en we ourselves. Of nought else hast thou memory?
KING PHARAMOND
Of many such tales that the Southland folk told us, Of many a dream by the sunlight and moonlight; Of music that moved me, of hopes that my heart had; The high days when my love and I held feast together. —But what land is this, and how came we hither?
MASTER OLIVER
Nay, hast thou no memory of our troubles that were many? How thou criedst out for Death and how near Death came to thee? How thou needs must dread war, thou the dreadful in battle? Of the pest in the place where that tale was told to us; And how we fled thence o'er the desert of horror? How weary we wandered when we came to the mountains, All dead but one man of those who went with us? How we came to the sea of the west, and the city, Whose Queen would have kept thee her slave and her lover, And how we escaped by the fair woman's kindness, Who loved thee, and cast her life by for thy welfare? Of the waste of thy life when we sailed from the Southlands, And the sea-thieves fell on us and sold us for servants To that land of hard gems, where thy life's purchase seemed Little better than mine, and we found to our sorrow Whence came the crown's glitter, thy sign once of glory: Then naked a king toiled in sharp rocky crannies, And thy world's fear was grown but the task-master's whip, And thy world's hope the dream in the short dead of night? And hast thou forgotten how again we fled from it, And that fight of despair in the boat on the river, And the sea-strand again and white bellying sails; And the sore drought and famine that on ship-board fell on us, Ere the sea was o'erpast, and we came scarcely living To those keepers of sheep, the poor folk and the kind? Dost thou mind not the merchants who brought us thence northward, And this land that we made in the twilight of dawning? And the city herein where all kindness forsook us, And our bitter bread sought we from house-door to house-door.
KING PHARAMOND
As the shadow of clouds o'er the summer sea sailing Is the memory of all now, and whiles I remember And whiles I forget; and nought it availeth Remembering, forgetting; for a sleep is upon me That shall last a long while:—there thou liest, my fosterer, As thou lay'st a while since ere that twilight of dawning; And I woke and looked forth, and the dark sea, long changeless, Was now at last barred by a dim wall that swallowed The red shapeless moon, and the whole sea was rolling, Unresting, unvaried, as grey as the void is, Toward that wall 'gainst the heavens as though rest were behind it. Still onward we fared and the moon was forgotten, And colder the sea grew and colder the heavens, And blacker the wall grew, and grey, green-besprinkled, And the sky seemed to breach it; and lo at the last Many islands of mountains, and a city amongst them. White clouds of the dawn, not moving yet waning, Wreathed the high peaks about; and the sea beat for ever 'Gainst the green sloping hills and the black rocks and beachless. —Is this the same land that I saw in that dawning? For sure if it is thou at least shalt hear tidings, Though I die ere the dark: but for thee, O my fosterer, Lying there by my side, I had deemed the old vision Had drawn forth the soul from my body to see her. And with joy and fear blended leapt the heart in my bosom, And I cried, "The last land, love; O hast thou abided?" But since then hath been turmoil, and sickness, and slumber, And my soul hath been troubled with dreams that I knew not. And such tangle is round me life fails me to rend it, And the cold cloud of death rolleth onward to hide me.— —O well am I hidden, who might not be happy! I see not, I hear not, my head groweth heavy. [Falls back as if sleeping.
MASTER OLIVER
—O Son, is it sleep that upon thee is fallen? Not death, O my dear one!—speak yet but a little!
KING PHARAMOND (raising himself again)
O be glad, foster-father! and those troubles past over,— Be thou thereby when once more I remember And sit with my maiden and tell her the story, And we pity our past selves as a poet may pity The poor folk he tells of amid plentiful weeping. Hush now! as faint noise of bells over water A sweet sound floats towards me, and blesses my slumber: If I wake never more I shall dream and shall see her. [Sleeps.
MASTER OLIVER
Is it swooning or sleeping? in what wise shall he waken? —Nay, no sound I hear save the forest wind wailing. Who shall help us to-day save our yoke-fellow Death? Yet fain would I die mid the sun and the flowers; For a tomb seems this yew-wood ere yet we are dead. And its wailing wind chilleth my yearning for time past, And my love groweth cold in this dusk of the daytime. What will be? is worse than death drawing anear us? Flit past, dreary day! come, night-tide and resting! Come, to-morrow's uprising with light and new tidings! —Lo, Lord, I have borne all with no bright love before me; Wilt thou break all I had and then give me no blessing?
THE MUSIC
_LOVE IS ENOUGH: through the trouble and tangle From yesterdays dawning to yesterday's night I sought through the vales where the prisoned winds wrangle, Till, wearied and bleeding, at end of the light I met him, and we wrestled, and great was my might.
O great was my joy, though no rest was around me, Though mid wastes of the world were we twain all alone, For methought that I conquered and he knelt and he crowned me, And the driving rain ceased, and the wind ceased to moan, And through clefts of the clouds her planet outshone.
O through clefts of the clouds 'gan the world to awaken, And the bitter wind piped, and down drifted the rain, And I was alone—and yet not forsaken, For the grass was untrodden except by my pain: With a Shadow of the Night had I wrestled in vain.
And the Shadow of the Night and not Love was departed; I was sore, I was weary, yet Love lived to seek; So I scaled the dark mountains, and wandered sad-hearted Over wearier wastes, where e'en sunlight was bleak, With no rest of the night for my soul waxen weak._
_With no rest of the night; for I waked mid a story Of a land wherein Love is the light and the lord, Where my tale shall be heard, and my wounds gain a glory, And my tears be a treasure to add to the hoard Of pleasure laid up for his people's reward.
Ah, pleasure laid up! haste thou onward and listen, For the wind of the waste has no music like this, And not thus do the rocks of the wilderness glisten: With the host of his faithful through sorrow and bliss My Lord goeth forth now, and knows me for his._
Enter before the curtain LOVE, with a cup of bitter drink and his hands bloody.
LOVE
O Pharamond, I knew thee brave and strong, And yet how might'st thou live to bear this wrong? —A wandering-tide of three long bitter years, Solaced at whiles by languor of soft tears, By dreams self-wrought of night and sleep and sorrow, Holpen by hope of tears to be to-morrow: Yet all, alas, but wavering memories; No vision of her hands, her lips, her eyes, Has blessed him since he seemed to see her weep, No wandering feet of hers beset his sleep.
Woe's me then! am I cruel, or am I grown The scourge of Fate, lest men forget to moan? What!—is there blood upon these hands of mine? Is venomed anguish mingled with my wine? —Blood there may be, and venom in the cup; But see, Beloved, how the tears well up From my grieved heart my blinded eyes to grieve, And in the kindness of old days believe! So after all then we must weep to-day— —We, who behold at ending of the way, These lovers tread a bower they may not miss Whose door my servant keepeth, Earthly Bliss: There in a little while shall they abide, Nor each from each their wounds of wandering hide, But kiss them, each on each, and find it sweet, That wounded so the world they may not meet. —Ah, truly mine! since this your tears may move, The very sweetness of rewarded love! Ah, truly mine, that tremble as ye hear The speech of loving lips grown close and dear; —Lest other sounds from other doors ye hearken, Doors that the wings of Earthly Anguish darken.
Scene: On a Highway in a Valley near the last, with a Mist over all things.
KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER.
KING PHARAMOND
Hold a while, Oliver! my limbs are grown weaker Than when in the wood I first rose to my feet. There was hope in my heart then, and now nought but sickness; There was sight in my eyes then, and now nought but blindness. Good art thou, hope, while the life yet tormenteth, But a better help now have I gained than thy goading. Farewell, O life, wherein once I was merry! O dream of the world, I depart now, and leave thee A little tale added to thy long-drawn-out story. Cruel wert thou, O Love, yet have thou and I conquered. —Come nearer, O fosterer, come nearer and kiss me, Bid farewell to thy fosterling while the life yet is in me, For this farewell to thee is my last word meseemeth. [He lies down and sleeps.
MASTER OLIVER
O my king, O my son! Ah, woe's me for my kindness, For the day when thou drew'st me and I let thee be drawn Into toils I knew deadly, into death thou desiredst! And woe's me that I die not! for my body made hardy By the battles of old days to bear every anguish! —Speak a word and forgive me, for who knows how long yet Are the days of my life, and the hours of my loathing! He speaks not, he moves not; yet he draweth breath softly: I have seen men a-dying, and not thus did the end come. Surely God who made all forgets not love's rewarding, Forgets not the faithful, the guileless who fear not. Oh, might there be help yet, and some new life's beginning! —Lo, lighter the mist grows: there come sounds through its dulness, The lowing of kine, or the whoop of a shepherd, The bell-wether's tinkle, or clatter of horse-hoofs. A homestead is nigh us: I will fare down the highway And seek for some helping: folk said simple people Abode in this valley, and these may avail us— If aught it avail us to live for a little. —Yea, give it us, God!—all the fame and the glory We fought for and gained once; the life of well-doing, Fair deed thrusting on deed, and no day forgotten; And due worship of folk that his great heart had holpen;— All I prayed for him once now no longer I pray for. Let it all pass away as my warm breath now passeth In the chill of the morning mist wherewith thou hidest Fair vale and grey mountain of the land we are come to! Let it all pass away! but some peace and some pleasure I pray for him yet, and that I may behold it. A prayer little and lowly,—and we in the old time When the world lay before us, were we hard to the lowly? Thou know'st we were kind, howso hard to be beaten; Wilt thou help us this last time? or what hast thou hidden We know not, we name not, some crown for our striving? —O body and soul of my son, may God keep thee! For, as lone as thou liest in a land that we see not When the world loseth thee, what is left for its losing? [Exit OLIVER.
THE MUSIC
_LOVE IS ENOUGH: cherish life that abideth, Lest ye die ere ye know him, and curse and misname him; For who knows in what ruin of all hope he hideth, On what wings of the terror of darkness he rideth? And what is the joy of man's life that ye blame him For his bliss grown a sword, and his rest grown a fire?
Ye who tremble for death, or the death of desire, Pass about the cold winter-tide garden and ponder On the rose in his glory amidst of June's fire, On the languor of noontide that gathered the thunder, On the morn and its freshness, the eve and its wonder; Ye may wake it no more—shall Spring come to awaken?
Live on, for Love liveth, and earth shall be shaken By the wind of his wings on the triumphing morning, When the dead, and their deeds that die not shall awaken, And the world's tale shall sound in your trumpet of warning, And the sun smite the banner called Scorn of the Scorning, And dead pain ye shall trample, dead fruitless desire, As ye wend to pluck out the new world from the fire._
Enter before the curtain, LOVE clad as a Pilgrim.
LOVE
Alone, afar from home doth Pharamond lie, Drawn near to death, ye deem—or what draws nigh? Afar from home—and have ye any deeming How far may be that country of his dreaming? Is it not time, is it not time, say ye, That we the day-star in the sky should see?
Patience, Beloved; these may come to live A life fulfilled of all I have to give, But bare of strife and story; and ye know well How wild a tale of him might be to tell Had I not snatched away the sword and crown; Yea, and she too was made for world's renown, And should have won it, had my bow not been; These that I love were very king and queen; I have discrowned them, shall I not crown too? Ye know, Beloved, what sharp bitter dew, What parching torment of unresting day Falls on the garden of my deathless bay: Hands that have gathered it and feet that came Beneath its shadow have known flint and flame; Therefore I love them; and they love no less Each furlong of the road of past distress. —Ah, Faithful, tell me for what rest and peace, What length of happy days and world's increase, What hate of wailing, and what love of laughter, What hope and fear of worlds to be hereafter, Would ye cast by that crown of bitter leaves?
And yet, ye say, our very heart it grieves To see him lying there: how may he save His life and love if he more pain must have? And she—how fares it with her? is not earth From winter's sorrow unto summer's mirth Grown all too narrow for her yearning heart? We pray thee, Love, keep these no more apart.
Ye say but sooth: not long may he endure: And her heart sickeneth past all help or cure Unless I hasten to the helping—see, Am I not girt for going speedily? —The journey lies before me long?—nay, nay, Upon my feet the dust is lying grey, The staff is heavy in my hand.—Ye too, Have ye not slept? or what is this ye do, Wearying to find the country ye are in?
[The curtain draws up and shows the same scene as the last, with the mist clearing, and PHARAMOND lying there as before.
Look, look! how sun and morn at last do win Upon the shifting waves of mist! behold That mountain-wall the earth-fires rent of old, Grey toward the valley, sun-gilt at the side! See the black yew-wood that the pass doth hide! Search through the mist for knoll, and fruited tree, And winding stream, and highway white—and see, See, at my feet lies Pharamond the Freed! A happy journey have we gone indeed!
Hearken, Beloved, over-long, ye deem, I let these lovers deal with hope and dream Alone unholpen.—Somewhat sooth ye say: But now her feet are on this very way That leadeth from the city: and she saith One beckoneth her back hitherward—even Death— And who was that, Beloved, but even I? Yet though her feet and sunlight are drawn nigh The cold grass where he lieth like the dead, To ease your hearts a little of their dread I will abide her coming, and in speech He knoweth, somewhat of his welfare teach.
LOVE goes on to the Stage and stands at PHARAMOND's head.
LOVE
HEARKEN, O Pharamond, why camest thou hither?
KING PHARAMOND
I came seeking Death; I have found him belike.
LOVE
In what land of the world art thou lying, O Pharamond?
KING PHARAMOND
In a land 'twixt two worlds: nor long shall I dwell there.
LOVE
Who am I, Pharamond, that stand here beside thee?
KING PHARAMOND
The Death I have sought—thou art welcome; I greet thee.
LOVE
Such a name have I had, but another name have I.
KING PHARAMOND
Art thou God then that helps not until the last season?
LOVE
Yea, God am I surely: yet another name have I.
KING PHARAMOND
Methinks as I hearken, thy voice I should wot of.
LOVE
I called thee, and thou cam'st from thy glory and kingship.
KING PHARAMOND
I was King Pharamond, and love overcame me.
LOVE
Pharamond, thou say'st it.—I am Love and thy master.
KING PHARAMOND
Sooth didst thou say when thou call'dst thyself Death.
LOVE
Though thou diest, yet thy love and thy deeds shall I quicken.
KING PHARAMOND
Be thou God, be thou Death, yet I love thee and dread not.
LOVE
Pharamond, while thou livedst what thing wert thou loving?
KING PHARAMOND
A dream and a lie—and my death—and I love it.
LOVE
Pharamond, do my bidding, as thy wont was aforetime.
KING PHARAMOND
What wilt thou have of me, for I wend away swiftly?
LOVE
Open thine eyes, and behold where thou liest!
KING PHARAMOND
It is little—the old dream, the old lie is about me.
LOVE
Why faintest thou, Pharamond? is love then unworthy?
KING PHARAMOND
Then hath God made no world now, nor shall make hereafter.
LOVE
Wouldst thou live if thou mightst in this fair world, O Pharamond?
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, if she and truth were; nay, if she and truth were not.
LOVE
O long shalt thou live: thou art here in the body, Where nought but thy spirit I brought in days bygone. Ah, thou hearkenest!—and where then of old hast thou heard it? [Music outside, far off.
KING PHARAMOND
O mock me not, Death; or, Life, hold me no longer! For that sweet strain I hear that I heard once a-dreaming: Is it death coming nigher, or life come back that brings it? Or rather my dream come again as aforetime?
LOVE
Look up, O Pharamond! canst thou see aught about thee?
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, surely: all things as aforetime I saw them: The mist fading out with the first of the sunlight, And the mountains a-changing as oft in my dreaming, And the thornbrake anigh blossomed thick with the May-tide. [Music again. O my heart!—I am hearkening thee whereso thou wanderest!
LOVE
Put forth thine hand, feel the dew on the daisies!
KING PHARAMOND
So their freshness I felt in the days ere hope perished. —O me, me, my darling! how fair the world groweth! Ah, shall I not find thee, if death yet should linger, Else why grow I so glad now when life seems departing? What pleasure thus pierceth my heart unto fainting? —O me, into words now thy melody passeth.
MUSIC with singing (from without)
Dawn talks to-day Over dew-gleaming flowers, Night flies away Till the resting of hours: Fresh are thy feet And with dreams thine eyes glistening. Thy still lips are sweet Though the world is a-listening. O Love, set a word in my mouth for our meeting, Cast thine arms round about me to stay my heart's beating! O fresh day, O fair day, O long day made ours!
LOVE
What wilt thou say now of the gifts Love hath given?
KING PHARAMOND
Stay thy whispering, O wind of the morning—she speaketh.
THE MUSIC (coming nearer)
Morn shall meet noon While the flower-stems yet move, Though the wind dieth soon And the clouds fade above. Loved lips are thine As I tremble and hearken; Bright thine eyes shine, Though the leaves thy brow darken. O Love, kiss me into silence, lest no word avail me, Stay my head with thy bosom lest breath and life fail me! O sweet day, O rich day, made long for our love!
LOVE
Was Love then a liar who fashioned thy dreaming?
KING PHARAMOND
O fair-blossomed tree, stay thy rustling—I hearken.
THE MUSIC (coming nearer)
Late day shall greet eve, And the full blossoms shake, For the wind will not leave The tall trees while they wake. Eyes soft with bliss, Come nigher and nigher! Sweet mouth I kiss, Tell me all thy desire! Let us speak, love, together some words of our story, That our lips as they part may remember the glory! O soft day, O calm day, made clear for our sake!
LOVE
What wouldst thou, Pharamond? why art thou fainting?
KING PHARAMOND
And thou diest, fair daylight, now she draweth near me!
THE MUSIC (close outside)
Eve shall kiss night, And the leaves stir like rain As the wind stealeth light O'er the grass of the plain. Unseen are thine eyes Mid the dreamy night's sleeping, And on my mouth there lies The dear rain of thy weeping. Hold, silence, love, speak not of the sweet day departed, Cling close to me, love, lest I waken sad-hearted! O kind day, O dear day, short day, come again!
LOVE
Sleep then, O Pharamond, till her kiss shall awake thee, For, lo, here comes the sun o'er the tops of the mountains, And she with his light in her hair comes before him, As solemn and fair as the dawn of the May-tide On some isle of mid-ocean when all winds are sleeping. O worthy is she of this hour that awaits her, And the death of all doubt, and beginning of gladness Her great heart shall embrace without fear or amazement. —He sleeps, yet his heart's beating measures her footfalls; And her heart beateth too, as her feet bear her onward: Breathe gently between them, O breeze of the morning! Wind round them unthought of, sweet scent of the blossoms! Treasure up every minute of this tide of their meeting, O flower-bedecked Earth! with such tales of my triumph Is your life still renewed, and spring comes back for ever From that forge of all glory that brought forth my blessing. O welcome, Love's darling: Shall this day ever darken, Whose dawn I have dight for thy longing triumphant? [Exit LOVE. Enter AZALAIS.
AZALAIS
A song in my mouth, then? my heart full of gladness? My feet firm on the earth, as when youth was beginning? And the rest of my early days come back to bless me?— Who hath brought me these gifts in the midst of the May-tide? What!—three days agone to the city I wandered, And watched the ships warped to the Quay of the Merchants; And wondered why folk should be busy and anxious; For bitter my heart was, and life seemed a-waning, With no story told, with sweet longing turned torment, Love turned to abasement, and rest gone for ever. And last night I awoke with a pain piercing through me, And a cry in my ears, and Death passed on before, As one pointing the way, and I rose up sore trembling, And by cloud and by night went before the sun's coming, As one goeth to death,—and lo here the dawning! And a dawning therewith of a dear joy I know not. I have given back the day the glad greeting it gave me; And the gladness it gave me, that too would I give Were hands held out to crave it——Fair valley, I greet thee, And the new-wakened voices of all things familiar. —Behold, how the mist-bow lies bright on the mountain, Bidding hope as of old since no prison endureth. Full busy has May been these days I have missed her, And the milkwort is blooming, and blue falls the speedwell. —Lo, here have been footsteps in the first of the morning, Since the moon sank all red in the mist now departed. —Ah! what lieth there by the side of the highway? Is it death stains the sunlight, or sorrow or sickness?
[Going up to PHARAMOND.
—Not death, for he sleepeth; but beauty sore blemished By sorrow and sickness, and for all that the sweeter. I will wait till he wakens and gaze on his beauty, Lest I never again in the world should behold him. —Maybe I may help him; he is sick and needs tending, He is poor, and shall scorn not our simpleness surely. Whence came he to us-ward—what like has his life been— Who spoke to him last—for what is he longing? —As one hearkening a story I wonder what cometh, And in what wise my voice to our homestead shall bid him. O heart, how thou faintest with hope of the gladness I may have for a little if there he abide. Soft there shalt thou sleep, love, and sweet shall thy dreams be, And sweet thy awaking amidst of the wonder Where thou art, who is nigh thee—and then, when thou seest How the rose-boughs hang in o'er the little loft window, And the blue bowl with roses is close to thine hand, And over thy bed is the quilt sewn with lilies, And the loft is hung round with the green Southland hangings, And all smelleth sweet as the low door is opened, And thou turnest to see me there standing, and holding Such dainties as may be, thy new hunger to stay— Then well may I hope that thou wilt not remember Thine old woes for a moment in the freshness and pleasure, And that I shall be part of thy rest for a little. And then—-who shall say—wilt thou tell me thy story, And what thou hast loved, and for what thou hast striven? —Thou shalt see me, and my love and my pity, as thou speakest, And it may be thy pity shall mingle with mine. —And meanwhile—Ah, love, what hope may my heart hold? For I see that thou lovest, who ne'er hast beheld me. And how should thy love change, howe'er the world changeth? Yet meanwhile, had I dreamed of the bliss of this minute, How might I have borne to live weary and waiting!
Woe's me! do I fear thee? else should I not wake thee, For tending thou needest—If my hand touched thy hand [Touching him. I should fear thee the less.—O sweet friend, forgive it, My hand and my tears, for faintly they touched thee! He trembleth, and waketh not: O me, my darling! Hope whispers that thou hear'st me through sleep, and wouldst waken, But for dread that thou dreamest and I should be gone. Doth it please thee in dreaming that I tremble and dread thee, That these tears are the tears of one praying vainly, Who shall pray with no word when thou hast awakened? —Yet how shall I deal with my life if he love not, As how should he love me, a stranger, unheard of? —O bear witness, thou day that hast brought my love hither! Thou sun that burst out through the mist o'er the mountains, In that moment mine eyes met the field of his sorrow— Bear witness, ye fields that have fed me and clothed me, And air I have breathed, and earth that hast borne me— Though I find you but shadows, and wrought but for fading, Though all ye and God fail me,—my love shall not fail! Yea, even if this love, that seemeth such pleasure As earth is unworthy of, turneth to pain; If he wake without memory of me and my weeping, With a name on his lips not mine—that I know not: If thus my hand leave his hand for the last time, And no word from his lips be kind for my comfort— If all speech fail between us, all sight fail me henceforth, If all hope and God fail me—my love shall not fail. |
|
