* * * * *

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

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

Noble 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 washing 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 fashion 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 passed.

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 ship; And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip.

Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass, And found them fair still, midst of their decay, Though in them now no sign of man there was, And everything but stone had passed 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 shore And his good ship 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 space, 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 passed 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 space 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 god-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 passed this last door eagerly.

Then in a room he stood wherein there was A marble bath, whose brimming water yet Was scarcely still; a vessel of green glass 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 noble 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.

"God 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.

"My father lived a many years agone Lord of this land, master of all cunning, Who ruddy gold could draw from out grey stone, And gather wealth from many an uncouth thing, He made the wilderness rejoice and sing, And such a leech he was that none could say Without his word what soul should pass away.

"Unto Diana such a gift he gave, Goddess above, below, and on the earth, That I should be her virgin and her slave From the first hour of my most wretched birth; Therefore my life had known but little mirth When I had come unto my twentieth year And the last time of hallowing drew anear.

"So in her temple had I lived and died And all would long ago have passed away, But ere that time came, did strange things betide, Whereby I am alive unto this day; Alas, the bitter words that I must say! Ah! can I bring my wretched tongue to tell How I was brought unto this fearful hell.

"A queen I was, what gods I knew I loved, And nothing evil was there in my thought, And yet by love my wretched heart was moved Until to utter ruin I was brought! Alas! thou sayest our gods were vain and nought, Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of mine. Then shalt thou think them devilish or divine.

"Hearken! in spite of father and of vow I loved a man; but for that sin I think Men had forgiven me—yea, yea, even thou; But from the gods the full cup must I drink, And into misery unheard of sink, Tormented when their own names are forgot, And men must doubt e'er if they lived or not.

"Glorious my lover was unto my sight, Most beautiful,—of love we grew so fain That we at last agreed, that on a night We should be happy, but that he were slain Or shut in hold, and neither joy nor pain Should else forbid that hoped-for time to be; So came the night that made a wretch of me.

"Ah I well do I remember all that night, When through the window shone the orb of June, And by the bed flickered the taper's light, Whereby I trembled, gazing at the moon: Ah me! the meeting that we had, when soon Into his strong, well-trusted arms I fell, And many a sorrow we began to tell.

"Ah me I what parting on that night we had! I think the story of my great despair A little while might merry folk make sad; For, as he swept away my yellow hair To make my shoulder and my bosom bare, I raised mine eyes, and shuddering could behold A shadow cast upon the bed of gold:

"Then suddenly was quenched my hot desire And he untwined his arms; the moon so pale A while ago, seemed changed to blood and fire, And yet my limbs beneath me did not fail, And neither had I strength to cry or wail, But stood there helpless, bare, and shivering, With staring eyes still fixed upon the thing.

"Because the shade that on the bed of gold The changed and dreadful moon was throwing down Was of Diana, whom I did behold, With knotted hair, and shining girt-up gown, And on the high white brow, a deadly frown Bent upon us, who stood scarce drawing breath, Striving to meet the horrible sure death.

"No word at all the dreadful goddess said, But soon across my feet my lover lay, And well indeed I knew that he was dead; And would that I had died on that same day! For in a while the image turned away, And without words my doom I understood, And felt a horror change my human blood.

"And there I fell, and on the floor I lay By the dead man, till daylight came on me, And not a word thenceforward could I say For three years, till of grief and misery, The lingering pest, the cruel enemy, My father and his folk were dead and gone, And in this castle I was left alone:

"And then the doom foreseen upon me fell, For Queen Diana did my body change Into a fork-tongued dragon flesh and fell, And through the island nightly do I range, Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange, When in the middle of the moonlit night The sleepy mariner I do affright.

"But all day long upon this gold I lie Within this place, where never mason's hand Smote trowel on the marble noisily; Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command, Who once was called the Lady of the Land; Who might have bought a kingdom with a kiss, Yea, half the world with such a sight as this."

And therewithal, with rosy fingers light, Backward her heavy-hanging hair she threw, To give her naked beauty more to sight; But when, forgetting all the things he knew, Maddened with love unto the prize he drew, She cried, "Nay, wait! for wherefore wilt thou die, Why should we not be happy, thou and I?

"Wilt thou not save me? once in every year This rightful form of mine that thou dost see By favour of the goddess have I here From sunrise unto sunset given me, That some brave man may end my misery. And thou—art thou not brave? can thy heart fail, Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale?

"Then listen! when this day is overpast, A fearful monster shall I be again, And thou mayst be my saviour at the last, Unless, once more, thy words are nought and vain; If thou of love and sovereignty art fain, Come thou next morn, and when thou seest here A hideous dragon, have thereof no fear,

"But take the loathsome head up in thine hands, And kiss it, and be master presently Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands, From Cathay to the head of Italy; And master also, if it pleaseth thee, Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright, Of what thou callest crown of all delight.

"Ah! with what joy then shall I see again The sunlight on the green grass and the trees, And hear the clatter of the summer rain, And see the joyous folk beyond the seas. Ah, me! to hold my child upon my knees, After the weeping of unkindly tears, And all the wrongs of these four hundred years.

"Go now, go quick! leave this grey heap of stone; And from thy glad heart think upon thy way, How I shall love thee—yea, love thee alone, That bringest me from dark death unto day; For this shall be thy wages and thy pay; Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near, If thou hast heart a little dread to bear."

Therewith she turned to go; but he cried out, "Ah! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss, To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt, That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss? Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this, The memory of some hopeful close embrace, Low whispered words within some lonely place?"

But she, when his bright glittering eyes she saw, And burning cheeks, cried out, "Alas, alas! Must I be quite undone, and wilt thou draw A worse fate on me than the first one was? O haste thee from this fatal place to pass! Yet, ere thou goest, take this, lest thou shouldst deem Thou hast been fooled by some strange midday dream."

So saying, blushing like a new-kissed maid, From off her neck a little gem she drew, That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks laid, The secrets of her glorious beauty knew; And ere he well perceived what she would do, She touched his hand, the gem within it lay, And, turning, from his sight she fled away.

Then at the doorway where her rosy heel Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did stare, And still upon his hand he seemed to feel The varying kisses of her fingers fair; Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and bare, And dizzily throughout the castle passed, Till by the ruined fane he stood at last.

Then weighing still the gem within his hand, He stumbled backward through the cypress wood, Thinking the while of some strange lovely land, Where all his life should be most fair and good; Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood, And slowly thence passed down unto the bay Red with the death of that bewildering day.

* * * * *

The next day came, and he, who all the night Had ceaselessly been turning in his bed, Arose and clad himself in armour bright, And many a danger he remembered; Storming of towns, lone sieges full of dread, That with renown his heart had borne him through, And this thing seemed a little thing to do.

So on he went, and on the way he thought Of all the glorious things of yesterday, Nought of the price whereat they must be bought, But ever to himself did softly say, "No roaming now, my wars are passed away, No long dull days devoid of happiness, When such a love my yearning heart shall bless."

Thus to the castle did he come at last, But when unto the gateway he drew near, And underneath its ruined archway passed Into the court, a strange noise did he hear, And through his heart there shot a pang of fear, Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand, And midmost of the cloisters took his stand.

But for a while that unknown noise increased A rattling, that with strident roars did blend, And whining moans; but suddenly it ceased, A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end, And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend Adown the cloisters, and began again That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain.

And as it came on towards him, with its teeth The body of a slain goat did it tear, The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe, And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair; Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there, Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran, "Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane of man."

Yet he abode her still, although his blood Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat, And creeping on, came close to where he stood, And raised its head to him, and wrinkled throat, Then he cried out and wildly at her smote, Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the place Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face.

But little things rough stones and tree-trunks seemed, And if he fell, he rose and ran on still; No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed, He made no stay for valley or steep hill, Heedless he dashed through many a foaming rill, Until he came unto the ship at last And with no word into the deep hold passed.

Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone. Followed him not, but crying horribly, Caught up within her jaws a block of stone And ground it into powder, then turned she, With cries that folk could hear far out at sea, And reached the treasure set apart of old, To brood above the hidden heaps of gold.

Yet was she seen again on many a day By some half-waking mariner, or herd, Playing amid the ripples of the bay, Or on the hills making all things afeard, Or in the wood, that did that castle gird, But never any man again durst go To seek her woman's form, and end her woe.

As for the man, who knows what things he bore? What mournful faces peopled the sad night, What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore, What images of that nigh-gained delight! What dreamed caresses from soft hands and white, Turning to horrors ere they reached the best, What struggles vain, what shame, what huge unrest?

No man he knew, three days he lay and raved, And cried for death, until a lethargy Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved; But on the third night he awoke to die; And at Byzantium doth his body lie Between two blossoming pomegranate trees, Within the churchyard of the Genoese.

* * * * *

A moment's silence as his tale had end, And then the wind of that June night did blend Their varied voices, as of that and this They fell to talk: of those fair islands' bliss They knew in other days, of hope they had To live there long an easy life and glad, With nought to vex them; and the younger men Began to nourish strange dreams even then Of sailing east, as these had once sailed west; Because the story of that luckless quest With hope, not fear, had filled their joyous hearts And made them dream of new and noble parts That they might act; of raising up the name Their fathers bore, and winning boundless fame. These too with little patience seemed to hear, That story end with shame and grief and fear; A little thing the man had had to do, They said, if longing burned within him so. But at their words the older men must bow Their heads, and, smiling, somewhat thoughtful grow, Remembering well how fear in days gone by Had dealt with them, and poisoned wretchedly Good days, good deeds, and longings for all good: Yet on the evil times they would not brood, But sighing, strove to raise the weight of years, And no more memory of their hopes and fears They nourished, but such gentle thoughts as fed The pensiveness which that sweet season bred.



JULY.

Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees With low vexed song from rose to lily went, A gentle wind was in the heavy trees, And thine eyes shone with joyous memories; Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou, And I was happy—Ah, be happy now!

Peace and content without us, love within That hour there was, now thunder and wild rain, Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin, And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain; Ah, love! although the morn shall come again, And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile, Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile?

E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat, But midst the lightning did the fair sun die— —Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet, He cannot waste his life—but thou and I— Who knows if next morn this felicity My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live This seal of love renewed once more to give?

* * * * *

Within a lovely valley, watered well With flowery streams, the July feast befell, And there within the Chief-priest's fair abode They cast aside their trouble's heavy load, Scarce made aweary by the sultry day. The earth no longer laboured; shaded lay The sweet-breathed kine, across the sunny vale, From hill to hill the wandering rook did sail, Lazily croaking, midst his dreams of spring, Nor more awake the pink-foot dove did cling Unto the beech-bough, murmuring now and then; All rested but the restless sons of men And the great sun that wrought this happiness, And all the vale with fruitful hopes did bless. So in a marble chamber bright with flowers, The old men feasted through the fresher hours, And at the hottest time of all the day When now the sun was on his downward way, Sat listening to a tale an elder told, New to his fathers while they yet did hold The cities of some far-off Grecian isle, Though in the heavens the cloud of force and guile Was gathering dark that sent them o'er the sea To win new lands for their posterity.



THE SON OF CROESUS.

ARGUMENT.

Croesus, King of Lydia, dreamed that he saw his son slain by an iron weapon, and though by every means he strove to avert this doom from him, yet thus it happened, for his son was slain by the hand of the man who seemed least of all likely to do the deed.

Of Croesus tells my tale, a king of old In Lydia, ere the Mede fell on the land, A man made mighty by great heaps of gold, Feared for the myriads strong of heart and hand That 'neath his banners wrought out his command, And though his latter ending happed on ill, Yet first of every joy he had his fill.

Two sons he had, and one was dumb from birth; The other one, that Atys had to name, Grew up a fair youth, and of might and worth, And well it seemed the race wherefrom he came From him should never get reproach or shame: But yet no stroke he struck before his death, In no war-shout he spent his latest breath.

Now Croesus, lying on his bed anight Dreamed that he saw this dear son laid a-low, And folk lamenting he was slain outright, And that some iron thing had dealt the blow; By whose hand guided he could nowise know, Or if in peace by traitors it were done, Or in some open war not yet begun.

Three times one night this vision broke his sleep, So that at last he rose up from his bed, That he might ponder how he best might keep The threatened danger from so dear a head; And, since he now was old enough to wed, The King sent men to search the lands around, Until some matchless maiden should be found;

That in her arms this Atys might forget The praise of men, and fame of history, Whereby full many a field has been made wet With blood of men, and many a deep green sea Been reddened therewithal, and yet shall be; That her sweet voice might drown the people's praise, Her eyes make bright the uneventful days.

So when at last a wonder they had brought, From some sweet land down by the ocean's rim. Than whom no fairer could by man be thought, And ancient dames, scanning her limb by limb, Had said that she was fair enough for him, To her was Atys married with much show, And looked to dwell with her in bliss enow.

And in meantime afield he never went, Either to hunting or the frontier war, No dart was cast, nor any engine bent Anigh him, and the Lydian men afar Must rein their steeds, and the bright blossoms mar If they have any lust of tourney now, And in far meadows must they bend the bow.

And also through the palace everywhere The swords and spears were taken from the wall That long with honour had been hanging there, And from the golden pillars of the hall; Lest by mischance some sacred blade should fall, And in its falling bring revenge at last For many a fatal battle overpast.

And every day King Croesus wrought with care To save his dear son from that threatened end, And many a beast he offered up with prayer Unto the gods, and much of wealth did spend, That they so prayed might yet perchance defend That life, until at least that he were dead, With earth laid heavy on his unseeing head.

But in the midst even of the wedding feast There came a man, who by the golden hall Sat down upon the steps, and man or beast He heeded not, but there against the wall He leaned his head, speaking no word at all, Till, with his son and son's wife, came the King, And then unto his gown the man did cling.

"What man art thou?" the King said to him then, "That in such guise thou prayest on thy knee; Hast thou some fell foe here among my men? Or hast thou done an ill deed unto me? Or has thy wife been carried over sea? Or hast thou on this day great need of gold? Or say, why else thou now art grown so bold."

"O King," he said, "I ask no gold to-day, And though indeed thy greatness drew me here, No wrong have I that thou couldst wipe away; And nought of mine the pirate folk did bear Across the sea; none of thy folk I fear: But all the gods are now mine enemies, Therefore I kneel before thee on my knees.

"For as with mine own brother on a day Within the running place at home I played, Unwittingly I smote him such-a-way That dead upon the green grass he was laid; Half-dead myself I fled away dismayed, Wherefore I pray thee help me in my need, And purify my soul of this sad deed.

"If of my name and country thou wouldst know, In Phrygia yet my father is a king, Gordius, the son of Midas, rich enow In corn and cattle, golden cup and ring; And mine own name before I did this thing Was called Adrastus, whom, in street and hall, The slayer of his brother men now call."

"Friend," said the King, "have thou no fear of me; For though, indeed, I am right happy now, Yet well I know this may not always be, And I may chance some day to kneel full low, And to some happy man mine head to bow With prayers to do a greater thing than this, Dwell thou with us, and win again thy bliss.

"For in this city men in sport and play Forget the trouble that the gods have sent; Who therewithal send wine, and many a may As fair as she for whom the Trojan went, And many a dear delight besides have lent, Which, whoso is well loved of them shall keep Till in forgetful death he falls asleep.

"Therefore to-morrow shall those rites be done That kindred blood demands that thou hast shed, That if the mouth of thine own mother's son Did hap to curse thee ere he was quite dead, The curse may lie the lighter on thine head, Because the flower-crowned head of many a beast Has fallen voiceless in our glorious feast."

Then did Adrastus rise and thank the King, And the next day when yet low was the sun, The sacrifice and every other thing That unto these dread rites belonged, was done; And there Adrastus dwelt, hated of none, And loved of many, and the King loved him, For brave and wise he was and strong of limb.

But chiefly amongst all did Atys love The luckless stranger, whose fair tales of war The Lydian's heart abundantly did move, And much they talked of wandering out afar Some day, to lands where many marvels are, With still the Phrygian through all things to be The leader unto all felicity.

Now at this time folk came unto the King Who on a forest's borders dwelling were, Wherein there roamed full many a dangerous thing, As wolf and wild bull, lion and brown bear; But chiefly in that forest was the lair Of a great boar that no man could withstand. And many a woe he wrought upon the land.

Since long ago that men in Calydon Held chase, no beast like him had once been seen He ruined vineyards lying in the sun, After his harvesting the men must glean What he had left; right glad they had not been Among the tall stalks of the ripening wheat, The fell destroyer's fatal tusks to meet.

For often would the lonely man entrapped In vain from his dire fury strive to hide In some thick hedge, and other whiles it happed Some careless stranger by his place would ride, And the tusks smote his fallen horse's side, And what help then to such a wretch could come With sword he could not draw, and far from home?

Or else girls, sent their water-jars to fill, Would come back pale, too terrified to cry, Because they had but seen him from the hill; Or else again with side rent wretchedly, Some hapless damsel midst the brake would lie. Shortly to say, there neither man nor maid Was safe afield whether they wrought or played.

Therefore were come these dwellers by the wood To pray the King brave men to them to send, That they might live; and if he deemed it good, That Atys with the other knights should wend, They thought their grief the easier should have end; For both by gods and men they knew him loved, And easily by hope of glory moved.

"O Sire," they said, "thou know'st how Hercules Was not content to wait till folk asked aid, But sought the pests among their guarded trees; Thou know'st what name the Theban Cadmus made, And how the bull of Marathon was laid Dead on the fallows of the Athenian land, And how folk worshipped Atalanta's hand.

"Fair would thy son's name look upon the roll Wherein such noble deeds as this are told; And great delight shall surely fill thy soul, Thinking upon his deeds when thou art old, And thy brave heart is waxen faint and cold: Dost thou not know, O King, how men will strive That they, when dead, still in their sons may live?"

He shuddered as they spoke, because he thought, Most certainly a winning tale is this To draw him from the net where he is caught, For hearts of men grow weary of all bliss; Nor is he one to be content with his, If he should hear the trumpet-blast of fame And far-off people calling on his name.

"Good friends," he said, "go, get ye back again. And doubt not I will send you men to slay This pest ye fear: yet shall your prayer be vain If ye with any other speak to-day; And for my son, with me he needs must stay, For mighty cares oppress the Lydian land. Fear not, for ye shall have a noble band."

And with that promise must they be content, And so departed, having feasted well. And yet some god or other ere they went, If they were silent, this their tale must tell To more than one man; therefore it befell, That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing, And came with angry eyes unto the King.

"Father," he said, "since when am I grown vile Since when am I grown helpless of my hands? Or else what folk, with words enwrought with guile Thine ears have poisoned; that when far-off lands My fame might fill, by thy most strange commands I needs must stay within this slothful home, Whereto would God that I had never come?

"What! wilt thou take mine honour quite away Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed I sit among thy folk at end of day, She should be ever turning round her head To watch some man for war apparelled Because he wears a sword that he may use, Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse?

"Or dost thou think, when thou hast run thy race And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign, The people will do honour to my place, Or that the lords leal men will still remain, If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain? If on the wall his armour still hang up, While for a spear I hold a drinking-cup?"

"O Son!" quoth Croesus, "well I know thee brave And worthy of high deeds of chivalry; Therefore the more thy dear life would I save, Which now is threatened by the gods on high; Three times one night I dreamed I saw thee die, Slain by some deadly iron-pointed thing, While weeping lords stood round thee in a ring."

Then loud laughed Atys, and he said again, "Father, and did this ugly dream tell thee What day it was on which I should be slain? As may the gods grant I may one day be, And not from sickness die right wretchedly, Groaning with pain, my lords about my bed, Wishing to God that I were fairly dead;

"But slain in battle, as the Lydian kings Have died ere now, in some great victory, While all about the Lydian shouting rings Death to the beaten foemen as they fly. What death but this, O father! should I die? But if my life by iron shall be done, What steel to-day shall glitter in the sun?

"Yea, father, if to thee it seemeth good To keep me from the bright steel-bearing throng, Let me be brave at least within the wood; For surely, if thy dream be true, no wrong Can hap to me from this beast's tushes strong: Unless perchance the beast is grown so wise, He haunts the forest clad in Lydian guise."

Then Croesus said: "O Son, I love thee so, That thou shalt do thy will upon this tide: But since unto this hunting thou must go, A trusty friend along with thee shall ride, Who not for anything shall leave thy side. I think, indeed, he loves thee well enow To thrust his heart 'twixt thee and any blow.

"Go then, O Son, and if by some short span Thy life be measured, how shall it harm thee, If while life last thou art a happy man? And thou art happy; only unto me Is trembling left, and infelicity: The trembling of the man who loves on earth, But unto thee is hope and present mirth.

"Nay, be thou not ashamed, for on this day I fear not much: thou read'st my dream aright, No teeth or claws shall take thy life away. And it may chance, ere thy last glorious fight, I shall be blinded by the endless night; And brave Adrastus on this day shall be Thy safeguard, and shall give good heart to me.

"Go then, and send him hither, and depart; And as the heroes did so mayst thou do, Winning such fame as well may please thine heart." With that word from the King did Atys go, Who, left behind, sighed, saying, "May it be so, Even as I hope; and yet I would to God These men upon my threshold ne'er had trod."

So when Adrastus to the King was come He said unto him, "O my Phrygian friend, We in this land have given thee a home, And 'gainst all foes your life will we defend: Wherefore for us that life thou shouldest spend, If any day there should be need therefor; And now a trusty friend I need right sore.

"Doubtless ere now thou hast heard many say There is a doom that threatens my son's life; Therefore this place is stript of arms to-day, And therefore still bides Atys with his wife, And tempts not any god by raising strife; Yet none the less by no desire of his, To whom would war be most abundant bliss.

"And since to-day some glory he may gain Against a monstrous bestial enemy And that the meaning of my dream is plain; That saith that he by steel alone shall die, His burning wish I may not well deny, Therefore afield to-morrow doth he wend And herein mayst thou show thyself my friend—

"For thou as captain of his band shalt ride, And keep a watchful eye of everything, Nor leave him whatsoever may betide: Lo, thou art brave, the son of a great king, And with thy praises doth this city ring, Why should I tell thee what a name those gain, Who dying for their friends, die not in vain?"

Then said Adrastus, "Now were I grown base Beyond all words, if I should spare for aught In guarding him, so sit with smiling face, And of this matter take no further thought, Because with my life shall his life be bought, If ill should hap; and no ill fate it were, If I should die for what I hold so dear."

Then went Adrastus, and next morn all things, That 'longed unto the hunting were well dight, And forth they went clad as the sons of kings, Fair was the morn, as through the sunshine bright They rode, the Prince half wild with great delight, The Phrygian smiling on him soberly, And ever looking round with watchful eye.

So through the city all the rout rode fast, With many a great black-muzzled yellow hound; And then the teeming country-side they passed, Until they came to sour and rugged ground, And there rode up a little heathy mound, That overlooked the scrubby woods and low, That of the beast's lair somewhat they might know.

And there a good man of the country-side Showed them the places where he mostly lay; And they, descending, through the wood did ride, And followed on his tracks for half the day. And at the last they brought him well to bay, Within an oozy space amidst the wood, About the which a ring of alders stood.

So when the hounds' changed voices clear they heard With hearts aflame on towards him straight they drew Atys the first of all, of nought afeard, Except that folk should say some other slew The beast; and lustily his horn he blew, Going afoot; then, mighty spear in hand, Adrastus headed all the following band.

Now when they came unto the plot of ground Where stood the boar, hounds dead about him lay Or sprawled about, bleeding from many a wound, But still the others held him well at bay, Nor had he been bestead thus ere that day. But yet, seeing Atys, straight he rushed at him, Speckled with foam, bleeding in flank and limb.

Then Atys stood and cast his well-steeled spear With a great shout, and straight and well it flew; For now the broad blade cutting through the ear, A stream of blood from out the shoulder drew. And therewithal another, no less true, Adrastus cast, whereby the boar had died: But Atys drew the bright sword from his side,

And to the tottering beast he drew anigh: But as the sun's rays ran adown the blade Adrastus threw a javelin hastily, For of the mighty beast was he afraid, Lest by his wounds he should not yet be stayed, But with a last rush cast his life away, And dying there, the son of Croesus slay.

But even as the feathered dart he hurled, His strained, despairing eyes, beheld the end, And changed seemed all the fashion of the world, And past and future into one did blend, As he beheld the fixed eyes of his friend, That no reproach had in them, and no fear, For Death had seized him ere he thought him near.

Adrastus shrieked, and running up he caught The falling man, and from his bleeding side Drew out the dart, and, seeing that death had brought Deliverance to him, he thereby had died; But ere his hand the luckless steel could guide, And he the refuge of poor souls could win, The horror-stricken huntsmen had rushed in.

And these, with blows and cries he heeded nought His unresisting hands made haste to bind; Then of the alder-boughs a bier they wrought, And laid the corpse thereon, and 'gan to wind Homeward amidst the tangled wood and blind, And going slowly, at the eventide, Some leagues from Sardis did that day abide.

Onward next morn the slaughtered man they bore, With him that slew him, and at end of day They reached the city, and with mourning sore Toward the King's palace did they take their way. He in an open western chamber lay Feasting, though inwardly his heart did burn Until that Atys should to him return.

And when those wails first smote upon his ear He set the wine-cup down, and to his feet He rose, and bitter all-consuming fear Swallowed his joy, and nigh he went to meet That which was coming through the weeping street; But in the end he thought it good to wait, And stood there doubting all the ills of fate.

But when at last up to that royal place Folk brought the thing he once had held so dear Still stood the King, staring with ghastly face As they brought forth Adrastus and the bier, But spoke at last, slowly without a tear, "O Phrygian man, that I did purify, Is it through thee that Atys came to die?"

"O King," Adrastus said, "take now my life, With whatso torment seemeth good to thee, As my word went, for I would end this strife, And underneath the earth lie quietly; Nor is it my will here alive to be: For as my brother, so Prince Atys died, And this unlucky hand some god did guide."

Then as a man constrained, the tale he told From end to end, nor spared himself one whit: And as he spoke, the wood did still behold, The trodden grass, and Atys dead on it; And many a change o'er the King's face did flit Of kingly rage, and hatred and despair, As on the slayer's face he still did stare.

At last he said, "Thy death avails me nought. The gods themselves have done this bitter deed, That I was all too happy was their thought, Therefore thy heart is dead and mine doth bleed, And I am helpless as a trodden weed: Thou art but as the handle of the spear, The caster sits far off from any fear.

"Yet, if thy hurt they meant, I can do this,— —Loose him and let him go in peace from me— I will not slay the slayer of all my bliss; Yet go, poor man, for when thy face I see I curse the gods for their felicity. Surely some other slayer they would have found, If thou hadst long ago been under ground.

"Alas, Adrastus! in my inmost heart I knew the gods would one day do this thing, But deemed indeed that it would be thy part To comfort me amidst my sorrowing; Make haste to go, for I am still a King! Madness may take me, I have many hands Who will not spare to do my worst commands."

With that Adrastus' bonds were done away, And forthwith to the city gates he ran, And on the road where they had been that day Rushed through the gathering night; and some lone man Beheld next day his visage wild and wan, Peering from out a thicket of the wood Where he had spilt that well-beloved blood.

And now the day of burial pomp must be, And to those rites all lords of Lydia came About the King, and that day, they and he Cast royal gifts of rich things on the flame; But while they stood and wept, and called by name Upon the dead, amidst them came a man With raiment rent, and haggard face and wan:

Who when the marshals would have thrust him out And men looked strange on him, began to say, "Surely the world is changed since ye have doubt Of who I am; nay, turn me not away, For ye have called me princely ere to-day— Adrastus, son of Gordius, a great king, Where unto Pallas Phrygian maidens sing.

"O Lydians, many a rich thing have ye cast Into this flame, but I myself will give A greater gift, since now I see at last The gods are wearied for that still I live, And with their will, why should I longer strive? Atys, O Atys, thus I give to thee A life that lived for thy felicity."

And therewith from his side a knife he drew, And, crying out, upon the pile he leapt, And with one mighty stroke himself he slew. So there these princes both together slept, And their light ashes, gathered up, were kept Within a golden vessel wrought all o'er With histories of this hunting of the boar.

* * * * *

A gentle wind had risen midst his tale, That bore the sweet scents of the fertile vale In at the open windows; and these men The burden of their years scarce noted then, Soothed by the sweet luxurious summer time, And by the cadence of that ancient rhyme, Spite of its saddening import; nay, indeed, Of some such thoughts the Wanderers had need As that tale gave them—Yea, a man shall be A wonder for his glorious chivalry, First in all wisdom, of a prudent mind, Yet none the less him too his fate shall find Unfenced by these, a man 'mongst other men. Yea, and will Fortune pick out, now and then, The noblest for the anvil of her blows; Great names are few, and yet, indeed, who knows What greater souls have fallen 'neath the stroke Of careless fate? Purblind are most of folk, The happy are the masters of the earth Which ever give small heed to hapless worth; So goes the world, and this we needs must bear Like eld and death: yet there were some men there Who drank in silence to the memory Of those who failed on earth great men to be, Though better than the men who won the crown. But when the sun was fairly going down They left the house, and, following up the stream, In the low sun saw the kingfisher gleam 'Twixt bank and alder, and the grebe steal out From the high sedge, and, in his restless doubt, Dive down, and rise to see what men were there: They saw the swallow chase high up in air The circling gnats; the shaded dusky pool Broke by the splashing chub; the ripple cool, Rising and falling, of some distant weir They heard, till it oppressed the listening ear, As twilight grew: so back they turned again Glad of their rest, and pleasure after pain.

* * * * *

Within the gardens once again they met, That now the roses did well-nigh forget, For hot July was drawing to an end, And August came the fainting year to mend With fruit and grain; so 'neath the trellises, Nigh blossomless, did they lie well at ease, And watched the poppies burn across the grass, And o'er the bindweed's bells the brown bee pass Still murmuring of his gains: windless and bright The morn had been, to help their dear delight; But heavy clouds ere noon grew round the sun, And, halfway to the zenith, wild and dun The sky grew, and the thunder growled afar; But, ere the steely clouds began their war, A change there came, and, as by some great hand, The clouds that hung in threatening o'er the land Were drawn away; then a light wind arose That shook the light stems of that flowery close, And made men sigh for pleasure; therewithal Did mirth upon the feasting elders fall, And they no longer watched the lowering sky, But called aloud for some new history. Then spoke the Suabian, "Sirs, this tale is told Among our searchers for fine stones and gold, And though I tell it wrong be good to me; For I the written book did never see, Made by some Fleming, as I think, wherein Is told this tale of wilfulness and sin."



THE WATCHING OF THE FALCON.

ARGUMENT.

The case of this falcon was such, that whoso watched it without sleeping for seven days and seven nights, had his first wish granted him by a fay lady, that appeared to him thereon; and some wished one thing, and some another. But a certain king, who watched the falcon daily, would wish for nought but the love of that fay; which wish being accomplished, was afterwards his ruin.

Across the sea a land there is, Where, if fate will, may men have bliss, For it is fair as any land: There hath the reaper a full hand, While in the orchard hangs aloft The purple fig, a-growing soft; And fair the trellised vine-bunches Are swung across the high elm-trees; And in the rivers great fish play, While over them pass day by day The laden barges to their place. There maids are straight, and fair of face, And men are stout for husbandry, And all is well as it can be Upon this earth where all has end. For on them God is pleased to send The gift of Death down from above. That envy, hatred, and hot love, Knowledge with hunger by his side, And avarice and deadly pride, There may have end like everything Both to the shepherd and the king: Lest this green earth become but hell If folk for ever there should dwell. Full little most men think of this, But half in woe and half in bliss They pass their lives, and die at last Unwilling, though their lot be cast In wretched places of the earth, Where men have little joy from birth Until they die; in no such case Were those who tilled this pleasant place. There soothly men were loth to die, Though sometimes in his misery A man would say "Would I were dead!" Alas! full little likelihead That he should live for ever there. So folk within that country fair Lived on, nor from their memories drave The thought of what they could not have. And without need tormented still Each other with some bitter ill; Yea, and themselves too, growing grey With dread of some long-lingering day, That never came ere they were dead With green sods growing on the head; Nowise content with what they had, But falling still from good to bad While hard they sought the hopeless best And seldom happy or at rest Until at last with lessening blood One foot within the grave they stood.

Now so it chanced that in this land There did a certain castle stand, Set all alone deep in the hills, Amid the sound of falling rills Within a valley of sweet grass, To which there went one narrow pass Through the dark hills, but seldom trod. Rarely did horse-hoof press the sod About the quiet weedy moat, Where unscared did the great fish float; Because men dreaded there to see The uncouth things of faerie; Nathless by some few fathers old These tales about the place were told That neither squire nor seneschal Or varlet came in bower or hall, Yet all things were in order due, Hangings of gold and red and blue, And tables with fair service set; Cups that had paid the Caesar's debt Could he have laid his hands on them; Dorsars, with pearls in every hem, And fair embroidered gold-wrought things, Fit for a company of kings; And in the chambers dainty beds, With pillows dight for fair young heads; And horses in the stables were, And in the cellars wine full clear And strong, and casks of ale and mead; Yea, all things a great lord could need. For whom these things were ready there None knew; but if one chanced to fare Into that place at Easter-tide, There would he find a falcon tied Unto a pillar of the Hall; And such a fate to him would fall, That if unto the seventh night, He watched the bird from dark to light, And light to dark unceasingly, On the last evening he should see A lady beautiful past words; Then, were he come of clowns or lords, Son of a swineherd or a king, There must she grant him anything Perforce, that he might dare to ask, And do his very hardest task But if he slumbered, ne'er again The wretch would wake for he was slain Helpless, by hands he could not see, And torn and mangled wretchedly.

Now said these elders—Ere this tide Full many folk this thing have tried, But few have got much good thereby; For first, a many came to die By slumbering ere their watch was done; Or else they saw that lovely one, And mazed, they knew not what to say; Or asked some toy for all their pay, That easily they might have won, Nor staked their lives and souls thereon; Or asking, asked for some great thing That was their bane; as to be king One asked, and died the morrow morn That he was crowned, of all forlorn. Yet thither came a certain man, Who from being poor great riches wan Past telling, whose grandsons now are Great lords thereby in peace and war. And in their coat-of-arms they bear, Upon a field of azure fair, A castle and a falcon, set Below a chief of golden fret. And in our day a certain knight Prayed to be worsted in no fight, And so it happed to him: yet he Died none the less most wretchedly. And all his prowess was in vain, For by a losel was he slain, As on the highway side he slept One summer night, of no man kept.

Such tales as these the fathers old About that lonely castle told; And in their day the King must try Himself to prove that mystery, Although, unless the fay could give For ever on the earth to live, Nought could he ask that he had not: For boundless riches had he got, Fair children, and a faithful wife; And happily had passed his life, And all fulfilled of victory, Yet was he fain this thing to see. So towards the mountains he set out One noontide, with a gallant rout Of knights and lords, and as the day Began to fail came to the way Where he must enter all alone, Between the dreary walls of stone. Thereon to that fair company He bade farewell, who wistfully Looked backward oft as home they rode, But in the entry he abode Of that rough unknown narrowing pass, Where twilight at the high noon was. Then onward he began to ride: Smooth rose the rocks on every side, And seemed as they were cut by man; Adown them ever water ran, But they of living things were bare, Yea, not a blade of grass grew there; And underfoot rough was the way, For scattered all about there lay Great jagged pieces of black stone. Throughout the pass the wind did moan, With such wild noises, that the King Could almost think he heard something Spoken of men; as one might hear The voices of folk standing near One's chamber wall: yet saw he nought Except those high walls strangely wrought, And overhead the strip of sky. So, going onward painfully, He met therein no evil thing, But came about the sun-setting Unto the opening of the pass, And thence beheld a vale of grass Bright with the yellow daffodil; And all the vale the sun did fill With his last glory. Midmost there Rose up a stronghold, built four-square, Upon a flowery grassy mound, That moat and high wall ran around. Thereby he saw a walled pleasance, With walks and sward fit for the dance Of Arthur's court in its best time, That seemed to feel some magic clime; For though through all the vale outside Things were as in the April-tide, And daffodils and cowslips grew And hidden the March violets blew, Within the bounds of that sweet close Was trellised the bewildering rose; There was the lily over-sweet, And starry pinks for garlands meet; And apricots hung on the wall And midst the flowers did peaches fall, And nought had blemish there or spot. For in that place decay was not.

Silent awhile the King abode Beholding all, then on he rode And to the castle-gate drew nigh, Till fell the drawbridge silently, And when across it he did ride He found the great gates open wide, And entered there, but as he passed The gates were shut behind him fast, But not before that he could see The drawbridge rise up silently. Then round he gazed oppressed with awe, And there no living thing he saw Except the sparrows in the eaves, As restless as light autumn leaves Blown by the fitful rainy wind. Thereon his final goal to find, He lighted off his war-horse good And let him wander as he would, When he had eased him of his gear; Then gathering heart against his fear. Just at the silent end of day Through the fair porch he took his way And found at last a goodly hall With glorious hangings on the wall, Inwrought with trees of every clime, And stories of the ancient time, But all of sorcery they were. For o'er the dais Venus fair, Fluttered about by many a dove, Made hopeless men for hopeless love, Both sick and sorry; there they stood Wrought wonderfully in various mood, But wasted all by that hid fire Of measureless o'er-sweet desire, And let the hurrying world go by Forgetting all felicity. But down the hall the tale was wrought How Argo in old time was brought To Colchis for the fleece of gold. And on the other side was told How mariners for long years came To Circe, winning grief and shame. Until at last by hardihead And craft, Ulysses won her bed. Long upon these the King did look And of them all good heed he took; To see if they would tell him aught About the matter that he sought, But all were of the times long past; So going all about, at last When grown nigh weary of his search A falcon on a silver perch, Anigh the dais did he see, And wondered, because certainly At his first coming 'twas not there; But 'neath the bird a scroll most fair, With golden letters on the white He saw, and in the dim twilight By diligence could he read this:—

"Ye who have not enow of bliss, And in this hard world labour sore, By manhood here may get you more, And be fulfilled of everything, Till ye be masters of the King. And yet, since I who promise this Am nowise God to give man bliss Past ending, now in time beware, And if you live in little care Then turn aback and home again, Lest unknown woe ye chance to gain In wishing for a thing untried."

A little while did he abide, When he had read this, deep in thought, Wondering indeed if there were aught He had not got, that a wise man Would wish; yet in his mind it ran That he might win a boundless realm, Yea, come to wear upon his helm The crown of the whole conquered earth; That all who lived thereon, from birth To death should call him King and Lord, And great kings tremble at his word, Until in turn he came to die. Therewith a little did he sigh, But thought, "Of Alexander yet Men talk, nor would they e'er forget My name, if this should come to be, Whoever should come after me: But while I lay wrapped round with gold Should tales and histories manifold Be written of me, false and true; And as the time still onward drew Almost a god would folk count me, Saying, 'In our time none such be.'" But therewith did he sigh again, And said, "Ah, vain, and worse than vain! For though the world forget me nought, Yet by that time should I be brought Where all the world I should forget, And bitterly should I regret That I, from godlike great renown, To helpless death must fall adown: How could I bear to leave it all?" Then straight upon his mind did fall Thoughts of old longings half forgot, Matters for which his heart was hot A while ago: whereof no more He cared for some, and some right sore Had vexed him, being fulfilled at last. And when the thought of these had passed Still something was there left behind, That by no torturing of his mind Could he in any language name, Or into form of wishing frame.

At last he thought, "What matters it, Before these seven days shall flit Some great thing surely shall I find, That gained will not leave grief behind, Nor turn to deadly injury. So now will I let these things be And think of some unknown delight."

Now, therewithal, was come the night And thus his watch was well begun; And till the rising of the sun, Waking, he paced about the hall, And saw the hangings on the wall Fade into nought, and then grow white In patches by the pale moonlight, And then again fade utterly As still the moonbeams passed them by; Then in a while, with hope of day, Begin a little to grow grey, Until familiar things they grew, As up at last the great sun drew, And lit them with his yellow light At ending of another night Then right glad was he of the day, That passed with him in such-like way; For neither man nor beast came near, Nor any voices did he hear. And when again it drew to night Silent it passed, till first twilight Of morning came, and then he heard The feeble twittering of some bird, That, in that utter silence drear, Smote harsh and startling on his ear. Therewith came on that lonely day That passed him in no other way; And thus six days and nights went by And nothing strange had come anigh. And on that day he well-nigh deemed That all that story had been dreamed. Daylight and dark, and night and day, Passed ever in their wonted way; The wind played in the trees outside, The rooks from out the high trees cried; And all seemed natural, frank, and fair, With little signs of magic there. Yet neither could he quite forget That close with summer blossoms set, And fruit hung on trees blossoming, When all about was early spring. Yea, if all this by man were made, Strange was it that yet undecayed The food lay on the tables still Unchanged by man, that wine did fill The golden cups, yet bright and red. And all was so apparelled For guests that came not, yet was all As though that servants filled the hall. So waxed and waned his hopes, and still He formed no wish for good or ill. And while he thought of this and that Upon his perch the falcon sat Unfed, unhooded, his bright eyes Beholders of the hard-earned prize, Glancing around him restlessly, As though he knew the time drew nigh When this long watching should be done.

So little by little fell the sun, From high noon unto sun-setting; And in that lapse of time the King, Though still he woke, yet none the less Was dreaming in his sleeplessness Of this and that which he had done Before this watch he had begun; Till, with a start, he looked at last About him, and all dreams were past; For now, though it was past twilight Without, within all grew as bright As when the noon-sun smote the wall, Though no lamp shone within the hall. Then rose the King upon his feet, And well-nigh heard his own heart beat, And grew all pale for hope and fear, As sound of footsteps caught his ear But soft, and as some fair lady, Going as gently as might be, Stopped now and then awhile, distraught By pleasant wanderings of sweet thought. Nigher the sound came, and more nigh, Until the King unwittingly Trembled, and felt his hair arise, But on the door still kept his eyes. That opened soon, and in the light There stepped alone a lady bright, And made straight toward him up the hall. In golden garments was she clad And round her waist a belt she had Of emeralds fair, and from her feet, That shod with gold the floor did meet, She held the raiment daintily, And on her golden head had she A rose-wreath round a pearl-wrought crown, Softly she walked with eyes cast down, Nor looked she any other than An earthly lady, though no man Has seen so fair a thing as she. So when her face the King could see Still more he trembled, and he thought, "Surely my wish is hither brought, And this will be a goodly day If for mine own I win this may." And therewithal she drew anear Until the trembling King could hear Her very breathing, and she raised Her head and on the King's face gazed With serious eyes, and stopping there, Swept from her shoulders her long hair, And let her gown fall on her feet, Then spoke in a clear voice and sweet: "Well hast thou watched, so now, O King, Be bold, and wish for some good thing; And yet, I counsel thee, be wise. Behold, spite of these lips and eyes, Hundreds of years old now am I And have seen joy and misery. And thou, who yet hast lived in bliss. I bid thee well consider this; Better it were that men should live As beasts, and take what earth can give, The air, the warm sun and the grass Until unto the earth they pass, And gain perchance nought worse than rest Than that not knowing what is best For sons of men, they needs must thirst For what shall make their lives accurst. "Therefore I bid thee now beware, Lest getting something seeming fair, Thou com'st in vain to long for more Or lest the thing thou wishest for Make thee unhappy till thou diest, Or lest with speedy death thou buyest A little hour of happiness Or lazy joy with sharp distress. "Alas, why say I this to thee, For now I see full certainly, That thou wilt ask for such a thing, It had been best for thee to fling Thy body from a mountain-top, Or in a white hot fire to drop, Or ever thou hadst seen me here, Nay then be speedy and speak clear." Then the King cried out eagerly, Grown fearless, "Ah, be kind to me! Thou knowest what I long for then! Thou know'st that I, a king of men, Will ask for nothing else than thee! Thou didst not say this could not be, And I have had enough of bliss, If I may end my life with this." "Hearken," she said, "what men will say When they are mad; before to-day I knew that words such things could mean, And wondered that it could have been. "Think well, because this wished-for joy, That surely will thy bliss destroy, Will let thee live, until thy life Is wrapped in such bewildering strife That all thy days will seem but ill— Now wilt thou wish for this thing still?" "Wilt thou then grant it?" cried the King; "Surely thou art an earthly thing, And all this is but mockery, And thou canst tell no more than I What ending to my life shall be." "Nay, then," she said, "I grant it thee Perforce; come nigh, for I am thine Until the morning sun doth shine, And only coming time can prove What thing I am." Dizzy with love, And with surprise struck motionless That this divine thing, with far less Of striving than a village maid, Had yielded, there he stood afraid, Spite of hot words and passionate, And strove to think upon his fate.

But as he stood there, presently With smiling face she drew anigh, And on his face he felt her breath. "O love," she said, "dost thou fear death? Not till next morning shalt thou die, Or fall into thy misery." Then on his hand her hand did fall, And forth she led him down the hall, Going full softly by his side. "O love," she said, "now well betide The day whereon thou cam'st to me. I would this night a year might be, Yea, life-long; such life as we have, A thousand years from womb to grave."

And then that clinging hand seemed worth Whatever joy was left on earth, And every trouble he forgot, And time and death remembered not: Kinder she grew, she clung to him With loving arms, her eyes did swim With love and pity, as he strove To show the wisdom of his love; With trembling lips she praised his choice, And said, "Ah, well may'st thou rejoice, Well may'st thou think this one short night Worth years of other men's delight. If thy heart as mine own heart is, Sunk in a boundless sea of bliss; O love, rejoice with me! rejoice!" But as she spoke, her honied voice Trembled, and midst of sobs she said, "O love, and art thou still afraid? Return, then, to thine happiness, Nor will I love thee any less; But watch thee as a mother might Her child at play." With strange delight He stammered out, "Nay, keep thy tears for me, and for my ruined years Weep love, that I may love thee more, My little hour will soon be o'er." "Ah, love," she said, "and thou art wise As men are, with long miseries Buying these idle words and vain, My foolish love, with lasting pain; And yet, thou wouldst have died at last If in all wisdom thou hadst passed Thy weary life: forgive me then, In pitying the sad life of men." Then in such bliss his soul did swim, But tender music unto him Her words were; death and misery But empty names were grown to be, As from that place his steps she drew, And dark the hall behind them grew.

* * * * *

But end comes to all earthly bliss, And by his choice full short was his; And in the morning, grey and cold, Beside the dais did she hold His trembling hand, and wistfully He, doubting what his fate should be, Gazed at her solemn eyes, that now, Beneath her calm, untroubled brow, Were fixed on his wild face and wan; At last she said, "Oh, hapless man, Depart! thy full wish hast thou had; A little time thou hast been glad, Thou shalt be sorry till thou die. "And though, indeed, full fain am I This might not be; nathless, as day Night follows, colourless and grey, So this shall follow thy delight, Your joy hath ending with last night— Nay, peace, and hearken to thy fate. "Strife without peace, early and late, Lasting long after thou art dead, And laid with earth upon thine head; War without victory shalt thou have, Defeat, nor honour shalt thou save; Thy fair land shall be rent and torn, Thy people be of all forlorn, And all men curse thee for this thing." She loosed his hand, but yet the King Said, "Yea, and I may go with thee? Why should we part? then let things be E'en as they will!" "Poor man," she said, "Thou ravest; our hot love is dead, If ever it had any life: Go, make thee ready for the strife Wherein thy days shall soon be wrapped; And of the things that here have happed Make thou such joy as thou may'st do; But I from this place needs must go, Nor shalt thou ever see me more Until thy troubled life is o'er: Alas I to say 'farewell' to thee Were nought but bitter mockery. Fare as thou may'st, and with good heart Play to the end thy wretched part."

Therewith she turned and went from him, And with such pain his eyes did swim He scarce could see her leave the place; And then, with troubled and pale face, He gat him thence: and soon he found His good horse in the base-court bound; So, loosing him, forth did he ride, For the great gates were open wide, And flat the heavy drawbridge lay.

So by the middle of the day, That murky pass had he gone through, And come to country that he knew; And homeward turned his horse's head. And passing village and homestead Nigh to his palace came at last; And still the further that he passed From that strange castle of the fays, More dreamlike seemed those seven days, And dreamlike the delicious night; And like a dream the shoulders white, And clinging arms and yellow hair, And dreamlike the sad morning there. Until at last he 'gan to deem That all might well have been a dream— Yet why was life a weariness? What meant this sting of sharp distress? This longing for a hopeless love, No sighing from his heart could move?

Or else, 'She did not come and go As fays might do, but soft and slow Her lovely feet fell on the floor; She set her fair hand to the door As any dainty maid might do; And though, indeed, there are but few Beneath the sun as fair as she, She seemed a fleshly thing to be. Perchance a merry mock this is, And I may some day have the bliss To see her lovely face again, As smiling she makes all things plain. And then as I am still a king, With me may she make tarrying Full long, yea, till I come to die." Therewith at last being come anigh Unto his very palace gate, He saw his knights and squires wait His coming, therefore on the ground He lighted, and they flocked around Till he should tell them of his fare. Then mocking said he, "Ye may dare, The worst man of you all, to go And watch as I was bold to do; For nought I heard except the wind, And nought I saw to call to mind." So said he, but they noted well That something more he had to tell If it had pleased him; one old man, Beholding his changed face and wan, Muttered, "Would God it might be so! Alas! I fear what fate may do; Too much good fortune hast thou had By anything to be more glad Than thou hast been, I fear thee then Lest thou becom'st a curse to men." But to his place the doomed King passed, And all remembrance strove to cast From out his mind of that past day, And spent his life in sport and play.

* * * * *

Great among other kings, I said He was before he first was led Unto that castle of the fays, But soon he lost his happy days And all his goodly life was done. And first indeed his best-loved son, The very apple of his eye, Waged war against him bitterly; And when this son was overcome And taken, and folk led him home, And him the King had gone to meet, Meaning with gentle words and sweet To win him to his love again, By his own hand he found him slain. I know not if the doomed King yet Remembered the fay lady's threat, But troubles upon troubles came: His daughter next was brought to shame, Who unto all eyes seemed to be The image of all purity, And fleeing from the royal place The King no more beheld her face. Then next a folk that came from far Sent to the King great threats of war, But he, full-fed of victory, Deemed this a little thing to be, And thought the troubles of his home Thereby he well might overcome Amid the hurry of the fight. His foemen seemed of little might, Although they thronged like summer bees About the outlying villages, And on the land great ruin brought. Well, he this barbarous people sought With such an army as seemed meet To put the world beneath his feet; The day of battle came, and he, Flushed with the hope of victory, Grew happy, as he had not been Since he those glorious eyes had seen. They met,—his solid ranks of steel There scarcely more the darts could feel Of those new foemen, than if they Had been a hundred miles away:— They met,—a storied folk were his To whom sharp war had long been bliss, A thousand years of memories Were flashing in their shielded eyes; And grave philosophers they had To bid them ever to be glad To meet their death and get life done Midst glorious deeds from sire to son. And those they met were beasts, or worse, To whom life seemed a jest, a curse; Of fame and name they had not heard; Honour to them was but a word, A word spoke in another tongue; No memories round their banners clung, No walls they knew, no art of war, By hunger were they driven afar Unto the place whereon they stood, Ravening for bestial joys and blood.

No wonder if these barbarous men Were slain by hundreds to each ten Of the King's brave well-armoured folk, No wonder if their charges broke To nothing, on the walls of steel, And back the baffled hordes must reel. So stood throughout a summer day Scarce touched the King's most fair array, Yet as it drew to even-tide The foe still surged on every side, As hopeless hunger-bitten men, About his folk grown wearied then. Therewith the King beheld that crowd Howling and dusk, and cried aloud, "What do ye, warriors? and how long Shall weak folk hold in check the strong? Nay, forward banners! end the day And show these folk how brave men play." The young knights shouted at his word, But the old folk in terror heard The shouting run adown the line, And saw men flush as if with wine— "O Sire," they said, "the day is sure, Nor will these folk the night endure Beset with misery and fears." Alas I they spoke to heedless ears; For scarce one look on them he cast But forward through the ranks he passed, And cried out, "Who will follow me To win a fruitful victory?" And toward the foe in haste he spurred, And at his back their shouts he heard, Such shouts as he ne'er heard again.

They met—ere moonrise all the plain Was filled by men in hurrying flight The relics of that shameful fight; The close array, the full-armed men, The ancient fame availed not then, The dark night only was a friend To bring that slaughter to an end; And surely there the King had died. But driven by that back-rushing tide Against his will he needs must flee; And as he pondered bitterly On all that wreck that he had wrought, From time to time indeed he thought Of the fay woman's dreadful threat.

"But everything was not lost yet; Next day he said, great was the rout And shameful beyond any doubt, But since indeed at eventide The flight began, not many died, And gathering all the stragglers now His troops still made a gallant show— Alas! it was a show indeed; Himself desponding, did he lead His beaten men against the foe, Thinking at least to lie alow Before the final rout should be But scarce upon the enemy Could these, whose shaken banners shook The frightened world, now dare to look; Nor yet could the doomed King die there A death he once had held most fair; Amid unwounded men he came Back to his city, bent with shame, Unkingly, midst his great distress, Yea, weeping at the bitterness Of women's curses that did greet His passage down the troubled street But sight of all the things they loved, The memory of their manhood moved Within the folk, and aged men And boys must think of battle then. And men that had not seen the foe Must clamour to the war to go. So a great army poured once more From out the city, and before The very gates they fought again, But their late valour was in vain; They died indeed, and that was good, But nought they gained for all the blood Poured out like water; for the foe, Men might have stayed a while ago, A match for very gods were grown, So like the field in June-tide mown The King's men fell, and but in vain The remnant strove the town to gain; Whose battlements were nought to stay An untaught foe upon that day, Though many a tale the annals told Of sieges in the days of old, When all the world then knew of war From that fair place was driven afar.

As for the King, a charmed life He seemed to bear; from out that strife He came unhurt, and he could see, As down the valley he did flee With his most wretched company, His palace flaming to the sky. Then in the very midst of woe His yearning thoughts would backward go Unto the castle of the fay; He muttered, "Shall I curse that day, The last delight that I have had, For certainly I then was glad? And who knows if what men call bliss Had been much better now than this When I am hastening to the end." That fearful rest, that dreaded friend, That Death, he did not gain as yet; A band of men he soon did get, A ruined rout of bad and good, With whom within the tangled wood, The rugged mountain, he abode, And thenceforth oftentimes they rode Into the fair land once called his, And yet but little came of this, Except more woe for Heaven to see Some little added misery Unto that miserable realm: The barbarous foe did overwhelm The cities and the fertile plain, And many a peaceful man was slain, And many a maiden brought to shame. And yielded towns were set aflame; For all the land was masterless. Long dwelt the King in great distress, From wood to mountain ever tost, Mourning for all that he had lost, Until it chanced upon a day, Asleep in early morn he lay, And in a vision there did see Clad all in black, that fay lady Whereby all this had come to pass, But dim as in a misty glass: She said, "I come thy death to tell Yet now to thee may say 'farewell,' For in a short space wilt thou be Within an endless dim country Where thou may'st well win woe or bliss," Therewith she stooped his lips to kiss And vanished straightway from his sight. So waking there he sat upright And looked around, but nought could see And heard but song-birds' melody, For that was the first break of day.

Then with a sigh adown he lay And slept, nor ever woke again, For in that hour was he slain By stealthy traitors as he slept. He of a few was much bewept, But of most men was well forgot While the town's ashes still were hot The foeman on that day did burn. As for the land, great Time did turn The bloody fields to deep green grass, And from the minds of men did pass The memory of that time of woe, And at this day all things are so As first I said; a land it is Where men may dwell in rest and bliss If so they will—Who yet will not, Because their hasty hearts are hot With foolish hate, and longing vain The sire and dam of grief and pain.