Letters and Literary Remains

Edward FitzGerald

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  • VOL. I.
  • VOL. VI.
  • VOL. VII


  • VOL. I.


    'Tis a dull sight

                'Tis a dull sight
                   To see the year dying,
                When winter winds
                   Set the yellow wood sighing:
                      Sighing, oh! sighing.
     bsp;           When such a time cometh,
                   I do retire
                Into an old room
                   Beside a bright fire:
                    Oh, pile a bright fire!           And there I sit
                 Reading old things,
              Of knights and lorn damsels,
                 While the wind sings—
                    Oh, drearily sings!           I never look out
                 Nor attend to the blast;
              For all to be seen
                 Is the leaves falling fast:
                    Falling, falling!           But close at the hearth,
                 Like a cricket, sit I,
              Reading of summer
                 And chivalry—
                    Gallant chivalry!           Then with an old friend
                 I talk of our youth—
              How 'twas gladsome, but often
                 Foolish, forsooth:
                    But gladsome, gladsome!
              Or to get merry
                 We sing some old rhyme,
              That made the wood ring again
                 In summer time—
                    Sweet summer time!           Then go we to smoking,
                 Silent and snug:
              Nought passes between us,
                 Save a brown jug—
                    Sometimes!           And sometimes a tear
                 Will rise in each eye,
              Seeing the two old friends
                 So merrily—
                    So merrily!           And ere to bed
                 Go we, go we,
              Down on the ashes
                 We kneel on the knee,
                    Praying together!           Thus, then, live I,
                 Till, 'mid all the gloom,
              By heaven! the bold sun
                 Is with me in the room,
                    Shining, shining!           Then the clouds part,
                 Swallows soaring between;
              The spring is alive,
                 And the meadows are green!
              I jump up, like mad,
                 Break the old pipe in twain,
              And away to the meadows,
                 The meadows again!

    When Yúsúf from his Father's House was torn


                When Yúsúf from his Father's House was torn,
                His Father's Heart was utterly forlorn;
                And, like a Pipe with but one note, his Tongue
                Still nothing but the name of Yúsúf rung.
                Then down from Heaven's Branches came the Bird
                Of Heaven, and said "God wearies of that Word.
                Hast thou not else to do, and else to say?"
                So Yacúb's lips were sealed from that Day.
                But one Night in a Vision, far away
              His Darling in some alien Home he saw,
              And stretch'd his Arms forth; and between the Awe
              Of God's Displeasure, and the bitter Pass
              Of Love and Anguish, sigh'd forth an Alas!
              And stopp'd—But when he woke The Angel came,
              And said, 'Oh, faint of purpose! Though the Name
              Of that Belovèd were not utter'd by
              Thy Lips, it hung sequester'd in that Sigh.'

    A Saint there was who threescore Years and ten


                A Saint there was who threescore Years and ten
                In holy Meditation among Men
                Had spent, but, wishing, ere he came to close
                With God, to meet him in complete Repose,
                Withdrew into the Wilderness, where he
                Set up his Dwelling in an agèd Tree
                Whose hollow Trunk his Winter Shelter made,
                And whose green branching Arms his Summer Shade.
                And like himself a Nightingale one Spring
              Making her Nest above his Head would sing
              So sweetly that her pleasant Music stole
              Between the Saint and his severer Soul,
              And made him sometimes heedless of his Vows
              Listening his little Neighbour in the Boughs.
              Until one Day a sterner Music woke
              The sleeping Leaves, and through the Branches spoke—
              "What! is the Love between us two begun
              And waxing till we Two were nearly One,
              For three score Years of Intercourse unstirr'd
              Of Men, now shaken by a little Bird;
              And such a precious Bargain, and so long
              A making, put in peril for a Song?"

    Slow spreads the Gloom my Soul desires


                Slow spreads the Gloom my Soul desires,
                The Sun from India's Shore retires:
                To Orwell's Bank, with temperate ray—
                Home of my Youth!—he leads the Day:
                Oh Banks to me for ever dear,
                Oh Stream whose Murmur meets my Ear;
                Oh all my Hopes of Bliss abide
                Where Orwell mingles with the Tide.

    VOL. VI.


    AGAMEMNON


    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

    Agamemnon . . . . King of Argos.
    Clytemnestra . . . his Queen.
    Ægisthus . . . . his Cousin.
    Cassandra . . . Daughter of King Priam.
    Herald.
    Chorus of Ancient Councillors.

    The scene is at Argos. Agamemnon's Palace: a Warder on the Battlements.
    Warder.

                Once more, once more, and once again once more
                I crave the Gods' compassion, and release
                From this inexorable watch, that now
                For one whole year, close as a couching dog,
                On Agamemnon's housetop I have kept,
                Contemplating the muster of the stars,
                And those transplendent Dynasties of Heav'n
                That, as alternately they rise and fall,
                Draw Warmth and Winter over mortal man.
              Thus, and thus long, I say, at the behest
              Of the man-minded Woman who here rules,
              Here have I watch'd till yonder mountain-top
              Shall kindle with a signal-light from Troy.
              And watch'd in vain, couch'd on the barren stone,
              Night after night, night after night, alone,
              Ev'n by a wandering dream unvisited,
              To which the terror of my post denies
              The customary passage of closed eyes.
              From which, when haply nodding, I would scare
              Forbidden sleep, or charm long night away
              With some old ballad of the good old times,
              The foolish song falls presently to tears,
              Remembering the glories of this House,
              Where all is not as all was wont to be,—
              No, nor as should—Alas, these royal walls,
              Had they but tongue (as ears and eyes, men say)
              Would tell strange stories!—but, for fear they should,
              Mine shall be mute as they are. Only this—
              And this no treason surely—might I but,
              But once more might I, see my lord again
              Safe home! But once more look upon his face!
              But once more take his hand in mine!—

                                                     Hilloa!
              The words scarce from my lips.—Have the Gods heard?
              Or am I dreaming wide awake? as wide
              Awake I am—The Light! The Light! The Light
              Long look'd for, long despair'd of, on the Height!
              Oh more to me than all the stars of night!
              More than the Morning-star!—more than the Sun
              Who breaks my nightly watch, this rising one
              Which tells me that my year-long night is done!
              When, shaking off the collar of my watch,
              I first to Clytemnestra shall report
              Such news as, if indeed a lucky cast
              For her and Argos, sure a Main to me!
              But grant the Gods, to all! A master-cast,
              More than compensating all losses past;
              And lighting up our altars with a fire
              Of Victory that never shall expire! Exit Warder. Daylight gradually dawns, and enter slowly Chorus.
    Chorus.
    I.
              Another rising of the sun
                 That rolls another year away,
              Sees us through the portal dun
                 Dividing night and day
              Like to phantoms from the crypt
              Of Morpheus or of Hades slipt,
                 Through the sleeping city creeping,
              Murmuring an ancient song
              Of unvindicated wrong,
              Ten year told as ten year long.
              Since to revenge the great abuse
                 To Themis done by Priam's son,
              The Brother-Princes that, co-heir
              Of Atreus, share his royal chair,
                 And from the authentic hand of Zeus
              His delegated sceptre bear,
                 Startled Greece with such a cry
              For Vengeance as a plunder'd pair
              Of Eagles, over their aerial lair
              Screaming, to whirlpool lash the waves of air.
    II.
              The Robber, blinded in his own conceit,
                 Must needs think Retribution deaf and blind.
                 Fool! not to know what tongue was in the wind,
              When Tellus shudder'd under flying feet,
                 When stricken Ocean under alien wings;
              Was there no Phoebus to denounce the flight
              From Heav'n? Nor those ten thousand Eyes of Night?
              And, were no other eye nor ear of man
              Or God awake, yet universal Pan,
                 For ever watching at the heart of things,
              And Zeus, the Warden of domestic Right,
                 And the perennial sanctity of Kings,
              Let loose the Fury who, though late
              Retarded in the leash of Fate,
                 Once loosed, after the Sinner springs;
              Over Ocean's heights and hollows,
              Into cave and forest follows,
                 Into fastest guarded town,
              Close on the Sinner's heel insists,
              And, turn or baffle as he lists,
                 Dogs him inexorably down.
    III.
              Therefore to revenge the debt
                 To violated Justice due,
              Armèd Hellas hand in hand
                 The iron toils of Ares drew
              Over water, over land,
              Over such a tract of years;
              Draught of blood abroad, of tears
                 At home, and unexhausted yet:
              All the manhood Greece could muster,
                 And her hollow ships enclose;
            All that Troy from her capacious
               Bosom pouring forth oppose;
            By the ships, beneath the wall,
               And about the sandy plain,
            Armour-glancing files advancing,
               Fighting, flying, slaying, slain:
            And among them, and above them,
            Crested Heroes, twain by twain,
               Lance to lance, and thrust to thrust,
            Front erect, and, in a moment,
               One or other roll'd in dust.
            Till the better blood of Argos
               Soaking in the Trojan sand,
            In her silent half dispeopled
               Cities, more than half unmann'd,
            Little more of man to meet
            Than the helpless child, or hoary
            Spectre of his second childhood,
               Tottering on triple feet,
            Like the idle waifs and strays
            Blown together from the ways
               Up and down the windy street.
    IV.
            But thus it is; All bides the destined Hour;
               And Man, albeit with Justice at his side,
            Fights in the dark against a secret Power
               Not to be conquer'd—and how pacified?
    V.
            For, before the Navy flush'd
               Wing from shore, or lifted oar
            To foam the purple brush'd;
            While about the altar hush'd
               Throng'd the ranks of Greece thick-fold,
            Ancient Chalcas in the bleeding
            Volume of the Future reading
               Evil things foresaw, foretold:
            That, to revenge some old disgrace
               Befall'n her sylvan train,
            Some dumb familiar of the Chace
               By Menelaus slain,
            The Goddess Artemis would vex
            The fleet of Greece with storms and checks:
               That Troy should not be reach'd at all;
            Or—as the Gods themselves divide
            In Heav'n to either mortal side—
               If ever reach'd, should never fall—
            Unless at such a loss and cost
            As counterpoises Won and Lost.
    VI.
            The Elder of the Royal Twain
            Listen'd in silence, daring not arraign
               Ill omen, or rebuke the raven lips:
            Then taking up the tangled skein
               Of Fate, he pointed to the ships;
            He sprang aboard: he gave the sign;
               And blazing in his golden arms ahead,
            Drew the long Navy in a glittering line
               After him like a meteor o'er the main.
    VII.
            So from Argos forth: and so
               O'er the rolling waters they,
            Till in the roaring To-and-fro
               Of rock-lock'd Aulis brought to stay:
            There the Goddess had them fast:
            With a bitter northern blast
               Blew ahead and block'd the way:
            Day by day delay; to ship
            And tackle damage and decay;
            Day by day to Prince and People
               Indignation and dismay.
            'All the while that in the ribb'd
            'Bosom of their vessels cribb'd,
            'Tower-crown'd Troy above the waters
            'Yonder, quaffing from the horn
            'Of Plenty, laughing them to scorn'—
               So would one to other say;
            And man and chief in rage and grief
               Fretted and consumed away.
    VIII.
            Then to Sacrifice anew:
               And again within the bleeding
               Volume of the Future reading,
            Once again the summon'd Seer
               Evil, Evil, still fore-drew.
            Day by day, delay, decay
               To ship and tackle, chief and crew:
            And but one way—one only way to appease
            The Goddess, and the wind of wrath subdue;
            One way of cure so worse than the disease,
               As, but to hear propound,
            The Atreidæ struck their sceptres to the ground.
    IX.
               After a death-deep pause,
            The Lord of man and armament his voice
            Lifted into the silence—'Terrible choice!
            'To base imprisonment of wind and flood
               'Whether consign and sacrifice the band
            'Of heroes gather'd in my name and cause;
            'Or thence redeem them by a daughter's blood—
               'A daughter's blood shed by a father's hand;
            'Shed by a father's hand, and to atone
               'The guilt of One—who, could the God endure
               'Propitiation by the Life impure,
            'Should wash out her transgression with her own.'
    X.
            But, breaking on that iron multitude,
               The Father's cry no kindred echo woke:
            And in the sullen silence that ensued
               An unrelenting iron asnwer spoke.
    XI.
            At last his neck to that unnatural yoke
            He bow'd: his hand to that unnatural stroke:
            With growing purpose, obstinate as the wind
            That block'd his fleet, so block'd his better mind,
            To all the Father's heart within him blind—
               For thus it fares with men; the seed
               Of Evil, sown by seeming Need,
                  Grows, self-infatuation-nurst,
               From evil Thought to evil Deed,
                  Incomprehensible at first,
                  And to the end of Life accurst.
    XII.
            And thus, the blood of that one innocent
            Weigh'd light against one great accomplishment,
            At last—at last—in the meridian blaze
            Of Day, with all the Gods in Heaven agaze,
            And armed Greece below—he came to dare—
            After due preparation, pomp, and prayer,
            He came—the wretched father—came to dare—
               Himself—with sacrificial knife in hand,—
               Before the sacrificial altar stand,
            To which—her sweet lips, sweetly wont to sing
               Before him in the banquet-chamber, gagg'd,
            Lest one ill word should mar the impious thing;
            Her saffron scarf about her fluttering,
               Dumb as an all-but-speaking picture, dragg'd
            Through the remorseless soldiery—
                  But soft!—
               While I tell the more than oft-
            Told Story, best in silence found,
               Incense-breathing fires aloft
            Up into the rising fire,
            Into which the stars expire,
               Of Morning mingle; and a sound
            As of Rumour at the heel
               Of some great tidings gathers ground;
            And from portals that disclose
            Before a fragrant air that blows
            Them open, what great matter, Sirs,
            Thus early Clytemnestra stirs,
            Hither through the palace gate
            Torch in hand, and step-elate,
            Advancing, with the kindled Eyes
            As of triumphant Sacrifice? Enter Clytemnestra.
            Oh, Clytemnestra, my obeisance
            Salutes your coming footstep, as her right
            Who rightly occupies the fellow-chair
            Of that now ten years widow'd of its Lord.
            But—be it at your pleasure ask'd, as answer'd—
            What great occasion, almost ere Night's self
            Rekindles into Morning from the Sun,
            Has woke your Altar-fire to Sacrifice?
    Clytemnestra.
            Oh, never yet did Night—
            Night of all Good the Mother, as men say,
            Conceive a fairer issue than To-day!
            Prepare your ears, Old man, for tidings such
            As youthful hope would scarce anticipate.
    Chorus.
            I have prepared them for such news as such
            Preamble argues.
    Clytemnestra.
                                                   What if you be told—
            Oh mighty sum in one small figure cast!—
            That ten-year-toil'd-for Troy is ours at last?
    Chorus.
            'If told!'—Once more!—the word escaped our ears,
            With many a baffled rumour heretofore
            Slipp'd down the wind of wasted Expectation.
    Clytemnestra.
            Once more then; and with unconditional
            Assurance having hit the mark indeed
            That Rumour aim'd at—Troy, with all the towers
            Our burning vengeance leaves aloft, is ours.
            Now speak I plainly?
    Chorus.
                                                   Oh! to make the tears,
            That waited to bear witness in the eye,
            Start, to convict our incredulity!
    Clytemnestra.
            Oh, blest conviction that enriches you
            That lose the cause with all the victory!
    Chorus.
            Ev'n so. But how yourself convinced before?
    Clytemnestra.
            By no less sure a witness than the God.
    Chorus.
            What, in a dream?
    Clytemnestra.
                                                   I am not one to trust
            The vacillating witnesses of Sleep.
    Chorus.
            Ay—but as surely undeluded by
            The waking Will, that what we strongly would
            Imaginates?
    Clytemnestra.
                                                   Ay, like a doating girl.
    Chorus.
            Oh, Clytemnestra, pardon mere Old Age
            That, after so long starving upon Hope,
            But slowly brooks his own Accomplishment.
            The Ten-year war is done then! Troy is taken!
            The Gods have told you, and the Gods tell true—
            But—how? and when?
    Clytemnestra.
                                                   Ev'n with the very birth
            Of the good Night which mothers this best Day.
    Chorus.
            To-day! To-night! but of Night's work in Troy
            Who should inform the scarce awaken'd ear
            Of Morn in Argos?
    Clytemnestra.
                                                   Hephaistos, the lame God,
            And spriteliest of mortal messengers;
            Who, springing from the bed of burning Troy,
            Hither, by fore-devised Intelligence
            Agreed upon between my Lord and me,
            Posted from dedicated Height to Height
            The reach of land and sea that lies between.
            And, first to catch him and begin the game,
            Did Ida fire her forest-pine, and, waving,
            Handed him on to that Hermæan steep
            Of Lemnos; Lemnos to the summit of
            Zeus-consecrated Athos lifted; whence,
            As by the giant taken, so despatch'd,
            The Torch of Conquest, traversing the wide
            Ægæan with a sunbeam-stretching stride,
            Struck up the drowsy watchers on Makistos;
            Who, flashing back the challenge, flash'd it on
            To those who watch'd on the Messapian height.
            With whose quick-kindling heather heap'd and fired
            The meteor-bearded messenger refresh'd,
            Clearing Asopus at a bound, struck fire
            From old Kithæron; and, so little tired
            As waxing even wanton with the sport,
            Over the sleeping water of Gorgopis
            Sprung to the Rock of Corinth; thence to the cliffs
            Which stare down the Saronic Gulf, that now
            Began to shiver in the creeping Dawn;
            Whence, for a moment on the neighbouring top
            Of Arachnæum lighting, one last bound
            Brought him to Agamemnon's battlements.
            By such gigantic strides in such a Race
            Where First and Last alike are Conquerors,
            Posted the travelling Fire, whose Father-light
            Ida conceived of burning Troy To-night.
    Chorus.
            Woman, your words man-metal ring, and strike
            Ev'n from the tuneless fibre of Old Age
            Such martial unison as from the lips
            Shall break into full Pæan by and by.
    Clytemnestra.
            Ay, think—think—think, old man, and in your soul,
            As if 'twere mirror'd in your outward eye,
            Imagine what wild work a-doing there—
            In Troy—to-night—to-day—this moment—how
            Harmoniously, as in one vessel meet
            Esil and Oil, meet Triumph and Despair,
            Sluiced by the sword along the reeking street,
            On which the Gods look down from burning air.
            Slain, slaying—dying, dead—about the dead
            Fighting to die themselves—maidens and wives
            Lock'd by the locks, with their barbarian young,
            And torn away to slavery and shame
            By hands all reeking with their Champion's blood.
            Until, with execution weary, we
            Fling down our slaughter-satiated swords,
            To gorge ourselves on the unfinish'd feasts
            Of poor old Priam and his sons; and then,
            Roll'd on rich couches never spread for us,
            Ev'n now our sleep-besotted foreheads turn
            Up to the very Sun that rises here.
            Such is the lawful game of those who win
            Upon so just a quarrel—so long fought:
            Provided always that, with jealous care,
            Retaliation wreaking upon those
            Who our insulted Gods upon them drew,
            We push not Riot to their Altar-foot;
            Remembering, on whichever mortal side
            Engaged, the Gods are Gods in heav'n and earth,
            And not to be insulted unavenged.
            This let us take to heart, and keep in sight;
            Lest, having run victoriously thus far,
            And turn'd the very pillar of our race,
            Before we reach the long'd-for goal of Home
            Nemesis overtake, or trip us up;
            Some ere safe shipp'd: or, launch'd upon the foam,
            Ere touch'd the threshold of their native shore;
            Yea, or that reach'd, the threshold of the door
            Of their own home; from whatsoever corner
            The jealous Power is ever on the watch
            To compass arrogant Prosperity.
            These are a woman's words; for men to take,
            Or disregarded drop them, as they will;
            Enough for me, if having won the stake,
            I pray the Gods with us to keep it still. Exit Clytemnestra.
    Chorus.
    I.
                     Oh, sacred Night,
                  From whose unfathomable breast
                  Creative Order formed and saw
                  Chaos emerging into Law:
            And now, committed with Eternal Right,
            Who didst with star-entangled net invest
               So close the guilty City as she slept,
            That when the deadly fisher came to draw,
               Not one of all the guilty fry through crept.
    II.
                  Oh, Nemesis,
            Night's daughter! in whose bosoming abyss
               Secretly sitting by the Sinner's sleeve,
               Thou didst with self-confusion counterweave
            His plot; and when the fool his arrow sped,
               Thine after-shot didst only not dismiss
            Till certain not to miss the guilty head.
    III.
               Some think the Godhead, couching at his ease
               Deep in the purple Heav'ns, serenely sees
                  Insult the altar of Eternal Right.
                  Fools! For though Fortune seem to misrequite,
                  And Retribution for a while forget;
               Sooner or later she reclaims the debt
            With usury that triples the amount
            Of Nemesis with running Time's account.
    IV.
            For soon or late sardonic Fate
               With Man against himself conspires;
               Puts on the mask of his desires:
            Up the steps of Time elate
            Leads him blinded with his pride,
            And gathering as he goes along
            The fuel of his suicide:
            Until having topp'd the pyre
            Which Destiny permits no higher,
            Ambition sets himself on fire;
            In conflagration like the crime
            Conspicuous through the world and time
            Down amidst his brazen walls
            The accumulated Idol falls
            To shapeless ashes; Demigod
            Under the vulgar hoof down-trod
            Whose neck he trod on; not an eye
            To weep his fall, nor lip to sigh
            For him a prayer; or, if there were,
            No God to listen, or reply.
    V.
            And as the son his father's guilt may rue;
               And, by retort of justice, what the son
               Has sinn'd, to ruin on the father run;
            So may the many help to pay the due
               Of guilt, remotely implicate with one.
            And as the tree 'neath which a felon cowers,
               With all its branch is blasted by the bolt
               Of Justice launch'd from Heav'n at his revolt;
            Thus with old Priam, with his royal line,
               Kindred and people; yea, the very towers
            They crouch'd in, built by masonry divine.
    VI.
            Like a dream through sleep she glided
               Through the silent city gate,
            By a guilty Hermes guided
            On the feather'd feet of Theft;
            Leaving between those she left
            And those she fled to lighted Discord,
               Unextinguishable Hate;
            Leaving him whom least she should,
            Menelaus brave and good,
            Scarce believing in the mutter'd
            Rumour, in the worse than utter'd
               Omen of the wailing maidens,
            Of the shaken hoary head,
            Of deserted board and bed.
               For the phantom of the lost one
            Haunts him in the wonted places;
            Hall and Chamber, which he paces
            Hither, Thither, listening, looking,
               Phantom-like himself alone;
            Till he comes to loathe the faces
            Of the marble mute Colossi,
               Godlike Forms, and half-divine,
               Founders of the Royal line,
            Who with all unalter'd Quiet
               Witness all and make no sign.
            But the silence of the chambers,
               And the shaken hoary head,
            And the voices of the mourning
            Women, and of ocean wailing,
            Over which with unavailing
            Arms he reaches, as to hail
            The phantom of a flying sail—
               All but answer, Fled! fled! fled!
               False! dishonour'd! worse than dead!
    VII.
            At last the sun goes down along the bay,
            And with him drags detested Day.
            He sleeps; and, dream-like as she fled, beside
            His pillow, Dream indeed, behold! his Bride
            Once more in more than bridal beauty stands;
            But, ever as he reaches forth his hands,
            Slips from them back into the viewless deep,
            On those soft silent wings that walk the ways of sleep.
    VIII.
            Not beside thee in the chamber,
               Menelaus, any more;
            But with him she fled with, pillow'd
            On the summer softly-billow'd
            Ocean, into dimple wreathing
               Underneath a breeze of amber
               Air that, as from Eros breathing,
                  Fill'd the sail and flew before;
               Floating on the summer seas
               Like some sweet Effigies
               Of Eirene's self, or sweeter
            Aphrodite, sweeter still:
            With the Shepherd, from whose luckless
                  Hand upon the Phrygian hill,
               Of the three Immortals, She
               The fatal prize of Beauty bore,
            Floating with him o'er the foam
            She rose from, to the Shepherd's home
               On the Ionian shore.
    IX.
            Down from the City to the water-side
               Old Priam, with his princely retinue.
               By many a wondering Phrygian follow'd, drew
            To welcome and bear in the Goddess-bride,
               Whom some propitious wind of Fortune blew
            From whence they knew not o'er the waters wide
            Among the Trojan people to abide,
            A pledge of Love and Joy for ever—Yes;
            As one who drawing from the leopardess
            Her suckling cub, and, fascinated by
            The little Savage of the lustrous eye,
            Bears home, for all to fondle and caress,
            And be the very darling of the house
            It makes a den of blood of by and by.
    X.
            For the wind, that amber blew,
            Tempest in its bosom drew,
               Soon began to hiss and roar;
            And the sweet Effigies
            That amber breeze and summer seas
               Had wafted to the Ionian shore,
               By swift metamorphosis
            Turn'd into some hideous, hated,
            Fury of Revenge, and fated
               Hierophant of Nemesis;
               Who, growing with the day and hour,
               Grasp'd the wall, and topp'd the tower,
               And, when the time came, by its throat
               The victim City seized, and smote.
    XI.
               But now to be resolved, whether indeed
                  Those fires of Night spoke truly, or mistold
                  To cheat a doating woman; for, behold,
               Advancing from the shore with solemn speed,
                  A Herald from the Fleet, his footsteps roll'd
            In dust, Haste's thirsty consort, but his brow
               Check-shadow'd with the nodding Olive-bough;
               Who shall interpret us the speechless sign
               Of the fork'd tongue that preys upon the pine.
    Herald.
            Oh, Fatherland of Argos, back to whom
            After ten years do I indeed return
            Under the dawn of this auspicious day!
            Of all the parted anchors of lost Hope
            That this, depended least on, yet should hold;
            Amid so many men to me so dear
            About me dying, yet myself exempt
            Return to live what yet of life remains
            Among my own; among my own at last
            To share the blest communion of the Dead!
            Oh, welcome, welcome, welcome once again
            My own dear Country and the light she draws
            From the benignant Heav'ns; and all the Gods
            Who guard her; Zeus Protector first of all;
            And Phoebus, by this all-restoring dawn
            Who heals the wounds his arrows dealt so fast
            Beside Scamander; and not last nor least
            Among the Powers engaged upon our side,
            Hermes, the Herald's Patron, and his Pride;
            Who, having brought me safely through the war,
            Now brings me back to tell the victory
            Into my own belovèd country's ear;
            Who, all the more by us, the more away,
            Beloved, will greet with Welcome no less dear
            This remnant of the unremorseful spear.
            And, oh, you Temples, Palaces, and throned
            Colossi, that affront the rising sun,
            If ever yet, your marble foreheads now
            Bathe in the splendour of returning Day
            To welcome back your so long absent Lord;
            Who by Zeus' self directed to the spot
            Of Vengeance, and the special instrument
            Of Retribution put into his hands,
            Has undermined, uprooted, and destroy'd,
            Till scarce one stone upon another stands,
            The famous Citadel, that, deeply cast
            For crime, has all the forfeit paid at last.
    Chorus.
            Oh hail and welcome, Herald of good news!
            Welcome and hail! and doubt not thy return
            As dear to us as thee.
    Herald.
                                                   To me so dear,
            After so long despair'd of, that, for fear
            Life's after-draught the present should belie,
            One might implore the Gods ev'n now to die!
    Chorus.
            Oh, your soul hunger'd after home!
    Herald.
                                                   So sore,
            That sudden satisfaction of once more
            Return weeps out its surfeit at my eyes.
    Chorus.
            And ours, you see, contagiously, no less
            The same long grief, and sudden joy, confess.
    Herald.
            What! Argos for her missing children yearn'd
            As they for her, then?
    Chorus.
                                                   Ay; perhaps and more,
            Already pining with an inward sore.
    Herald.
            How so?
    Chorus.
                                                   Nay, Silence, that has best endured
            The pain, may best dismiss the memory.
    Herald.
            Ev'n so. For who, unless the God himself,
            Expects to live his life without a flaw?
            Why, once begin to open that account,
            Might not we tell for ten good years to come
            Of all we suffer'd in the ten gone by?
            Not the mere course and casualty of war,
            Alarum, March, Battle, and such hard knocks
            As foe with foe expects to give and take;
            But all the complement of miseries
            That go to swell a long campaign's account.
            Cramm'd close aboard the ships, hard bed, hard board:
            Or worse perhaps while foraging ashore
            In winter time; when, if not from the walls,
            Pelted from Heav'n by Day, to couch by Night
            Between the falling dews and rising damps
            That elf'd the locks, and set the body fast
            With cramp and ague; or, to mend the matter,
            Good mother Ida from her winter top
            Flinging us down a coverlet of snow.
            Or worst perhaps in Summer, toiling in
            The bloody harvest-field of torrid sand,
            When not an air stirr'd the fierce Asian noon,
            And ev'n the sea sleep-sicken'd in his bed.
            But why lament the Past, as past it is?
            If idle for the Dead who feel no more,
            Idler for us to whom this blissful Dawn
            Shines doubly bright against the stormy Past;
            Who, after such predicament and toil,
            Boast, once more standing on our mother soil,
               That Zeus, who sent us to revenge the crime
            Upon the guilty people, now recalls
            To hang their trophies on our temple walls
               For monumental heir-looms to all time.
    Chorus.
            Oh, but Old age, however slow to learn,
            Not slow to learn, nor after you repeat,
            Lesson so welcome, Herald of the Fleet!
            But here is Clytemnestra; be you first
            To bless her ears, as mine, with news so sweet.
    Clytemnestra.
            I sang my Song of Triumph ere he came,
            Alone I sang it while the City slept,
            And these wise Senators, with winking eyes,
            Look'd grave, and weigh'd mistrustfully my word,
            As the light coinage of a woman's brain.
            And so they went their way. But not the less
            From those false fires I lit my altar up,
            And, woman-wise, held on my song, until
            The City taking up the note from me,
            Scarce knowing why, about that altar flock'd,
            Where, like the Priest of Victory, I stood,
            Torch-handed, drenching in triumphant wine
            The flame that from the smouldering incense rose.
            Now what more needs? This Herald of the Day
            Adds but another witness to the Night;
            And I will hear no more from other lips,
            Till from my husband Agamemnon all,
            Whom with all honour I prepare to meet.
            Oh, to a loyal woman what so sweet
               As once more wide the gate of welcome fling
            To the loved Husband whom the Gods once more
               After long travail home triumphant bring;
            Where he shall find her, as he left before,
            Fix'd like a trusty watchdog at the door,
            Tractable him-ward, but inveterate
            Against the doubtful stranger at the gate;
               And not a seal within the house but still
            Inviolate, under a woman's trust
            Incapable of taint as gold of rust. Exit Clytemnestra.
    Herald.
            A boast not misbeseeming a true woman.
    Chorus.
            For then no boast at all. But she says well;
            And Time interprets all. Enough for us
            To praise the Gods for Agamemnon's safe,
            And more than safe return. And Menelaus,
            The other half of Argos—What of him?
    Herald.
            Those that I most would gladden with good news,
            And on a day like this—with fair but false
            I dare not.
    Chorus.
                                                   What, must fair then needs be false?
    Herald.
            Old man, the Gods grant somewhat, and withhold
            As seems them good: a time there is for Praise,
            A time for Supplication: nor is it well
            To twit the celebration of their largess,
            Reminding them of somewhat they withhold.
    Chorus.
            Yet till we know how much withheld or granted,
            We know not how the balance to adjust
            Of Supplication or of Praise.
    Herald.
                                                   Alas,
            The Herald who returns with downcast eyes,
            And leafless brow prophetic of Reverse,
            Let him at once—at once let him, I say,
            Lay the whole burden of Ill-tidings down
            In the mid-market place. But why should one
            Returning with the garland on his brow
            Be stopp'd to name the single missing leaf
            Of which the Gods have stinted us?
    Chorus.
                                                   Alas,
            The putting of a fearful question by
            Is but to ill conjecture worse reply!
            You bring not back then—do not leave behind—
            What Menelaus was?
    Herald.
                                                   The Gods forbid!
            Safe shipp'd with all the host.
    Chorus.
                                                   Well but—how then?
            Surely no tempest—
    Herald.
                                                   Ay! by that one word
            Hitting the centre of a boundless sorrow!
    Chorus.
            Well, but if peradventure from the fleet
            Parted—not lost?
    Herald.
                                                   None but the eye of Day,
            Now woke, knows all the havoc of the Night.
            For Night it was; all safe aboard—sail set,
            And oars all beating home; when suddenly,
            As if those old antagonists had sworn
            New strife between themselves for our destruction,
            The sea, that tamely let us mount his back,
            Began to roar and plunge under a lash
            Of tempest from the thundering heavens so fierce
            As, falling on our fluttering navy, some
            Scatter'd, or whirl'd away like flakes of foam:
            Or, huddling wave on wave, so ship on ship
            Like fighting eagles on each other fell,
            And beak, and wing, and claws, entangled, tore
            To pieces one another, or dragg'd down.
            So when at last the tardy-rising Sun
            Survey'd, and show'd, the havoc Night had done,
            We, whom some God—or Fortune's self, I think—
            Seizing the helm, had steer'd as man could not,
            Beheld the waste Ægæan wilderness
            Strown with the shatter'd forest of the fleet,
            Trunk, branch, and foliage; and yet worse, I ween,
            The flower of Argos floating dead between.
            Then we, scarce trusting in our own escape,
            And saving such as yet had life to save,
            Along the heaving wilderness of wave
            Went ruminating, who of those we miss'd
            Might yet survive, who lost: the saved, no doubt,
            As sadly speculating after us.
            Of whom, if Menelaus—and the Sun
            (A prayer which all the Gods in Heav'n fulfil!)
            Behold him on the water breathing still;
            Doubt not that Zeus, under whose special showers
            And suns the royal growth of Atreus towers,
            Will not let perish stem, and branch, and fruit,
            By loss of one corroborating root.
    Chorus.
    I.
            Oh, Helen, Helen, Helen! oh, fair name
            And fatal, of the fatal-fairest dame
               That ever blest or blinded human eyes!
            Of mortal women Queen beyond compare,
               As she whom the foam lifted to the skies
            Is Queen of all who breathe immortal air!
               Whoever, and from whatsoever wells
               Of Divination, drew the syllables
            By which we name thee; who shall ever dare
            In after time the fatal name to wear,
            Or would, to be so fatal, be so fair?
            Whose dowry was a Husband's shame;
            Whose nuptial torch was Troy in flame;
            Whose bridal Chorus, groans and cries;
            Whose banquet, brave men's obsequies;
            Whose Hymenæal retinue,
            The winged dogs of War that flew
            Over lands and over seas,
            Following the tainted breeze,
            Till, Scamander reed among,
            Their fiery breath and bloody tongue
            The fatal quarry found and slew;
            And, having done the work to which
            The God himself halloo'd them, back
            Return a maim'd and scatter'd pack.
    II.
            And he for whose especial cause
               Zeus his winged instrument
            With the lightning in his claws
               From the throne of thunder sent:
            He for whom the sword was drawn:
            Mountain ashes fell'd and sawn;
               And the armed host of Hellas
            Cramm'd within them, to discharge
            On the shore to bleed at large;
            He, in mid accomplishment
            Of Justice, from his glory rent!
            What ten years had hardly won,
            In a single night undone;
            And on earth what saved and gain'd,
            By the ravin sea distrain'd.
    III.
            Such is the sorrow of this royal house;
               And none in all the City but forlorn
            Under its own peculiar sorrow bows.
            For the stern God who, deaf to human love,
               Grudges the least abridgment of the tale
            Of human blood once pledged to him, above
            The centre of the murder-dealing crowd
               Suspends in air his sanguinary scale;
            And for the blooming Hero gone a-field
               Homeward remits a beggarly return
            Of empty helmet, fallen sword and shield,
               And some light ashes in a little urn.
    IV.
            Then wild and high goes up the cry
            To heav'n, 'So true! so brave! so fair!
            'The young colt of the flowing hair
            'And flaming eye, and now—look there!
            'Ashes and arms!' or, 'Left behind
            'Unburied, in the sun and wind
            'To wither, or become the feast
            'Of bird obscene, or unclean beast;
            'The good, the brave, without a grave—
            'All to redeem her from the shame
            'To which she sold her self and name!'—
            For such insinuation in the dark
            About the City travels like a spark;
               Till the pent tempest into lightning breaks,
            And takes the topmost pinnacle for mark.
    V.
            But avaunt all evil omen!
               Perish many, so the State
               They die for live inviolate;
            Which, were all her mortal leafage
               In the blast of Ares scatter'd,
               So herself at heart unshatter'd,
            In due season she retrieves
            All her wasted wealth of leaves,
            And age on age shall spread and rise
            To cover earth and breathe the skies.
            While the rival at her side
            Who the wrath of Heav'n defied,
            By the lashing blast, or flashing
            Bolt of Heav'n comes thunder-crashing,
            Top and lop, and trunk and bough,
            Down, for ever down. And now,
            He to whom the Zeus of Vengeance
               Did commit the bolt of Fate—
            Agamemnon—how shall I
            With a Pæan not too high
            For mortal glory, to provoke
            From the Gods a counter-stroke,
            Nor below desert so lofty,
               Suitably felicitate?
            Such as chasten'd Age for due
            May give, and Manhood take for true.
            For, as many men comply
            From founts no deeper than the eye
               With others' sorrows; many more,
            With a Welcome from the lips,
            That far the halting heart outstrips,
               Fortune's Idol fall before.
            Son of Atreus, I premise,
               When at first the means and manhood
            Of the cities thou didst stake
            For a wanton woman's sake,
               I might grudge the sacrifice;
               But, the warfare once begun,
            Hardly fought and hardly won,
            Now from Glory's overflowing
            Horn of Welcome all her glowing
               Honours, and with uninvidious
            Hand, before your advent throwing,
            I salute, and bid thee welcome,
            Son of Atreus, Agamemnon,
            Zeus' revenging Right-hand, Lord
               Of taken Troy and righted Greece:
            Bid thee from the roving throne
               Of War the reeking steed release;
            Leave the laurell'd ship to ride
            Anchor'd in her country's side,
            And resume the royal helm
            Of thy long-abandon'd realm:
            What about the State or Throne
            Of good or evil since has grown,
               Alter, cancel, or complete;
            And to well or evil-doer
               Even-handed Justice mete. Enter Agamemnon in his chariot, Cassandra following in another.
    Agamemnon.
            First, as first due, my Country I salute,
            And all her tutelary Gods; all those
            Who, having sent me forth, now bring me back,
            After full retribution wrought on those
            Who retribution owed us, and the Gods
            In full consistory determined; each,
            With scarce a swerving eye to Mercy's side,
            Dropping his vote into the urn of blood,
            Caught and consuming in whose fiery wrath,
            The stately City, from her panting ashes
            Into the nostril of revolted Heav'n
            Gusts of expiring opulence puffs up.
            For which, I say, the Gods alone be thank'd;
            By whose contrivance round about the wall
            We drew the belt of Ares, and laid bare
            The flank of Ilium to the Lion-horse,
            Who sprung by night over the city wall,
            And foal'd his iron progeny within,
            About the setting of the Pleiades.
            Thus much by way of prelude to the Gods.
            For you, oh white-hair'd senators of Argos,
            Your measured Welcome I receive for just;
            Aware on what a tickle base of fortune
            The monument of human Glory stands;
            And, for humane congratulation, knowing
            How, smile as may the mask, the man behind
            Frets at the fortune that degrades his own.
            This, having heard of from the wise, myself,
            From long experience in the ways of men,
            Can vouch for—what a shadow of a shade
            Is human loyalty; and, as a proof,
            Of all the Host that fill'd the Grecian ship,
            And pour'd at large along the field of Troy,
            One only Chief—and he, too, like yourself,
            At first with little stomach for the cause—
            The wise Odysseus—once in harness, he
            With all his might pull'd in the yoke with me,
            Through envy, obloquy, and opposition:
            And in Odysseus' honour, live or dead—
            For yet we know not which—shall this be said.
            Of which enough. For other things of moment
            To which you point, or human or divine,
            We shall forthwith consider and adjudge
            In seasonable council; what is well,
            Or in our absence well deserving, well
            Establish and requite; what not, redress
            With salutary caution; or, if need,
            With the sharp edge of Justice; and to health
            Restore, and right, our ailing Commonwealth.
            Now, first of all, by my own altar-hearth
            To thank the Gods for my return, and pray
            That Victory, which thus far by my side
            Has flown with us, with us may still abide. Enter Clytemnestra from the Palace.
    Clytemnestra.
            Oh Men of Argos, count it not a shame
            If a fond wife, and one whom riper years
            From Youth's becoming bashfulness excuse,
            Dares own her love before the face of men;
            Nor leaving it for others to enhance,
            Simply declares the wretched widowhood
            Which these ten years she has endured, since first
            Her husband Agamemnon went to Troy.
            'Tis no light matter, let me tell you, Sirs,
            A woman left in charge of house and home—
            And when that house and home a Kingdom—and
            She left alone to rule it—and ten years!
            Beside dissent and discontent at home,
            Storm'd from abroad with contrary reports,
            Now fair, now foul; but still as time wore on
            Growing more desperate; as dangerous
            Unto the widow'd kingdom as herself.
            Why, had my husband there but half the wounds
            Fame stabb'd him with, he were before me now,
            Not the whole man we see him, but a body
            Gash'd into network; ay, or had he died
            But half as often as Report gave out,
            He would have needed thrice the cloak of earth
            To cover him, that triple Geryon
            Lies buried under in the world below.
            Thus, back and forward baffled, and at last
            So desperate—that, if I be here alive
            To tell the tale, no thanks to me for that,
            Whose hands had twisted round my neck the noose
            Which others loosen'd—my Orestes too
            In whose expanding manhood day by day
            My Husband I perused—and, by the way,
            Whom wonder not, my Lord, not seeing here;
            My simple mother-love, and jealousy
            Of civic treason—ever as you know,
            Most apt to kindle when the lord away—
            Having bestow'd him, out of danger's reach,
            With Strophius of Phocis, wholly yours
            Bound by the generous usages of war,
            That make the once-won foe so fast a friend.
            Thus, widow'd of my son as of his sire,
            No wonder if I wept—not drops, but showers,
            The ten years' night through which I watch'd in vain
            The star that was to bring him back to me;
            Or, if I slept, a sleep so thin as scared
            Even at the slight incursion of the gnat;
            And yet more thick with visionary terrors
            Than thrice the waking while had occupied.
            Well, I have borne all this: all this have borne,
            Without a grudge against the wanderer,
            Whose now return makes more than rich amends
            For all ungrateful absence—Agamemnon,
            My Lord and Husband; Lord of Argos; Troy's
            Confounder: Mainstay of the realm of Greece;
            And Master-column of the house of Atreus—
            Oh wonder not if I accumulate
            All honour and endearment on his head!
            If to his country, how much more to me,
            Welcome, as land to sailors long at sea,
            Or water in the desert; whose return
            Is fire to the forsaken winter-hearth;
            Whose presence, like the rooted Household Tree
            That, winter-dead so long, anew puts forth
            To shield us from the Dogstar, what time Zeus
            Wrings the tart vintage into blissful juice.
            Down from the chariot thou standest in,
            Crown'd with the flaming towers of Troy, descend,
            And to this palace, rich indeed with thee,
            But beggar-poor without, return! And ye,
            My women, carpet all the way before,
            From the triumphal carriage to the door,
            With all the gold and purple in the chest
               Stored these ten years; and to what purpose stored,
               Unless to strew the footsteps of their Lord
            Returning to his unexpected rest!
    Agamemnon.
            Daughter of Leda, Mistress of my house,
            Beware lest loving Welcome of your Lord,
            Measuring itself by his protracted absence,
            Exceed the bound of rightful compliment,
            And better left to other lips than yours.
            Address me not, address me not, I say
            With dust-adoring adulation, meeter
            For some barbarian Despot from his slave;
            Nor with invidious Purple strew my way,
            Fit only for the footstep of a God
            Lighting from Heav'n to earth. Let whoso will
            Trample their glories underfoot, not I.
            Woman, I charge you, honour me no more
            Than as the man I am; if honour-worth,
            Needing no other trapping but the fame
            Of the good deed I clothe myself withal;
            And knowing that, of all their gifts to man,
            No greater gift than Self-sobriety
            The Gods vouchsafe him in the race of life:
            Which, after thus far running, if I reach
            The goal in peace, it shall be well for me.
    Clytemnestra.
            Why, how think you old Priam would have walk'd
            Had he return'd to Troy your conqueror,
            As you to Hellas his?
    Agamemnon.
                                                   What then? Perhaps
            Voluptuary Asiatic-like,
            On gold and purple.
    Clytemnestra.
                                                   Well, and grudging this,
            When all that out before your footstep flows
            Ebbs back into the treasury again;
            Think how much more, had Fate the tables turn'd,
            Irrevocably from those coffers gone,
            For those barbarian feet to walk upon,
            To buy your ransom back!
    Agamemnon.
                                                   Enough, enough!
            I know my reason.
    Clytemnestra.
                                                   What! the jealous God?
          Or, peradventure, yet more envious Man?
    Agamemnon.
          And that of no small moment.
    Clytemnestra.
                                                 No; the one
          Sure proof of having won what others would.
    Agamemnon.
          No matter—Strife but ill becomes a woman.
    Clytemnestra.
          And frank submission to her simple wish
          How well becomes the Soldier in his strength!
    Agamemnon.
          And I must then submit?
    Clytemnestra.
                                                 Ay, Agamemnon,
          Deny me not this first Desire on this
          First Morning of your long-desired Return.
    Agamemnon.
          But not till I have put these sandals off,
          That, slave-like, too officiously would pander
          Between the purple and my dainty feet.
          For fear, for fear indeed, some Jealous eye
          From heav'n above, or earth below, should strike
          The Man who walks the earth Immortal-like.
          So much for that. For this same royal maid,
          Cassandra, daughter of King Priamus,
          Whom, as the flower of all the spoil of Troy,
          The host of Hellas dedicates to me;
          Entreat her gently; knowing well that none
          But submit hardly to a foreign yoke;
          And those of Royal blood most hardly brook.
          That if I sin thus trampling underfoot
             A woof in which the Heav'ns themselves are dyed,
          The jealous God may less resent his crime,
             Who mingles human mercy with his pride.
    Clytemnestra.
          The Sea there is, and shall the sea be dried?
             Fount inexhaustibler of purple grain
             Than all the wardrobes of the world could drain;
          And Earth there is, whose dusky closets hide
             The precious metal wherewith not in vain
          The Gods themselves this Royal house provide;
          For what occasion worthier, or more meet,
          Than now to carpet the victorious feet
          Of Him who, thus far having done their will,
          Shall now their last About-to-be fulfil? Agamemnon descends from his chariot, and goes with Clytemnestra into the house, Cassandra remaining.
    Chorus.
    I.
          About the nations runs a saw,
             That Over-good ill-fortune breeds;
          And true that, by the mortal law,
             Fortune her spoilt children feeds
             To surfeit, such as sows the seeds
          Of Insolence, that, as it grows,
          The flower of Self-repentance blows.
          And true that Virtue often leaves
             The marble walls and roofs of kings,
          And underneath the poor man's eaves
             On smoky rafter folds her wings.
    II.
          Thus the famous city, flown
          With insolence, and overgrown,
          Is humbled: all her splendour blown
          To smoke: her glory laid in dust;
          Who shall say by doom unjust?
          But should He to whom the wrong
          Was done, and Zeus himself made strong
          To do the vengeance He decreed—
          At last returning with the meed
             He wrought for—should the jealous Eye
             That blights full-blown prosperity
          Pursue him—then indeed, indeed,
          Man should hoot and scare aloof
          Good-fortune lighting on the roof;
          Yea, even Virtue's self forsake
          If Glory follow'd in the wake;
          Seeing bravest, best, and wisest
             But the playthings of a day,
          Which a shadow can trip over,
             And a breath can puff away.
    Clytemnestra (re-entering).
          Yet for a moment let me look on her—
          This, then, is Priam's daughter—
          Cassandra, and a Prophetess, whom Zeus
          Has giv'n into my hands to minister
          Among my slaves. Didst thou prophesy that?
          Well—some more famous have so fall'n before—
          Ev'n Herakles, the son of Zeus, they say
          Was sold, and bow'd his shoulder to the yoke.
    Chorus.
          And, if needs must a captive, better far
          Of some old house that affluent Time himself
          Has taught the measure of prosperity,
          That drunk with sudden superfluity.
    Clytemnestra.
          Ev'n so. You hear? Therefore at once descend
          From that triumphal chariot—And yet
          She keeps her station still, her laurel on,
          Disdaining to make answer.
    Chorus.
                                                 Nay, perhaps,
          Like some stray swallow blown across the seas,
          Interpreting no twitter but her own.
    Clytemnestra.
          But, if barbarian, still interpreting
          The universal language of the hand.
    Chorus.
          Which yet again she does not seem to see,
          Staring before her with wide-open eyes
          As in a trance.
    Clytemnestra.
                                                 Ay, ay, a prophetess—
          Phoebus Apollo's minion once—Whose now?
          A time will come for her. See you to it:
             A greater business now is on my hands:
          For lo! the fire of Sacrifice is lit,
          And the grand victim by the altar stands. Exit Clytemnestra.
    Chorus (continuing).
          Still a mutter'd and half-blind
          Superstition haunts mankind,
             That, by some divine decree
          Yet by mortal undivined,
          Mortal Fortune must not over-
             Leap the bound he cannot see;
          For that even wisest labour
             Lofty-building, builds to fall,
          Evermore a jealous neighbour
             Undermining floor and wall.
          So that on the smoothest water
             Sailing, in a cloudless sky,
          The wary merchant overboard
          Flings something of his precious hoard
             To pacify the jealous eye,
          That will not suffer man to swell
          Over human measure. Well,
          As the Gods have order'd we
          Must take—I know not—let it be.
          But, by rule of retribution,
             Hidden, too, from human eyes,
          Fortune in her revolution,
             If she fall, shall fall to rise:
          And the hand of Zeus dispenses
             Even measure in the main:
          One short harvest recompenses
             With a glut of golden grain;
          So but men in patience wait
             Fortune's counter-revolution
          Axled on eternal Fate;
          And the Sisters three that twine,
          Cut not short the vital line;
          For indeed the purple seed
          Of life once shed—
    Cassandra.
                             Phoebus Apollo!
    Chorus.
                                                 Hark!
          The lips at last unlocking.
    Cassandra.
                                                 Phoebus! Phoebus!
    Chorus.
          Well, what of Phoebus, maiden? though a name
          'Tis but disparagement to call upon
          In misery.
    Cassandra.
                                                 Apollo! Apollo! Again!
          Oh, the burning arrow through the brain!
          Phoebus Apollo! Apollo!
    Chorus.
                                                 Seemingly
          Possess'd indeed—whether by—
    Cassandra.
                                                 Phoebus! Phoebus!
          Thorough trampled ashes, blood, and fiery rain,
          Over water seething, and behind the breathing
          Warhorse in the darkness—till you rose again—
          Took the helm—took the rein—
    Chorus.
          As one that half asleep at dawn recalls
          A night of Horror!
    Cassandra.
          Hither, whither, Phoebus? And with whom,
          Leading me, lighting me—
    Chorus.
                                                 I can answer that—
    Cassandra.
          Down to what slaughter-house?
          Foh! the smell of carnage through the door
          Scares me from it—drags me tow'rd it—
          Phoebus! Apollo! Apollo!
    Chorus.
          One of the dismal prophet-pack, it seems,
          That hunt the trail of blood. But here at fault—
          This is no den of slaughter, but the house
          Of Agamemnon.
    Cassandra.
                                                 Down upon the towers
          Phantoms of two mangled Children hover—and a famish'd man,
          At an empty table glaring, seizes and devours!
    Chorus.
          Thyestes and his children! Strange enough
          For any maiden from abroad to know,
          Or, knowing—
    Cassandra.
                                                 And look! in the chamber below
          The terrible Woman, listening, watching,
          Under a mask, preparing the blow
          In the fold of her robe—
    Chorus.
                                                 Nay, but again at fault:
          For in the tragic story of this House—
          Unless, indeed, the fatal Helen—
          No woman—
    Cassandra.
                                                 No Woman—Tisiphone! Daughter
          Of Tartarus—love-grinning Woman above,
          Dragon-tail'd under—honey-tongued, Harpy-claw'd,
          Into the glittering meshes of slaughter
          She wheedles, entices, him into the poisonous
          Fold of the serpent—
    Chorus.
                                                 Peace, mad woman, peace!
          Whose stony lips once open vomit out
          Such uncouth horrors.
    Cassandra.
                                                 I tell you the lioness
          Slaughters the Lion asleep; and lifting
          Her blood-dripping fangs buried deep in his mane,
          Glaring about her insatiable, bellowing,
          Bounds hither—Phoebus, Apollo, Apollo, Apollo!
          Whither have you led me, under night alive with fire,
          Through the trampled ashes of the city of my sire,
          From my slaughter'd kinsmen, fallen throne, insulted shrine,
          Slave-like to be butcher'd, the daughter of a Royal line?
    Chorus.
          And so returning, like a nightingale
          Returning to the passionate note of woe
          By which the silence first was broken!
    Cassandra.
                                                 Oh,
          A nightingale, a nightingale, indeed,
          That, as she 'Itys! Itys! Itys!' so
          I 'Helen! Helen! Helen!' having sung
          Amid my people, now to those who flung
          And trampled on the nest, and slew the young,
          Keep crying 'Blood! blood! blood!' and none will heed!
          Now what for me is this prophetic weed,
          And what for me is this immortal crown,
          Who like a wild swan from Scamander's reed
          Chaunting her death-song float Cocytus-down?
          There let the fatal Leaves to perish lie!
          To perish, or enrich some other brow
          With that all-fatal gift of Prophecy
          They palpitated under Him who now,
          Checking his flaming chariot in mid sky,
          With divine irony sees disadorn
          The wretch his love has made the people's scorn,
          The raving quean, the mountebank, the scold,
          Who, wrapt up in the ruin she foretold
          With those who would not listen, now descends
          To that dark kingdom where his empire ends.
    Chorus.
          Strange that Apollo should the laurel wreath
          Of Prophecy he crown'd your head withal
          Himself disgrace. But something have we heard
          Of some divine revenge for slighted love.
    Cassandra.
          Ay—and as if in malice to attest
             With one expiring beam of Second-sight
          Wherewith his victim he has cursed and blest,
             Ere quench'd for ever in descending night;
          As from behind a veil no longer peeps
          The Bride of Truth, nor from their hidden deeps
          Darkle the waves of Prophecy, but run
          Clear from the very fountain of the Sun.
          Ye call'd—and rightly call'd—me bloodhound; ye
          That like old lagging dogs in self-despite
          Must follow up the scent with me; with me,
          Who having smelt the blood about this house
          Already spilt, now bark of more to be.
          For, though you hear them not, the infernal Choir
          Whose dread antiphony forswears the lyre,
          Who now are chaunting of that grim carouse
          Of blood with which the children fed their Sire,
          Shall never from their dreadful chorus stop
          Till all be counter-pledged to the last drop.
    Chorus.
          Hinting at what indeed has long been done,
          And widely spoken, no Apollo needs;
          And for what else you aim at—still in dark
          And mystic language—
    Cassandra.
                                                 Nay, then, in the speech,
          She that reproved me was so glib to teach—
          Before yon Sun a hand's-breadth in the skies
          He moves in shall have moved, those age-sick eyes
          Shall open wide on Agamemnon slain
          Before your very feet. Now, speak I plain?
    Chorus.
          Blasphemer, hush!
    Cassandra.
                                                 Ay, hush the mouth you may,
          But not the murder.
    Chorus.
                             Murder! But the Gods—
    Cassandra.
                                                 The Gods!
          Who even now are their accomplices.
    Chorus.
          Woman!—Accomplices—With whom?—
    Cassandra.
                                                 With Her,
          Who brandishing aloft the axe of doom,
             That just has laid one victim at her feet,
          Looks round her for that other, without whom
             The banquet of revenge were incomplete.
          Yet ere I fall will I prelude the strain
          Of Triumph, that in full I shall repeat
          When, looking from the twilight Underland,
          I welcome Her as she descends amain,
          Gash'd like myself, but by a dearer hand.
          For that old murder'd Lion with me slain,
          Rolling an awful eyeball through the gloom
          He stalks about of Hades up to Day,
          Shall rouse the whelp of exile far away,
          His only authentic offspring, ere the grim
          Wolf crept between his Lioness and him;
          Who with one stroke of Retribution, her
          Who did the deed, and her adulterer,
          Shall drive to hell; and then, himself pursued
          By the wing'd Furies of his Mother's blood,
          Shall drag about the yoke of Madness, till
          Released, when Nemesis has gorged her fill,
          By that same God, in whose prophetic ray
          Viewing To-morrow mirror'd as To-day,
          And that this House of Atreus the same wine
          Themselves must drink they brew'd for me and mine;
          I close my lips for ever with one prayer,
          That the dark Warder of the World below
          Would ope the portal at a single blow.
    Chorus.

          And the raving voice, that rose
             Out of silence into speech
             Over-shooting human reach,
          Back to silence foams and blows,
             Leaving all my bosom heaving—
          Wrath and raving all, one knows;
          Prophet-seeming, but if ever
             Of the Prophet-God possess'd,
             By the Prophet's self confess'd
          God-abandon'd—woman's shrill
          Anguish into tempest rising,
          Louder as less listen'd.

                                                 Still—
          Spite of Reason, spite of Will,
          What unwelcome, what unholy,
          Vapour of Foreboding, slowly
          Rising from the central soul's
          Recesses, all in darkness rolls?
          What! shall Age's torpid ashes
          Kindle at the ransom spark
          Of a raving maiden?—Hark!
          What was that behind the wall?
          A heavy blow—a groan—a fall—
          Some one crying—Listen further—
          Hark again then, crying 'Murder!'
          Some one—who then? Agamemnon?
          Agamemnon?—Hark again!
          Murder! murder! murder! murder!
          Help within there! Help without there!
          Break the doors in!—
    Clytemnestra. (Appearing from within, where lies Agamemnon dead.)
                                                 Spare your pain.
          Look! I who but just now before you all
          Boasted of loyal wedlock unashamed,
          Now unashamed dare boast the contrary.
          Why, how else should one compass the defeat
          Of him who underhand contrives one's own,
          Unless by such a snare of circumstance
          As, once enmesh'd, he never should break through?
          The blow now struck was not the random blow
          Of sudden passion, but with slow device
          Prepared, and levell'd with the hand of time.
          I say it who devised it; I who did;
          And now stand here to face the consequence.
          Ay, in a deadlier web than of that loom
          In whose blood-purple he divined a doom,
          And fear'd to walk upon, but walk'd at last,
          Entangling him inextricably fast,
          I smote him, and he bellow'd; and again
          I smote, and with a groan his knees gave way;
          And, as he fell before me, with a third
          And last libation from the deadly mace
          I pledged the crowning draught to Hades due,
          That subterranean Saviour—of the Dead!
          At which he spouted up the Ghost in such
          A burst of purple as, bespatter'd with,
          No less did I rejoice than the green ear
          Rejoices in the largess of the skies
          That fleeting Iris follows as it flies.
    Chorus.
          Oh woman, woman, woman!
          By what accursèd root or weed
          Of Earth, or Sea, or Hell, inflamed,
          Darest stand before us unashamed
          And, daring do, dare glory in the deed!
    Clytemnestra.
          Oh, I that dream'd the fall of Troy, as you
          Belike of Troy's destroyer. Dream or not,
          Here lies your King—my Husband—Agamemnon,
          Slain by this right hand's righteous handicraft.
          Like you, or like it not, alike to me;
          To me alike whether or not you share
          In making due libation over this
          Great Sacrifice—if ever due, from him
          Who, having charged so deep a bowl of blood,
          Himself is forced to drink it to the dregs.
    Chorus.
          Woman, what blood but that of Troy, which Zeus
          Foredoom'd for expiation by his hand
          For whom the penalty was pledged? And now,
          Over his murder'd body, Thou
          Talk of libation!—Thou! Thou! Thou!
          But mark! Not thine of sacred wine
          Over his head, but ours on thine
          Of curse, and groan, and torn-up stone,
          To slay or storm thee from the gate,
          The City's curse, the People's hate,
          Execrate, exterminate—
    Clytemnestra.
          Ay, ay, to me how lightly you adjudge
          Exile or death, and never had a word
          Of counter-condemnation for Him there;
          Who, when the field throve with the proper flock
          For Sacrifice, forsooth let be the beast,
          And with his own hand his own innocent
          Blood, and the darling passion of my womb—
          Her slew—to lull a peevish wind of Thrace.
          And him who cursed the city with that crime
          You hail with acclamation; but on me,
          Who only do the work you should have done,
          You turn the axe of condemnation. Well;
          Threaten you me, I take the challenge up;
          Here stand we face to face; win Thou the game,
          And take the stake you aim at; but if I—
          Then, by the Godhead that for me decides,
          Another lesson you shall learn, though late.
    Chorus.
          Man-mettled evermore, and now
          Manslaughter-madden'd! Shameless brow!
          But do you think us deaf and blind
             Not to know, and long ago,
          What Passion under all the prate
          Of holy justice made thee hate
          Where Love was due, and love where—
    Clytemnestra.
                                                 Nay, then, hear!
          By this dead Husband, and the reconciled
          Avenging Fury of my slaughter'd child,
          I swear I will not reign the slave of fear
          While he that holds me, as I hold him, dear,
          Kindles his fire upon this hearth: my fast
          Shield for the time to come, as of the past.
          Yonder lies he that in the honey'd arms
          Of his Chryseides under Troy walls
          Dishonour'd mine: and this last laurell'd wench,
          Prophetic messmate of the rower's bench,
          Thus far in triumph his, with him along
          Shall go, together chaunting one death-song
          To Hades—fitting garnish for the feast
          Which Fate's avenging hand through mine hath dress'd.
    Chorus.
                                                 Woe, woe, woe, woe!
          That death as sudden as the blow
          That laid Thee low would me lay low
          Where low thou liest, my sovereign Lord!
          Who ten years long to Trojan sword
          Devoted, and to storm aboard,
             In one ill woman's cause accurst,
          Liest slain before thy palace door
             By one accursedest and worst!
    Clytemnestra.
          Call not on Death, old man, that, call'd or no,
             Comes quick; nor spend your ebbing breath on me,
             Nor Helena: who but as arrows be
          Shot by the hidden hand behind the bow.
    Chorus.
          Alas, alas! The Curse I know
             That round the House of Atreus clings,
          About the roof, about the walls,
             Shrouds it with his sable wings;
          And still as each new victim falls,
             And gorged with kingly gore,
          Down on the bleeding carcase flings,
             And croaks for 'More, more, more!'
    Clytemnestra.
          Ay, now, indeed, you harp on likelier strings.
          Not I, nor Helen, but that terrible
          Alastor of old Tantalus in Hell;
          Who, one sole actor in the scene begun
          By him, and carried down from sire to son,
             The mask of Victim and Avenger shifts;
          And, for a last catastrophe, that grim
             Guest of the abominable banquet lifts
          His head from Hell, and in my person cries
          For one full-grown sufficient sacrifice,
             Requital of the feast prepared for him
          Of his own flesh and blood—And there it lies.
    Chorus.
          Oh, Agamemnon! Oh, my Lord!
             Who, after ten years toil'd;
          After barbarian lance and sword
             Encounter'd, fought, and foil'd:
          Returning with the just award
             Of Glory, thus inglorious by
             Thine own domestic Altar die,
          Fast in the spider meshes coil'd
             Of Treason most abhorr'd!
    Clytemnestra.
          And by what retribution more complete,
          Than, having in the meshes of deceit
          Enticed my child, and slain her like a fawn
          Upon the altar; to that altar drawn
          Himself, like an unconscious beast, full-fed
          With Conquest, and the garland on his head,
          Is slain? and now, gone down among the Ghost,
          Of taken Troy indeed may make the most,
          But not one unrequited murder boast.
    Chorus.
          Oh Agamemnon, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead!
             What hand, what pious hand shall wash the wound
          Through which the sacred spirit ebb'd and fled!
             With reverend care compose, and to the ground
          Commit the mangled form of Majesty,
             And pour the due libation o'er the mound!
    Clytemnestra.
          This hand, that struck the guilty life away,
          The guiltless carcase in the dust shall lay
          With due solemnities: and if with no
          Mock tears, or howling counterfeit of woe,
          On this side earth; perhaps the innocent thing,
          Whom with paternal love he sent before,
          Meeting him by the melancholy shore,
          Her arms about him with a kiss shall fling,
          And lead him to his shadowy throne below.
    Chorus.
          Alas! alas! the fatal rent
          Which through the house of Atreus went,
          Gapes again; a purple rain
          Sweats the marble floor, and falls
          From the tottering roof and walls,
          The Dæmon heaving under; gone
          The master-prop they rested on:
          And the storm once more awake
             Of Nemesis; of Nemesis
          Whose fury who shall slake!
    Clytemnestra.
          Ev'n I; who by this last grand victim hope
          The Pyramid of Vengeance so to cope,
          That—and methinks I hear him in the deep
             Beneath us growling tow'rd his rest—the stern
             Alastor to some other roof may turn,
          Leaving us here at last in peace to keep
          What of life's harvest yet remains to reap.
    Chorus.
          Thou to talk of reaping Peace
          Who sowest Murder! Woman, cease!
          And, despite that iron face—
          Iron as the bloody mace
          Thou bearest—boasting as if Vengeance
             Centred in that hand alone;
          Know that, Fury pledged to Fury,
          Vengeance owes himself the debts
          He makes, and while he serves thee, whets
             His knife upon another stone,
          Against thyself, and him with thee
          Colleaguing, as you boast to be,
          The tools of Fate. But Fate is Zeus;
          Zeus—who for a while permitting
             Sin to prosper in his name,
          Shall vindicate his own abuse;
          And having brought his secret thought
          To light, shall break and fling to shame
          The baser tools with which he wrought.
    Ægisthus: Clytemnestra: Chorus.
          All hail, thou daybreak of my just revenge!
          In which, as waking from injurious sleep,
          Methinks I recognize the Gods enthroned
          In the bright conclave of eternal Justice,
          Revindicate the wrongs of man to man!
          For see this man—so dear to me now dead—
          Caught in the very meshes of the snare
          By which his father Atreus netted mine.
          For that same Atreus surely, was it not?
          Who, wrought by false Suspicion to fix'd Hate,
          From Argos out his younger brother drove,
          My sire—Thyestes—drove him like a wolf,
          Keeping his cubs—save one—to better purpose.
          For when at last the home-heartbroken man
          Crept humbly back again, craving no more
          Of his own country than to breathe its air
          In liberty, and of her fruits as much
          As not to starve withal—the savage King,
          With damnable alacrity of hate,
          And reconciliation of revenge,
          Bade him, all smiles, to supper—such a supper,
          Where the prime dainty was—my brother's flesh,
          So maim'd and clipt of human likelihood,
          That the unsuspecting Father, light of heart,
          And quick of appetite, at once fell to,
          And ate—ate—what, with savage irony
          As soon as eaten, told—the wretched man
          Disgorging with a shriek, down to the ground
          The table with its curst utensil dash'd,
          And, grinding into pieces with his heel,
          Cried, loud enough for Heav'n and Hell to hear,
          'Thus perish all the race of Pleisthenes!'
          And now behold! the son of that same Atreus
          By me the son of that Thyestes slain
          Whom the kind brother, sparing from the cook,
          Had with his victim pack'd to banishment;
          Where Nemesis—(so sinners from some nook,
          Whence least they think assailable, assail'd)—
          Rear'd me from infancy till fully grown,
          To claim in full my father's bloody due.
          Ay, I it was—none other—far away
          Who spun the thread, which gathering day by day
          Mesh after mesh, inch upon inch, at last
          Reach'd him, and wound about him, as he lay,
          And in the supper of his smoking Troy
          Devour'd his own destruction—scarce condign
          Return for that his Father forced on mine.
    Chorus.
          Ægisthus, only things of baser breed
          Insult the fallen; fall'n too, as you boast,
          By one who plann'd but dared not do the deed.
          This is your hour of triumph. But take heed;
          The blood of Atreus is not all outrun
          With this slain King, but flowing in a son,
          Who saved by such an exile as your own
          For such a counter-retribution—
    Ægisthus.
                                                 Oh,
          You then, the nether benchers of the realm,
          Dare open tongue on those who rule the helm?
          Take heed yourselves; for, old and dull of wit,
          And harden'd as your mouth against the bit,
          Be wise in time; kick not against the spurs;
          Remembering Princes are shrewd taskmasters.
    Chorus.
          Beware thyself, bewaring me;
          Remembering that, too sharply stirr'd,
          The spurrer need beware the spurr'd;
          As thou of me; whose single word
          Shall rouse the City—yea, the very
             Stones you walk upon, in thunder
          Gathering o'er your head, to bury
             Thee and thine Adultress under!
    Ægisthus.
          Raven, that with croaking jaws
             Unorphean, undivine,
          After you no City draws;
             And if any vengeance, mine
          Upon your wither'd shoulders—
    Chorus.
                                                 Thine!
          Who daring not to strike the blow
          Thy worse than woman-craft design'd,
          To worse than woman—
    Ægisthus.
                                                 Soldiers, ho!
    Clytemnestra.
          Softly, good Ægisthus, softly; let the sword that has so deep
          Drunk of righteous Retribution now within the scabbard sleep!
          And if Nemesis be sated with the blood already spilt,
          Even so let us, nor carry lawful Justice into Guilt.
          Sheathe your sword; dismiss your spears; and you, Old men, your howling cease,
          And, ere ill blood come to running, each unto his home in peace,
          Recognizing what is done for done indeed, as done it is,
          And husbanding your scanty breath to pray that nothing more amiss.
          Farewell. Meanwhile, you and I, Ægisthus, shall deliberate,
          When the storm is blowing under, how to settle House and State.

    THE DOWNFALL AND DEATH OF KING OeDIPUS
    A Drama in Two Parts CHIEFLY TAKEN FROM THE OeDIPUS TYRANNUS AND COLONEUS OF SOPHOCLES.


    To Charles Eliot Norton.

    PART I
    OeDIPUS IN THEBES


    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

    Oedipus . . . . . King of Thebes.
    Iocasta . . . . . his Queen.
    Creon . . . . . her brother.
    Teiresias . . . . Prophet of Apollo.
    Priest.
    Herald from Corinth.
    Shepherd of King Laius.
    Chorus of Theban Elders.

    The Scene is at Thebes, before the Palace of King Oedipus. Oedipus, Priest and Suppliants assembled before his palace-gate, Chorus.
    Oed.
                Children of Cadmus, and as mine to me,
                When all that of the plague-struck city can
                With lamentation loud, and sacrifice
                Beset the shrines and altars of the Gods
                Through street and market, by the Temples twain
                Of Pallas, and before the Tomb that shrouds
                Ismenus' his prophetic ashes—why
                Be you thus gather'd at my palace-door,
                Mute, with the Suppliant's olive-branch in hand?
              Asking, or deprecating, what? which I,
              Not satisfied from other lips to learn,
              Myself am come to hear it from your own.
              You, whose grave aspect and investiture
              Announce the chosen oracle of all,
              Tell me the purport: I am here, you see,
              As King, and Father of his people too,
              To listen and what in me lies to do;
              For surely mine were but a heart of stone
              Not to be moved by such an embassy,
              Nor feel my people's sorrows as my own.
    Priest.
              O Oedipus, our Father, and our King!
              Of what a mingled company you see
              This Supplication gather'd at your door;
              Ev'n from the child who scarce has learn'd to creep,
              Down to old age that little further can,
              With all the strength of life that breathes between.
              You know how all the shatter'd city lies
              Reeling a-wreck, and cannot right herself
              Under the tempest of this pestilence,
              That nips the fruitful growth within the bud,
              Strangles the struggling blossom in the womb,
              With sudden death infects the living man,
              Until the realm of Cadmus wastes, and Thebes
              With her depopulation Hades feeds.
              Therefore, myself and this mute company
              In supplication at your altar sit,
              Looking to you for succour; looking not
              As to a God, but to the Man of men,
              Most like the God in man's extremity:
              Who, coming here a stranger to the land,
              Didst overcome the Witch who with her song
              Seduced, and slew the wisest and the best;
              For which all but divine deliverance Thebes
              Call'd the strange man who saved her to the throne
              Left void by her hereditary king.
              And now the kingdom looks to you once more—
              To you, the Master of the master-mind,
              To save her in a worse extremity:
              When men, not one by one, but troop by troop,
              Fall by a plague more deadly than the Sphinx,
              Till Thebes herself is left to foreign arms
              Assailable—for what are wall and tower,
              Divinely built and founded as they be,
              Without the rampart of the man within?—
              And let not what of Cadmus yet survives
              From this time forth regard you as the man
              Who saved them once, by worse to perish now.
    Oed.
              Alas, my children! telling me of that
              My people groans with, knowing not yourselves
              How more than any man among you, I,
              Who bear the accumulated woes of all;
              So that you find me, coming when you may,
              Restlessly all day pacing up and down,
              Tossing all night upon a sleepless bed,
              Endeavouring all that of myself I can,
              And all of Heaven implore—thus far in vain.
              But if your King have seem'd to pause awhile,
              'Tis that I wait the issue of one hope,
              Which, if accomplish'd, will accomplish all.
              Creon, my brother, and my second self
              Beside the throne I sit on, to the shrine
              Of Delphian Phoebus, man's assured appeal
              In all his exigence, I have despatch'd:
              And long before you gather'd at my door
              Within my soul was fretting, lest To-day
              That should have lighted him from Delphi back
              Pass over into night, and bring him not.
              But come he must, and will; and when he comes,
              Do I not all, so far as man may do,
              To follow where the God shall point the way,
              Denounce me traitor to the State I saved
              And to the people who proclaim'd me King.
    Cho.
              Your words are as a breath from Delphi, King,
              Prophetic of itself; for even now
              Fore-running Rumour buzzes in our ear
              That he whose coming all await is here.
    Oed.
              And as before the advent of a God,
              The moving multitude divides—O Phoebus!
              Be but the word he carries back to me
              Auspicious as well-timed!
    Chorus.
                                                     And shall no less;
              For look! the laurel wreath about his brow
              Can but announce the herald of Success. Oedipus, Creon, Chorus.
    Oed.
              Son of Menoeceus! Brother! Brother-king!—
              Oh, let impatience for the word you bring
              Excuse brief welcome to the messenger!
              Be but the word as welcome!—
    Cre.
                                                     As it shall,
              Have you your ancient cunning to divine
              The darker word in which the God of Light
              Enshrines his answer.
    Oed.
                                                     Speak! for till I hear,
            I know not whether most to hope or fear.
    Cre.
            Am I to speak before the people here,
            Or to yourself within?
    Oed.
                                                   Here, before all,
            Whose common cause it is.
    Cre.
                                                   To all then thus:
            When Delphi reach'd, and at the sacred shrine
            Lustration, sacrifice, and offering made,
            I put the question I was charged withal,
            The Prophetess of the three-footed throne,
            Conceiving with the vapour of the God
            Which wrapt her, rising from Earth's centre, round,
            At length convulsed to sudden answer broke:
            'O seven-gated City, by the Lyre
            Compact, and peopled from a Dragon Sire!
            Thebes feeds the Plague that slays her nourishing
            Within her walls the slayer of her King.'
    Oed.
            The slayer of her King? What king?
    Cre.
                                                   None else
            I know than Laius, son of Labdacus,
            Who occupied the throne before you came;
            That much of Oracle, methinks, is plain.
    Oed.
            A story rises on me from the past.
            Laius, the son of Labdacus—of whom
            I know indeed, but him I never saw.
    Cre.
            No; he was slain before you set your foot
            Over the country's threshold.
    Oed.
                                                   Slain! By whom?
    Cre.
            That to divine were to interpret all
            That Oedipus himself is call'd to answer.
            Thus much is all we know,
            The King was murder'd by some roving band
            Of outlaws, who waylaid him on his road
            To that same Delphi, whither he had gone
            On some such sacred mission as myself.
    Oed.
            Yet of those roving outlaws, one at least
            Yet breathes among us in the heart of Thebes.
    Cre.
            So saith the Oracle.
    Oed.
                                                   In the midst of all
            The citizens and subjects of the King
            He slew?
    Cre.
                               So saith the Oracle.
    Oed.
                                                   But hold!
            The story of this treason—all, you say,
            Now known of it, how first made known in Thebes?
    Cre.
            By the one man of the King's retinue,
            Who having 'scaped the fate which took the rest,
            As if the assassin's foot were at his heels,
            Half dead with fear, just reach'd the city gates
            With breath to tell the story.
    Oed.
                                                   And breathes still
            To tell it once again?
    Cre.
                                                   I know not that:
            For having told it, the bewilder'd man,
            As fast as hither he had fled, fled hence,
            Where, if the assassin's foot not on him then,
            His eye, the God declares, were on him now—
            So fled he to his native field again
            Among his flocks and fellow-husbandmen.
    Oed.
            And thus the single witness you let slip,
            Whose eye might ev'n have singled out the man,
            As him the man's!—Oh, had I but been by,
            I would have driv'n interrogation home,
            Would the bewilder'd memory so have sifted
            Of each minutest grain of circumstance—
            How many, accoutred how, what people like—
            Now by the lapse of time and memory,
            Beyond recall into oblivion pass'd!
            But not to lose what yet of hope there is—
            Let him be sent for, sought for, found and brought.
    Cre.
            Meanwhile, default of him for whom you send,
            Or of uncertain memory when he comes,
            Were it not well, if still the God withhold
            His revelation of the word we need,
            To question it of his Interpreter?
    Oed.
            Of his Interpreter!
    Cre.
                                                   Of whom so well,
            As of Teiresias, the blind Seer of Thebes,
            Whose years the God hath in his service counted
            Beyond all reach of human memory?
    Oed.
            So be it. But I marvel yet why Thebes,
            Letting the witness slip, then unpursued,
            Or undetected, left the criminal,
            Whom the King's blood, by whomsoever spilt,
            Cried out aloud to be revenged upon.
    Cre.
            What might be done we did. But how detect
            The roving robber, in whatever land,
            Of friend or foe alike, outlaw'd of all,
            Where ever prey to pounce on on the wing,
            Or housed in rock or forest, save to him
            Unknown, or inaccessible? Besides,
            Thebes soon had other business on her hand.
    Oed.
            Why, what of business to engage her more
            Than to revenge the murder of her King?
    Cre.
            None other than the riddle-singing Sphinx
            Who, till you came to silence her, held Thebes
            From thinking of the dead to save herself.
    Oed.
            And leaving this which then you might have guess'd,
            To guess at that which none of you could solve,
            You have brought home a riddle on your heads
            Inextricable and more fatal far!
            But I, who put the riddling Witch to rest,
            This fatal riddle will unravel too,
            And by swift execution following
            The revelation, once more save the realm,
            And wipe away the impiety and shame
            Of Laius' yet unexpiated death.
            For were no expiation to the God,
            And to the welfare of this people due,
            Were't not a shame thus unrevenged so long
            To leave the slaughter of so great a King—
            King Laius, the son of Labdacus,
            Who from his father Polydore his blood
            Direct from Cadmus and Agenor drew?
            Shame to myself, who, sitting on the throne
            He sat on, wedded to the very Queen
            Who should have borne him children, as to me
            She bore them, had not an assassin's hand
            Divorced them ere their wedded life bore fruit!
            Therefore to this as 'twere my father's cause,
            As of my people's—nay, why not my own,
            Who in his death am threaten'd by the hand
            Of him, whose eye now follows me about?—
            With the Gods' aid do I devote myself.
            And hereto let the city's Herald all
            Her population summon, from my lips
            To hear and help in what I shall devise:
            And you, that with bow'd head and olive wand,
            Have since the dawn been gather'd at my door,
            Beseeching me with piteous silence, rise,
            And by their altars supplicate the Gods,
            And Phoebus chief of all, that he may turn
            His yet half-clouded word into full light,
            And with one shaft of his unerring bow
            Smite dead the Plague which back into the dust
            Whence Cadmus raised them lays the People low,
    Chorus.
     bsp;          Thou oracle of Jove, what fate
                  From Pytho's golden shrine
               Brings to th' illustrious Theban state
                  Thy sweet-breathed voice divine?
            My trembling heart what terror rends,
            While dread suspense on thee attends,
                  O Delian Pæan, healing pow'r!
               Daughter of golden Hope, to me,
               Blest voice, what now dost thou decree,
                  Or in time's future hour?            Daughter of heav'n's almighty lord,
                  Immortal Pallas, hear!
               And thou, Diana, queen adored,
                  Whose tutelary care
            Protects these walls, this favour'd state,
            Amidst the forum 'round whose seat
                  Sublime encircling pillars stand!
               God of the distant-wounding bow,
               Apollo, hear; avert our woe,
                  And save the sick'ning land!
               This realm when former ills opprest,
                  If your propitious pow'r
               In mercy crush'd the baleful pest,
                  Outrageous to devour;
            In mercy now extend your care,
            For all is misery and despair,
                  And vain the counsels of the wise.
               No fruit, no grain to ripeness grows;
               The matron feels untimely throes,
                  The birth abortive dies.
     bsp;          The Shades, as birds of rapid flight,
                  In quick succession go,
               Quick as the flames that flash through night,
                  To Pluto's realms below.
            Th' unpeopled town beholds the dead
            Wide o'er her putrid pavements spread,
                  Nor graced with tear or obsequy.
               The altars round a mournful band,
               The wives, the hoary matrons, stand,
                  And heave the suppliant sigh.
     bsp;          With deep sighs mix'd the hallow'd strain
                  Bursts fervent to the skies:
               Deign then, O radiant Pallas, deign
                  In all thy might to rise.
            From this fierce pow'r, which raging round
            Unarm'd inflicts the fiery wound,
                  Daughter of Jove, my country save;
               Hence, goddess, hence the fury sweep
               To Amphitrite's chambers deep,
                  Or the rough Euxine wave!
               Doth aught the Night from ruin spare?
                  The Morning's sickly ray,
               Pregnant with death, inflames the air,
                  And gives disease its prey.
            Father of gods, whose matchless force
            Wings the red lightning's vengeful course,
                  With all thy thunders crush this foe!
               Potent to aid, Lycéan king,
               Thy shafts secure of conquest wing,
                  And bend thy golden bow!
               Thy beams around, Diana, throw,
                  And pierce this gloom of night,
               As on Lycæum's moss-clad brow
                  Thou pour'st thy silver light!
            Thy nymphs, O Theban Bacchus, lead,
            The golden mitre round thy head,
                  Grief-soothing God of wine and joy;
               Wave thy bright torch, and with its flame
               This god, to gods an odious name,
                  This lurid Pest destroy! Oedipus, Chorus.
    Oed.
            You came to me for counsel; hearken then,
            And do as well as hearken, like myself
            Following the pointed finger of the God
            Which thus far leads us, all may yet be well.
            I, Oedipus, albeit no Theban born,
            By Thebes herself enthroned her sovereign King,
            Thus to the citizens of Thebes proclaim;
            That whosoever of them knows by whom
            King Laius, son of Labdacus, was slain,
            Forthwith let him disclose it undismay'd;
            Yea, though the criminal himself he were,
            Let not the dread of deadly consequence
            Revolt him from confession of the crime;
            For he shall suffer nothing worse than this,
            Instant departure from the city, but
            Uninjured, uninsulted, unpursued;
            For though feloniously a King he slew
            Yet haply as a stranger unaware
            That king was Laius; and thus the crime
            Half-clear'd of treason, half absolved by time.
            Nor, on the other hand, if any knows
            Another guilty, let him not for love,
            Or fear, or whatsoever else regard,
            Flinch from a revelation that shall win
            More from myself than aught he fears to lose—
            Nay, as a second saviour of the State
            Shall after me be call'd; and who should not
            Save a whole people at the cost of one?
            But Him—that one—who would not at the cost
            Of self-confession save himself and all—
            Him—were he nearest to my heart and hearth—
            Nearest and dearest—thus do I denounce;
            That from the very moment that he stands,
            By whatsoever, or by whom, reveal'd,
            No man shall him bespeak, at home, abroad,
            Sit with at table, nor by altar stand,
            But, as the very Pestilence he were
            Incarnate which this people now devours,
            Him slay at once, or hoot and hunt him forth,
            With execration from the city walls.
            But if, in spite of promise or of threat,
            The man who did, or knows who did, this deed,
            Still hold it in his bosom unreveal'd—
            That man—and he is here among us now—
            Man's vengeance may escape when he forswears
            Participation in the crime, but not
            The Gods', himself involving in the Curse
            Which, with myself and every man in Thebes,
            He shall denounce upon the criminal,
            The Gods invoking to withhold from him
            That issue of the earth by which he lives,
            That issue of the womb by which himself
            Lives after him; that in the deadly curse
            By which his fellows perish he and his
            May perish, or, if worse there be, by worse!
    Cho.
            Beside Apollo's altar standing here,
            That oath I swear, that neither I myself
            Nor did myself, nor know who did this deed:
            And in the curse I join on him who did,
            Or, knowing him who did, will not reveal.
    Oed.
            'Tis well: and, all the city's seven gates closed,
            Thus solemnly shall every man in Thebes
            Before the altars of his country swear.
    Cho.
            Well have you done, O Master, in so far
            As human hand and wit may reach; and lo!
            The sacred Seer of Thebes, Teiresias,
            To whom, next to the God himself, we look
            For Heaven's assistance, at your summons comes,
            In his prophetic raiment, staff in hand,
            Approaching, gravely guided as his wont,
            But with a step, methinks, unwonted slow. Oedipus, Teiresias, Chorus.
            Teiresias, Minister and Seer of God,
            Who, blind to all that others see without,
            See that within to which all else are blind;
            Sequester'd as you are with Deity,
            You know, what others only know too well,
            The mortal sickness that confounds us all;
            But you alone can tell the remedy.
            For since the God whose Minister you are
            Bids us, if Thebes would be herself again,
            Revenge the murder of King Laius
            By retribution on the murderer,
            Who undetected walks among us now;
            Unless by you, Teiresias, to whose lips,
            As Phoebus his Interpreter we cling,
            To catch the single word that he withholds,
            And without which what he reveals is vain—
            Therefore to you, Teiresias, you alone,
            Do look this people and their Ruler—look,
            Imploring you, by that same inward light
            Which sees, to name the man who lurks unseen,
            And whose live presence is the death of all.
    Tei.
            Alas! how worse than vain to be well arm'd
            When the man's weapon turns upon himself!
    Oed.
            I know not upon whom that arrow lights.
    Tei.
            If not on him that summon'd, then on him
            Who, summon'd, came. There is one remedy;
            Let those who hither led me lead me hence.
    Oed.
            Before the single word—which you alone
            Can speak—be spoken? How is this, Teiresias,
            That to your King on such a summons come,
            You come so much distemper'd?
    Tei.
                                                   For the King,
            With all his wisdom, knows not what he asks.
    Oed.
            And therefore asks that he may know from you,
            Seeing the God hath folded up his word
            From human eyesight.
    Tei.
                                                   Why should I reveal
            What He I serve has chosen to conceal?
    Oed.
            Is't not your office to interpret that
            To man which he for man vouchsafes from Heaven?
    Tei.
            What Fate hath fix'd to come to pass come will,
            Whether reveal'd or not.
    Oed.
                                                   I know it must;
            But Fate may cancel Fate, foretelling that
            Which, unpredicted, else would come to pass.
    Tei.
            Yet none the less I tell you, Oedipus,
            That you, though wise, not knowing what you ask,
            I, knowing, shall not answer.
    Oed.
                                                   You will not!
            Inexorable to the people's cries—
            Plague-pitiless, disloyal to your King—
    Tei.
            Oh! you forsooth were taunting me but now
            With my distemper'd humour—
    Oed.
                                                   Who would not,
            When but a word, which you pretend to know,
            Would save a people?
    Tei.
                                                   One of them at least
            It would not.
    Oed.
                                                   Oh, scarce any man, methinks,
            But would himself, though guiltless, sacrifice,
            If that would ransom all.
    Tei.
                                                   Yet one, you see,
            Obdurate as myself—
    Oed.
            You have not heard, perchance, Teiresias,
            (Unless from that prophetic voice within,)
            How through the city, by my herald's voice,
            With excommunication, death, or banishment,
            I have denounced, not him alone who did,
            But him who, knowing who, will not reveal?
    Tei.
            I hear it now.
    Oed.
                                                   And are inflexible
            To Fear as Pity?
    Tei.
                                                   It might be, to Fear
            Inflexible by Pity; else, why fear
            Invulnerable as I am in Truth,
            And by the God I serve inviolate?
    Oed.
            Is not your King a Minister of Zeus,
            As you of Phoebus, and the King of Thebes
            Not more to be insulted or defied
            Than any Priest or Augur in his realm?
    Tei.
            Implore, denounce, and threaten as you may,
            What unreveal'd I would, I will not say.
    Oed.
            You will not! Mark then how, default of your
            Interpretation, I interpret you:
            Either not knowing what you feign to know,
            You lock your tongue in baffled ignorance;
            Or, knowing that which you will not reveal,
            I do suspect—Suspect! why, stand you not
            Self-accused, self-convicted, and by me
            Denounced as he, that knowing him who did,
            Will not reveal—nay, might yourself have done
            The deed that you with some accomplice plann'd,
            Could those blind eyes have aim'd the murderous hand?
    Tei.
            You say so! Now then, listen in your turn
            To that one word which, as it leaves my lips,
            By your own Curse upon the Criminal
            Denounced, should be your last in Thebes to hear.
            For by the unerring insight of the God
            You question, Zeus his delegate though you be
            Who lay this Theban people under curse
            Of revelation of the murderer
            Whose undiscover'd presence eats away
            The people's life—I tell you—You are he!
    Cho.
            Forbear, old man, forbear! And you, my King,
            Heed not the passion of provoked old age.
    Oed.
            And thus, in your blind passion of revenge,
            You think to 'scape contempt or punishment
            By tossing accusation back on me
            Under Apollo's mantle.
    Tei.
                                                   Ay, and more,
            Dared you but listen.
    Cho.
                                                   Peace, O peace, old man!
    Oed.
            Nay, let him shoot his poison'd arrows out;
            They fall far short of me.
    Tei.
                                                   Not mine, but those
            Which Fate had fill'd my Master's quiver with,
            And you have drawn upon yourself.
    Oed.
                                                   Your Master's?
            Your Master's; but assuredly not His
            To whom you point, albeit you see him not,
            In his meridian dazzling overhead,
            Who is the God of Truth as well as Light,
            And knows as I within myself must know
            If Memory be not false as Augury,
            The words you put into his lips a Lie!
            Not He, but Self—Self only—in revenge
            Of self-convicted ignorance—Self alone,
            Or with some self whom Self would profit by—
            As were it—Creon, say—smooth, subtle Creon,
            Moving by rule and weighing every word
            As in the scales of Justice—but of whom
            Whispers of late have reach'd me—Creon, ha!
            Methinks I scent another Master here!
            Who, wearied of but secondary power
            Under an alien King, and would belike
            Exalt his Prophet for good service done
            Higher than ever by my throne he stood—
            And, now I think on't, bade me send for you
            Under the mask of Phoebus—
    Cho.
                                                   Oh, forbear—
            Forbear, in turn, my lord and master!
    Tei.
                                                   Nay,
            Let him, in turn, his poison'd arrows, not
            From Phoebus' quiver, shoot, but to recoil
            When his mad Passion having pass'd—
    Oed.
                                                   O vain
            Prerogative of human majesty,
            That one poor mortal from his fellows takes,
            And, with false pomp and honour dressing up,
            Lifts idol-like to what men call a Throne,
            For all below to worship and assail!
            That even the power which unsolicited
            By aught but salutary service done
            The men of Thebes committed to my hands,
            Some, restless under just authority,
            Or jealous of not wielding it themselves,
            Ev'n with the altar and the priest collude,
            And tamper with, to ruin or to seize!
            Prophet and Seer forsooth and Soothsayer!
            Why, when the singing Witch contrived the noose
            Which strangled all who tried and none could loose,
            Where was the Prophet of Apollo then?
            'Twas not for one who poring purblind down
            Over the reeking entrail of the beast,
            Nor gaping to the wandering bird in air,
            Nor in the empty silence of his soul
            Feigning a voice of God inaudible,
            Not he, nor any of his tribe—but I—
            I, Oedipus, a stranger in the land,
            And uninspired by all but mother-wit,
            Silenced and slew the monster against whom
            Divine and human cunning strove in vain.
            And now again when tried, and foil'd again,
            This Prophet—whether to revenge the past,
            And to prevent discomfiture to come,
            Or by some traitor aiming at my throne
            Suborn'd to stand a greater at his side
            Than peradventure e'er he stood at mine,
            Would drag me to destruction! But beware!
            Beware lest, blind and agèd as you are,
            Wrapt in supposititious sanctity,
            You, and whoever he that leagues with you,
            Meet a worse doom than you for me prepare.
    Tei.
            Quick to your vengeance, then; for this same day
            That under Phoebus' fiery rein flies fast
            Over the field of heaven, shall be the last
            That you shall play the tyrant in.
    Oed.
                                                   O Thebes,
            You never called me Tyrant, from the day
            Since first I saved you!
    Tei.
                                                   And shall save again;
            As then by coming, by departing now.
            Enough: before the day that judges both
            Decide between us, let them lead me home.
    Oed.
            Ay, lead him hence—home—Hades—anywhere!
            Blind in his inward as his outward eye.
    Tei.
            Poor man! that in your inward vision blind,
            Know not, as I, that ere this day go down,
            By your own hand yourself shall be consign'd
            To deeper night than now you taunt me with;
            When, not the King and Prophet that you were,
            But a detested outcast of the land,
            With other eyes and hands you feel your way
            To wander through the world, begging the bread
            Of execration from the stranger's hand
            Denied you here, and thrust from door to door,
            As though yourself the Plague you brought from Thebes;
            A wretch, self-branded with the double curse
            Of such unheard, unnatural infamy,
            As shall confound a son in the embrace
            Of her who bore him to the sire he slew!
    Chorus
    Strophe 1
               All yet is dark. What wretch abhorr'd,
            Grasping with blood-stain'd hand his ruthless sword,
               From Delphi's high rock-seated shrine
               Declares the voice divine
               The author of this horrid deed?
               Now let him wing his swiftest speed;
               The son of Jove upon him flies,
            Arm'd with the flames and lightnings of the skies:
               Dreadful, resistless in their force
               The Fates attend his course.
    Antistrophe 1
               The oracle divinely bright
            To drag the latent murderer into light
               Shone forth, Parnassus, from thy brow
               White with eternal snow:
               For, like a bull, to secret shades,
               To rocks, to caves, to sylvan glades,
               Far from the Pythian prophecies
            Mournful the solitary wanderer flies:
               In vain: they hover round his head,
               And ceaseless terrors spread.
    Strophe 2
               Dreadful, dreadful things to hear
               Utters the prophetic Seer.
               Him doth truth, doth falsehood guide?
               Fear and hope my soul divide;
            Painful suspense! The present and the past
               Darkening clouds alike o'ercast.
               Was wrong by Laius done of old,
            That made the son of Polybus his foe?
               Such in no record is enroll'd;
               Nought at this hour of proof I know,
               Decreeing as the Seer decreed,
            To charge on Oedipus the secret deed.
    Antistrophe 2
               Jove, high ruler of the skies,
               And the Pythian god are wise;
               They the deeds of mortals know,
               All whate'er is done below:
            Of knowledge doth the Seer a brighter ray,
               Than illumines me, display?
               Some deeper drink of wisdom's spring;
            But proofs, that flash conviction I demand.
               The Sphinx display'd her dreadful wing,
               His wisdom saved the sinking land;
               Then let my grateful soul disdain
            To rank the hero with the murderer's train. Iocasta, Chorus, then Oedipus.
    Ioc.
            A noise has reach'd me through the palace-wall
            Of words between Teiresias and the King,
            In which my brother's name was all misused.
            You who were here, and heard, can tell me all.
    Cho.
            Words there have been indeed on either side,
            By provocation into passion blown,
            Which after-thought as likely will disown.
    Ioc.
            But to what purport?
    Cho.
                                                   I would not repeat
            What those who utter'd now may wish unsaid,
            Much more, unheard. But look! the King himself
            To answer for himself.
    Ioc.
                                                   As one who dreams.
            In Heaven's name, husband, tell me what has fired
            This wrath between you and Teiresias,
            So fierce that e'en my brother Creon's name
            Was scorcht withal, and in its ashes now
            Still smoulders in your face?
    Oed.
                                                   That has been said
            On either side that should not; but on his,
            Relying on protection from his God,
            Treason so foul against his King—
    Ioc.
                                                   But what?
    Oed.
            Why need tell now, if, as the Prophet says,
            This very day shall not go down without
            To Thebes, as you, revealing?—What if I—
            If I, that have with banishment or death
            Denounced the assassin of King Laius—
            Myself am he?
    Ioc.
                               You! Oedipus?
    Oed.
                                                   So says
            Apollo's prophet.
    Ioc.
                                                   You!—Teiresias!—You!
            On what presumption, Human or Divine?
    Oed.
            On His whose chariot shall not cross the sky,
            But dragging me to Night along with it.
    Ioc.
            Which cannot be—we know, which cannot be
            Of the God's self—you of yourself more sure
            Than any mortal Prophet sure of Him.
    Oed.
            So might I think. But if not from the God,
            From whom then, Iocasta?
    Ioc.
                                                   Only not
            From Creon—Whosoever else, not he!—
            My brother, and your brother, being mine!
    Oed.
            Yet brother against brother, son 'gainst sire,
            Such things have been between them, and shall be,
            For things of less ambition than a throne.
    Ioc.
            Oh, strangle such suspicion in its birth
            Of one more innocent than babe unborn!
            Why, had he minded empire, could he not
            Have seized it for his own before you came,
            And Thebes was looking for a sovereign?
            Or, after-minded to unseat you King,
            Would have contrived and hatch'd his priestly plot
            Ere you so firmly seated on the throne,
            And life with him at least so much for-spent
            As makes ev'n just possession—and much more,
            Unjust—of little moment unto all!
    Oed.
            So be it. From the God of Light and Truth
            Less likely than from him of Sleep and Dream,
            Whose-ever be the Prophet.
    Ioc.
                                                   Had you not
            Provoked the Prophet first?
    Oed.
                                                   As who would not,
            Who either knowing would withhold the word
            On which a people's whole salvation hung,
            Then, taunted into malice by just wrath,
            Or to collusion with some traitor leagued,
            Belied his God, and me.
    Ioc.
                                                   The man is old,
            And testy, and perhaps incensed by you,
            Mere human passion with the lees
            Of Divination mixing—
    Oed.
                                                   Be it so;
            And so, methinks, I might have let it pass,
            But for a parting threat, which though in wrath
            And malice, like the rest it may have been,
            Woke up the echo of another Word
            Told me by Delphi's self, so long ago
            As with its unfulfilment to have died
            Almost from memory.
    Ioc.
                                                   What Oracle
            Which, if the Prophet fail'd, has fail'd as well?
    Oed.
            You know I am the son of Polybus,
            Of Corinth King, and Merope his Queen,
            And till a chance, of which you may not know,
            Slight as it seem'd, but fraught with grave result,
            Methought the first in Corinth after them.
            One day at table, when the cup went round,
            One of the company whom I, belike
            Flushed with the wine and youthful insolence,
            Had twitted with his meaner parentage,
            Bade me beware; for, proudly as I sate
            Above them all beside the royal twain
            A superstition linger'd, that because
            Of some ill-omen'd accident of birth
            Their son should never to their throne succeed.
            The word awhile sank in the flowing wine,
            But when the wine went off the word was there,
            And all night long kept stirring in my brain.
            So that, with morning when I woke again,
            Unable to endure it unsuppress'd,
            I challenged King and Queen to answer me
            The challenge thrown out by the nameless guest.
            Indignantly they heard; denounced the man
            Whoever it might be, for false or fool,
            And with endearing re-assurances
            Recomforted me awhile. Nevertheless,
            Spite re-assurance and redoubled love,
            That random word still rankled in my heart,
            And I resolved on quenching all misdoubt
            From the head fountain of all truth at Delphi.
            Thither, without a word of whither gone,
            I went, and put my question. But the God
            Vouchsafed no revelation of the past,
            But prophesied far worse for me to come;
            That I should slay my father: then with her
            Who bore me wed, and bring into the world
            A race the world would loathe to look upon.
            Whereat affrighted—as what man were not?—
            From Corinth and from those I was to wrong
            I fled—I scarce knew whither, so from them—
            Fled hither; and in spite of prophecies,
            All that I lost regain'd, except the bliss
            Of prospering in a loving mother's eyes.
    Ioc.
            And see! the father whom you were to slay,
            With that Queen-mother whom you were to wed,
            Lives to a ripe old age in Corinth, far
            Beyond his reach who should have wrong'd them both,
            Himself fast wedded and enthroned in Thebes!
    Oed.
            And yet this blunted shaft of long ago,
            And rusted with oblivion, had the Seer
            Snatch'd from his Master's armoury To-day,
            For malediction's last and master blow!
    Ioc.
            Which from his Master's hand had fail'd before!
            And would you listen to a woman's voice
            I could requite your story, Oedipus,
            With one so like as almost to be one,
            Save that in mine the Sire it was who foil'd
            Predestination, as in yours the Son.
    Oed.
            In this dumb pause between despair and hope,
            Whose voice to me more welcome than your own?
    Ioc.
            When first I wedded with King Laius,
            Whose murder now perplexes Thebes and you,
            A Prophecy from Delphi reached his ears—
            But whether from the God, or from his Priest,
            I know not—but there went the Prophecy;
            That he should die slain by the hand of him
            Who should be born between himself and me.
            Whereat, like you, affrighted, when the child
            But three days born had seen the light of day,
            He had him, spite of all a mother's cries,
            Not slain, but left in some such desert place
            As where with cold and hunger, he must die.
            So, at the sacrifice of that poor life
            Saving his own, he lived himself in peace,
            Till slain, not as the Oracle foretold
            Slain by the son himself had slain before,
            But by that undetected alien hand
            Which the fond Prophet pointed at in you.
            Of such account are such vaticinations,
            Whether from Phoebus, or his Minister;
            Of which take you no heed. For, surely, what
            Fate has determined, Fate shall bring to pass,
            Whether by prophecy foretold or not.
    Oed.
            So seems it.
    Ioc.
                                                   Nay, beyond denial is.
            And yet you seem to hesitate as one
            Who in broad daylight cannot see his way.
    Oed.
            Was it not said that Laius your King
            Upon some sacred errand by the road
            Was set upon and murder'd?
    Ioc.
                                                   Even so;
            To that same Delphi where yourself had been,
            As much to be misled.
    Oed.
                                                   And whereabout?
    Ioc.
            Somewhere in Phocis which his road went through;
            As went the story.
    Oed.
                                                   And how long ago?
    Ioc.
            Nay, just before you came to Thebes yourself
            To save us from the Sphinx, and occupy
            The throne left empty by my husband's death.
            What makes you muse?
    Oed.
                                                   And this King Laius
            About what age, and what to look upon?
    Ioc.
            Lofty and large of stature, and of port
            And aspect that becomes a King; his hair
            Just whitening with the earliest frost of age—
    Oed.
            And how accompanied?
    Ioc.
                                                   With such a train
            Accompanied as may become a King
            Upon a peaceful errand of his own,
            And through a friendly people travelling.
    Oed.
            And, as the story went, but one of those
            Who, witnessing, escaped to tell the tale.
    Ioc.
            Ev'n so it was.
    Oed.
                                                   And him they let depart
            With half his tale untold?
    Ioc.
                                                   Nay, all he could,
            Half dead with terror. Meanwhile Oedipus,
            What is't that, when I thought to clear your brow
            With dissipation of prophetic fear,
            Darkens it more and more?
    Oed.
                                                   Is it not strange—
            Strange—that your second husband, like your first,
            With such a cross-related Prophecy
            Threaten'd, like him should have defeated it?
    Ioc.
            Strange as it is, but most assuredly.
    Oed.
            O Iocasta, what if secret Fate
            Avenged the God, who sometimes speaks for her,
            Two thwarted utterances by one blow
            On Laius and myself unprophesied?
    Ioc.
            I know not what this aims at.
    Oed.
                                                   You shall hear.
            When, as I told you, in my youth at Corinth,
            I had resolved to cross that Prophecy
            Which from the God's own lips myself had heard,
            By flying those I was foredoom'd to wrong—
            Nay, from the very country of my birth,
            Leaving them all behind me for the stars
            Alone to tell me of their whereabout,
            I fled: and flying as at random on,
            I came—now mark me, Iocasta, came—
            Whether in Phocis, or elsewhere, I know not—
            Where two main roads which lead two nations on
            To Delphi, shrink into a narrow gorge;
            When, coming up the narrow road, Behold!
            A Herald first, and then a chariot,
            In which, erect beside his charioteer,
            There rode the stately semblance of a King,
            And so came on, not swerving left or right,
            As if the road were but for them, and I
            A cur, to slink aside and let them by.
            Whereat, no cur, but a King's son, enraged,
            With the stout staff I carried in my hand
            I smote the charioteer; on which the King
            Struck me with his—for which he paid too dear
            With such a fatal counter-blow from mine
            As roll'd him headlong dead into the dust:
            And, after him, his Herald, and all his
            Who came against me one by one I slew.
            Now if the royal man—for such he was—
            Were—as by such consent of circumstance
            I scarce dare think were not—
    Ioc.
                                                   Oh, many a King
            Of a like presence, and like retinue,
            Has been that road to learn the word of Fate
            Which he, like you, had vainly learn'd before.
    Oed.
            But one escaped, they say; and if he live—
            And if maintain the tale that first he told,
            That Laius, not by one, but many men,
            Was in his chariot set upon and slain,
            Then was it surely not King Laius
            Whom single-handed, and alone, I slew.
            But if he falter from that first report—
    Ioc.
            How should he?
    Oed.
                                                   Whether out of present fear,
            Or after, to excuse a coward flight,
            One man to numbers multiply he might—
    Ioc.
            He cannot—whether by device or fear,
            He cannot falter from his first report—
            Unless the sudden presence of his King,
            And the disquiet of your looks affright him
            Into the confirmation of false fear.
            But meanwhile, Oedipus, come in with me,
            And let not troubled Thebes new troubles see
            Writ in your brows, augmenting present ill,
            And Prophecy that Fate shall not fulfil.
    Chorus.
    Strophe 1.
            Fair Fortune deign with me to dwell,
            My soul if holy reverence awes,
            By thinking, speaking, acting well,
            To bow obedient to the Laws.
            From heav'n they draw their lineage high,
            And tread with stately step the sky:
            Their father the Olympian king;
            No mixture of man's mortal mould;
            Nor shall Oblivion's sable wing
            In shades their active virtues fold.
            In them the god is great, nor fears
            The withering waste of years.
    Antistrophe 1.
            The tyrant Pride engenders. Pride
            With wealth o'erfill'd, with greatness vain,
            Mounting with Outrage at her side,
            The splendid summit if she gain,
            Falls headlong from the dangerous brow,
            Down dash'd to ruin's gulf below.
            Not so our monarch: for of old,
            His contest glorious to the state,
            In her own blood the Fury roll'd:
            So may the god now guide his fate!
            Still be the god's protection mine,
            Strong in his power divine!
    Strophe 2.
               But should some wretch, contemptuous, bold,
            Brave the just gods, his hands with slaughter stain,
               The vengeful pow'rs of heav'n disdain,
            Nor their pure seats in holy reverence hold,
               Him may Perdition sweep away,
               And thus his wanton pride repay;
            Him too, whom wild Ambition prompts to seize,
               Though Justice cries aloud, forbear.
            Can all his vaunts, who dares attempts like these,
               Guard his proud heart from guilty fear?
               Such deeds if glory waits, in vain
               I lead this choral train.
    Antistrophe 2.
               No more at Delphi's central cell,
            At Abæ, or Olympia's hallow'd shrine,
               Attendant pay I rites divine,
            Till the god deigns this darkness to dispel.
               O Jove, if thee we rightly call
               The sovereign lord, the king of all,
            Let not concealment this in shades enfold
               From thee, and thy immortal reign!
            The oracles, to Laius giv'n of old,
               They spurn with insolent disdain,
               No more to Phoebus honours pay;
               And things divine decay. Iocasta, Chorus.
    Ioc.
            Ancients of Thebes, in this extremity
            When ev'n the very steersman of the realm,
            To whom we look for our deliverance,
            Veering himself with every wind that blows
            Of rumour, helplessly resigns the helm,
            I come, albeit with these poor woman's hands,
            To offer wreath and incense on the shrines
            And altars of our tutelary Gods:
            And first to thee, Apollo, first to thee,
            Whose altar nearest to the palace stands,
            And on whose word depends the life of Thebes,
            Lest any unconsider'd word against
            Thy Minister, revolt thy face from us;
            Imploring thee with all the Gods in Heav'n
            To help where all of human help is vain.
    Chorus
            Barb'd with Death, there are among
            The gold-enquiver'd arrows hung
               About Apollo's shoulder; whence,
            As over heav'n his chariot burns
            The land he loves to harvest turns,
               And cities swell with opulence;
            Ev'n so, where yet unexpiated sin
            Cries out, or undetected lurks within,
               The God his lustre turns to pestilence;
            And contrite man must worship and abide,
            Till, Nemesis and Justice satisfied,
            When men least dream it, one relenting ray—
            Oh grant, Apollo, grant it as we pray!—
            Strikes through sheer midnight, and lets in the day. Herald, Iocasta, Chorus.
    Her.
            Tell me who will among you, men of Thebes,
            Which is the palace of King Oedipus,
            And, further, if the King himself within.
    Cho.
            This is the palace; and the King himself
            Within; and she that by that altar stands
            Offering her garland to the God, his Queen.
    Her.
            Oh, to the prayer she offers at the shrine
            She lays the wreath on, be the God benign!
    Ioc.
            A Herald! whence, and on what embassy?
    Her.
            From Corinth, as the message that I bring.
    Ioc.
            Good may the tidings be where all goes ill.
    Her.
            If, as things human, not unmix'd with pain,
            To you and yours auspicious in the main.
    Ioc.
            So far so well; but tell me—
    Her.
                                                   This in sum—
            The citizens of Corinth, by my voice,
            Proclaim King Oedipus of Thebes their King
    Ioc.
            Oedipus King of Corinth?
    Her.
                                                   Even so.
    Ioc.
            But does not Polybus in Corinth reign?
    Her.
            No; the long years that kept him on the Throne,
            At length have laid him in his father's tomb.
    Ioc.
            The King of Corinth dead! Polybus dead!
            Summon the King! You Oracles of Heaven,
            Of what account shall men hereafter hold
            Your Ministers—or you? This was the Sire
            Whom Oedipus, for fear of slaying, fled,
            Now by the common course of Nature dead! Oedipus, Iocasta, Herald, Chorus.
    Oed.
            What tidings? Is the man I sent for here?
    Ioc.
            Not he, but one whose coming shall go far
            To make his coming needless. Herald, speak.
    Her.
            I come from Corinth, by the people there
            Charged with a mission to King Oedipus,
            Whom, in the room of Polybus now dead,
            They call upon to fill the sovereign chair.
    Oed.
            My father dead?
    Ioc.
                                                   And by no hand of yours!
    Her.
            No, nor by any hand but Nature's own,
            That lightly rocks, you know, old age to sleep.
    Oed.
            And this is he whom by the Oracle
            From Phoebus his own lips, myself I heard
            Foredoom'd to slay—
            Yet with whose death I have no more to do
            Than leaving him to languish for the son
            Whose hand was to have slain him had he stay'd!
    Ioc.
            Did not I say?
    Oed.
                                                   But who would not be scared
            By such prediction from the God himself—
            Of which yet half hangs dark above my head!
    Ioc.
            This word from Corinth is a Signal-fire
            Assuring us that Oracle, half slain,
            Must all lie buried in your father's tomb.
    Oed.
            The agèd King is dead, you tell me, Herald—
            But Merope, his Queen?
    Her.
                                                   Lives, and may live
            As one that hath not reached her winter yet;
            And longer yet to live if you return,
            Whose sudden flight from Corinth neither she
            Nor Corinth cease to wonder at, and mourn.
    Oed.
            Yet, Herald, she herself it was whose love,
            That would have held me there, thence banish'd me.
    Her.
            If one, a simple subject as I am,
            Might ask of him he now salutes for King—
    Oed.
            A Prophecy of Phoebus, from the lips
            Of Phoebus' self, and utter'd in these ears,
            Involving me in worse calamity
            With Merope, my mother, who survives,
            Than by my father's death I have escaped.
    Her.
            I understand not wholly, but thus much,
            That 'twas the fear of some mysterious wrong
            Against them both which drove you from their side
            And from your country.
    Oed.
                                                   That, and that alone.
    Her.
            I know not if for better or for worse,
            But certainly for strangest, Oedipus,
            If now for the first time, and from my lips,
            You learn that you are not indeed the son
            Of those you fled from in what two-fold fear.
    Oed.
            You seem a loyal as well-season'd man,
            As near in age to him you lately served
            As trusted, and I think to me and mine
            Well-minded now.
    Her.
                                                   If not, I had not told
            What told I have.
    Oed.
                                                   And would reiterate?
    Her.
          By the most solemn oath by which mankind
          Adjure the Gods to witness human word.
    Oed.
          That I am not in very deed the son
          Of Polybus, and Merope his Queen?
    Her.
          No more their son than—might I so dare say—
          Than son of mine—and that is, not at all.
    Oed.
          But was this known in Corinth?
    Her.
                                                 To none else
          Save to the King and Queen themselves, and me.
    Oed.
          Yet 'twas in Corinth when the cup went round
          At table, that a guest once startled me
          With a light taunt of somewhat like to that
          Which now you gravely tell.
    Her.
                                                 The random shot
          Of idleness, or malice freed by wine,
          That sometimes nears the mark.
    Oed.
                                                 But how was it
          That only you beside the King and Queen
          Knew for a truth?
    Her.
                                                 Would Oedipus know all?
    Oed.
          Yea—on the allegiance you profess to him,
          Whom now you have saluted as your King.
    Her.
          Thus then I know it: for that I alone
          Laid you a new-born babe into their hands
          Who, childless as they were, and like to be,
          Ev'n took what fortune sent them for their own.
    Cho.
          This man bears stranger tidings from himself
          Than from his country he was charged withal.
    Oed.
          You—and you solely—brought me to their hands—
          From whose received me then?
    Ioc.
                                                 O Oedipus,
          When all, beyond all hope, has ended well,
          Why tempt the God, still jealous of success,
          By questioning the means?
    Oed.
                                                 I bid you speak!
    Her.
          You charge me for an answer, Oedipus,
          Which, were you not my King who bids me speak,
          Yet might resent when spoken—
    Oed.
                                                 But one word
          Of ev'n unwelcome truth from human lip
          Were welcome in the night of mystery
          That Fate has gather'd round me.
    Her.
                                                 Listen, then.
          Long ere in favour of these whitening locks,
          And recompence of faithful service done,
          King Polybus had made me what I am,
          I was his shepherd; and, upon a time
          Keeping my flock upon Kithæron's side,
          One of like calling with myself, though not
          Of the same country, who that summer through
          Had fed his sheep beside me, came one day,
          And listening first, and looking all about,
          With those rough hands of his he laid in mine
          As tenderly as any mother might,
          A naked infant—say, some three days born—
          And fasten'd foot to foot, like some poor lamb,
          Which some one of the land from which he came,
          Warm from the bosom of its mother took
          To perish on the barren mountain's side,
          Of cold and hunger. Which the kindly man
          Not finding in himself the heart to do,
          But yet as fearful if he left undone,
          Gave you—for you, King Oedipus, it was—
          The very name you bear, remembering
          The pitiful condition of the babe—
          Gave you to me, to carry far away
          And pitifully cherish for my own
          Beyond all search of those who wish'd you dead.
          So to his country he, and I to mine:
          Which when I reach'd, and to my King and Queen
          Show'd them the prettiest lamb of all my flock,
          They, whether by some instinct of their own
          Inspired, or somewhat royal in the Child
          Prophetic of the Man that was to be,
          Took, nursed, and rear'd to manhood for their own,
          And set beside themselves upon the throne.
    Cho.
          The Gods upon the mountain-top, men tell,
          Do sometimes light, and through the tangled dell,
          And forest-shade—
    Oed.
                                                 A shepherd like yourself,
          But not of Corinth. Whence then?
    Her.
                                                 Thebes, he said,
          To which your destiny recall'd you.
    Oed.
                                                 Thebes!
    Ioc.
          O Oedipus, by all the Gods in heav'n,
          And all that upon earth you hold most dear,
          Heed not these stories of the past, patch'd up
          By the fallacious memory of old age!
    Oed.
          He were by nature baser than base-born
          Who would not find and follow to its source
          The current of the blood by which he lives.
          This Shepherd—and from whom took he the child—
          Charged with that ruthless errand?
    Her.
                                                 Either I
          With mine own duty busied did not ask,
          Or he not answer.
    Oed.
                                                 But to answer lives?
    Her.
          Those of his country best can answer that.
    Oed.
          Does any man of all the people here
          Remember such a man?
    Cho.
                                                 May be the same
          Already sent for, who, as I remember,
          Like this good Herald, shepherded the flocks
          Of Laius, then our Master. But the Queen—
    Ioc.
          No more! No more! For your sake, Oedipus,
          If not for mine—no more!
    Oed.
                                                 Whatever shame
          My birth betray, your blood it cannot taint;
          Not were I proved the issue of a sire
          Three generations deep in slavery.
    Ioc.
          Forbear! once more, for one last time, forbear!
    Oed.
          If aught you know—and your wild looks and words
          But argue somewhat than conjecture worse—
          At once reveal it all: for ask I will
          Till all be answered.
    Ioc.
                                                 Wretched man! the last
          These lips shall ever utter you have heard!
    Cho.
          She is gone as one distracted. O my Lord,
          What should this sudden passion of the Queen
          Forbode of ill!
    Oed.
                                                 Forbode what ill it may,
          But I will solve the riddle of my birth.
          The Queen belike, of royal birth herself
          And haughty-minded as such women are,
          Resents her husband's baser parentage;
          But I, regardless of the accident
          That oft from royal blood provokes a slave,
          I do account myself the royal heir
          Of Destiny, who found me where I lay,
          By man's blind foresight which defeats itself
          Cradled to perish on Kithæron's side,
          And taking from a simple shepherd's hand,
          So laid me in the lap of Royalty,
          And through the days and years of human growth
          Rear'd to the kingly stature that I am.
          And when, affrighted by vain prophecies,
          From Corinth, and the throne prepared me there,
          I fled, inalienable Destiny
          Pursuing drove me but from throne to throne,
          Till, doubling back my course to reach my height,
          Now Thebes and Corinth claim me for their own.
    Chorus.
    Strophe.
          If a prophet's soul be mine
          Aught illumed with skill divine,
          By Olympus' sacred height,
          Ere the morning's streaming light,
          Thou, Kithæron, shalt unfold
          All this mystery round thee roll'd,
          And with pride and triumph own
          Oedipus thy foster'd son.
          Then with joy would we advance,
          Leading light the festive dance;
          Teach thy woods with joy to ring,
          And with transport hail our king.
          Glorious with thy silver bow
          Phoebus, these our joys allow!
    Antistrophe.
          Who, of all the heav'nly pow'rs,
          Gave thee birth in these close bow'rs?
          Some bright Nymph of sylvan race
          Did the frolic Pan embrace,
          Wand'ring o'er the mountain's brow?
          Or to Phoebus dost thou owe
          Thy birth? For him the craggy height,
          Him the pastured dales delight.
          Or to him, the god who roves
          Through Cyllene's cypress groves?
          Or did Bacchus, wont to tread
          His loved haunt, the mountain's head,
          Thee receive, confess'd his son,
          From the Nymphs of Helicon?
          Raptured with their tuneful strain
          Sportive oft he joins their train. Oedipus, Shepherd, Herald, Chorus.
    Oed.
          Whether or not the man we have so long
          Been looking after, one at least whose age
          Evens with his whose story we have heard.
    Cho.
          Whether the same of whom the stranger tells
          I know not, but the man himself I know
          For an old shepherd of King Laius.
    Her.
          And I for him with whom I shepherded
          Upon Kithæron's side so long ago.
    Oed.
          Approach, old man—still nearer—unafraid;
          For nothing but my favour need you fear,
          If, looking straight at me, as I at you,
          Straightforwardly you answer what I ask.
          You, in the days gone by, and long ere Time
          Had strewn his silver honour on your head—
          You were a servant of King Laius?
    Shep.
          His servant—not his slave—no less than he,
          Myself a freeman of the soil of Thebes.
    Oed.
          As such I understand; and in that wise,
          As a free servant of King Laius,
          You kept his flocks?
    Shep.
                                                 Upon a time I might.
    Oed.
          And folding them at home in winter-time,
          Led them in Summer forth?
    Shep.
                                                 So shepherds use,
          Where'er the more and sweeter pasture grew.
    Oed.
          And ever on Kithæron's grassy sides
          In summer-time, remember you this man,
          Old as yourself, keeping his flock with yours?
    Shep.
          Time that has silver'd, as you say, my locks,
          Has somewhat dimm'd both eyes and memory.
    Oed.
          None older than your fellow-shepherd here,
          Who with his locks as silver-touch'd as yours,
          Sees, and recalls in you the man of yore.
    Shep.
          May be; but all men are not all alike,
          And he may err as well remembering me,
          As I forgetting him.
    Her.
                                                 Listen to me,
          And let my voice, and what it has to tell,
          Recall to you the man your eyes do not.
          Can you not call to mind, though long ago,
          Keeping your flock with one whose flock, like yours,
          Grazed on Kithæron, one long summer through—
    Shep.
          With more than one, may be.
    Her.
                                                 Nay, but with one
          To whom, just as that same long summer closed,
          And cold Arcturus warn'd the shepherd home,
          You brought a naked infant—
    Shep.
                                                 Brought? who brought?
    Her.
          Tied by the feet—
    Shep.
                                                 What should one know of that?
    Her.
          Being myself the man you gave it to.
    Shep.
          Methinks this man, whoever he may be,
          And howsoever gifted with good eyes,
          Is something weaker in his wits than I,
          Recounting all such idle rhapsody.
    Oed.
          And you, sharp-witted as you are, methinks
          Seem looking round about you for escape
          In hesitation—but escape shall not.
          Look you! Beware!
    Shep.
                                                 What have I said amiss?
    Oed.
          Not said, but will not say.
    Shep.
                                                 What would you have?
    Oed.
          The babe your fellow-shepherd asks about—
          That naked, new-born, ankle-fetter'd babe,
          Did not you bring and put into his hands?
    Shep.
          And would to Heaven had died before I did!
    Oed.
          And death you shall not have to pray for long,
          If, knowing what prevarication proves
          You know, you not reveal.
    Shep.
                                                 And if reveal!
          Have you not heard enough?
    Oed.
                                                 No, if not all.
          The babe you put into this shepherd's hands
          Was not your own?
    Shep.
                             Oh, not mine own!
    Oed.
                                                 Then whose?
    Shep.
          O Oedipus, my master, and my lord!
          In mercy question me no more!
    Oed.
                                                 No more
          In mercy if you answer not at once.
    Shep.
          O me! The terror of your countenance
          Scatters what little memory age has left!
          What if I found the little helpless thing
          There laid alone and none to tell me whose?
          Or he from whom I took it knew no more
          Than he to whom I gave it?
    Oed.
                                                 Bind his hands:
          The lash must loose the tongue.
    Shep.
                                                 O Oedipus,
          Shame not white hairs!
    Oed.
                                                 Nay, shame them not yourself
          By false prevarication with your King.
          That helpless babe—me—Oedipus—your King—
          Who gave into your hands?
    Shep.
                                                 Alas! alas!
          One of the household of the King that was!—
    Oed.
          Slave? Servant? Who?
    Shep.
                                                 Alas! one now within
          Can answer all!
    Oed.
                                                 Answer yourself then, who?
    Shep.
          Woe's me! I drift into destruction's mouth!
    Oed.
          And I with you. But who?
    Shep.
                                                 Alas! The Queen!
    Oed.
          The Queen!
    Shep.
                                                 Ev'n Iocasta's sacred self!
    Oed.
          But not her own?
    Shep.
                             I said not that—
    Oed.
                                                 Her own?
    Shep.
          Yourself have said.
    Cho.
                                                 The man is turn'd to stone! After a silence.
    Oed.
          The God of Delphi has revenged himself!
          His oracle defied of long ago,
          And his insulted prophet's of to-day,
          Break in one judgment o'er my head, who now,
          Myself sole witness and interpreter,
          Divine that half reveal'd is all fulfill'd,
          And on myself myself pronounce my doom.
    Cho.
          O Oedipus, my lord—
    Oed.
                                                 Speak to me not,
          Approach me not, unless at once to slay,
          Or thrust with execration from the walls,
          The wretch convicted of the double crime
          Of parricide, and—Ha! the prophet said
          That, ere the Day which all beholds go down,
          I shall have look'd my last upon the Sun
          Which all accomplishes—and, ere we pass
          To darkness, somewhat yet is to be done.
    Chorus.
    Strophe.
          Ye race of mortals, what your state?
          Life I an airy nothing deem.
          For what, ah! what your happiest fate,
          More than light fancy's high-wrought dream?
             How soon those baseless dreams decay,
          And all the glittering visions melt away!
             Whilst thy example, hapless king,
             Thy life, thy fortune I bewail,
          Happy no man of mortal birth I hail.
          Thine was no vulgar fate: its tow'ring wing
          To wealth, and empire's splendid summit soar'd:
             When, silenced her mysterious lore,
          The harpy-talon'd monster scream'd no more,
          Our bulwark thou against that pest abhorr'd,
          Thebes gave her sceptre to thy honour'd hand,
          And hail'd thee monarch of a mighty land.
    Antistrophe.
             Who now is pierced with keener pain?
             To all thy glories bid farewell:
             They fly, and in their stead a train
             Of miseries crowd with thee to dwell.
             To one great port, illustrious king,
          Their gallant barks the son and father bring;
             But sink in wild waves roaring round.
             How could thy father's bed so long,
          Ah, how in silence bear the horrid wrong!
          But thee th' all-seeing eye of time hath found,
          And these unhallow'd rites abhorrent shows.
             Oh son of Laius, ne'er again,
          Ne'er could my sorrowing heart thy sight sustain:
          Yet I lament in mournful strains thy woes,
          By thee 'twas mine to life, to light, to rise;
          By thee in dark despair to close my eyes. Messenger, Chorus.
    Mess.
          O venerable Senators of Thebes,
          O liege-men of the house of Labdacus,
          What shall you hear—what not behold—of such
          Pollution in the Palace of your Kings,
          Which all the waters in one volume drown'd
          Of Nile and Ister could not wash away!
    Cho.
          What we already have beheld and heard
          Were but prophetic of yet worse to come;
          Tell us the worst.
    Mess.
                                                 If breath I have to tell,
          If not the worst, the worse that first befell.
          The light of Iocasta's life is quench'd!
    Cho.
          Alas, not strange as terrible! But how?
    Mess.
          By her own hand; as by my eyes indeed
          I cannot, but from others can, avouch,
          With such bewilder'd senses as I may—
          When, as you witness'd for yourselves, from hence
          She fled, and flew distractedly within,
          Shrieking, and tearing her grey locks, she ran
          Along the echoing walls until she reach'd
          The nuptial chamber, shot the bolt within,
          And by the affrighted women lock'd without
          Was heard calling on 'Laius, Laius!
          Her husband Laius, father of the Son
          Who slew, and worse dishonour'd him when dead!'
          This, and much more, and much more terrible,
          They heard: and then a silence as of death,
          Through all the house; till with the sudden yell
          As of some wild beast closing on his prey,
          King Oedipus along the corridor
          With imprecations half articulate,
          Fearful to hear—too fearful to relate—
          With thrice the force of the mad Herakles
          He flung himself against the chamber-door,
          And bursting in, to all who dared to look
          Disclosed the wretched woman hanging dead.
          Whom when he saw, roaring, he sprang upon,
          And tearing from the beam flung down aheap,
          And spurn'd; and then, most horrible of all,
          Wide open tore the raiment from her breast,
          From which himself recoiling with a shriek,
          He struck the golden clasp into his eyes,
          Which having seen such things, henceforth, he said,
          Should in the light of Day behold no more
          Those whom he loved, nor, in the after-dark
          Of Hades, those he loathed, to look upon.
          Then rising, blind, and bleeding as he was,
          He groped and stagger'd back the way he came,
          Vociferating as he went along
          That none who would not share the curse with him
          Should touch unless to slay him—till he reach'd
          The palace-door, and would, methinks, have that,
          As of the nuptial chamber, open burst,
          Had not King Creon bid them lead him in
          Where none henceforth should hear, and none behold,
          Till Thebes his fate determine.—All is told.
    Chorus.
          Oh men of Thebes, this famous man behold,
             Who coming here a stranger to the gate,
          The Sphinx's fatal riddle did unfold,
             And chosen King, as Saviour of the State
          So greatly ruled, and rose to such Renown
             As not a King but envied: now by Fate
          To such a Depth precipitated down
             As not a Wretch but may commiserate.
          Beholding which, and counsell'd by the wise,
          That Nemesis regards with jealous eyes
             Man's over-much, and at his elbow stands
             To shake the full cup in the steadiest hands,
             Deem not the wisest of To-morrow sure,
          Nor fortunate account him till he dies.

    PART II
    OeDIPUS AT ATHENS


    DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

    Oedipus.
    Antigone . . . . . his Daughter.
    Polynices . . . . . his Son.
    Creon of Thebes.
    Theseus . . . . . King of Athens.
    An Athenian Citizen.
    An Athenian Messenger.
    Herald from Thebes.
    Chorus of Athenian Elders.

    Scene: A road near Athens, bordered by the Sacred Grove of the Eumenides. Oedipus, Antigone
    Oed.
                The dawn which breaks not on my sightless eyes
                Salutes my forehead with reviving warmth:
                Here let us rest awhile, Antigone,
                From this brief travel stol'n by fear from night.
                But know you whither it hath led us, and
                Among what strangers, who from charity
                Shall with sufficient for the day provide
                For one with less than little satisfied?
    Ant.
                I know from one who cross'd us in the dusk,
              With steps as hurried as our own, the land
              Is Attica.
    Oed.
              Ay, I remember now.
    Ant.
              And not far off I see the shining walls
              And marble temple-fronts, and citadel,
              As of some stately city: and the place
              We stand on, as for some peculiar use
              Sequester'd from the daily track of men,
              Where a pure rill of water rambles through
              Untrampled herbage, overshaded all
              With laurel, and with olive, poplar-topt,
              As you may guess from many a nightingale
              About us warbling, well assured of home.
    Oed.
              And might not, haply, some poor hunted thing,
              With but a sorry burden for his song,
              Here, too, some breathing-while of refuge find?
    Ant.
              And in good time comes of the country one
              Who shall advise us, lest, as strangers here,
              We trespass on the usages of those
              To whom we look for shelter and support. Enter an Athenian.
              O stranger—
    Ath.
                                                     Hush! Before another word—
              Where ev'n a word unlawful—how much more
              With the soil'd foot of Travel trespassing
              On consecrated ground!
    Oed.
                                                     I yet dare ask
              Whether to Deity, or Demigod,
              Thus consecrate?
    Ath.
                                                     To Deity, and such
              As least of all will Men's intrusion brook
              Within their hallow'd precincts.
    Oed.
                                                     Who be they?
    Ath.
              None other but those awful Sisters Three,
              Daughters of Earth and Darkness.
    Oed.
                                                     By what name
              Invoked of men?
    Ath.
                                                     By whatsoever name
              Elsewhere invoked, here, with averted eyes,
              And with an inward whisper—'The Benign.'
    Oed.
              Benign then, as their name and nature is
              To those who suffer and who do no wrong,
              May they receive the sightless suppliant, who,
              By no false Insight, howbeit unaware,
              Within their Sanctuary first setting foot,
              Alive shall never leave it but to die.
    Ath.
              Your words I understand not; but I know,
              Whether to live or die, depart you must.
    Oed.
              But what, if rather fearing unjust Man
              Than the just God, and those same awful Three,
              If stern to guilt, not unbenign to me,
              I leave their hallow'd refuge?
    Ath.
                                                     Nay, for that
              The land itself is dedicated all
              To God or Demigod, who, Just themselves,
              Protect and vindicate the Just: for here
              Poseidon rules, the Master of the Seas,
              And there Prometheus, with his torch of Life;
              The ground about us glories in the name
              Of King Colonus of the Horse; and this
              Same highway running by the Sacred Grove
              Leads to the City and the Citadel
              Surnamed of Her who keeps them for her own.
    Oed.
              As such I do salute her!—And the King
              That, under her, her chosen people rules—
    Ath.
              Theseus, the son of Ægeus, and, like him,
              Though mortal yet, almost the Demigod.
    Oed.
              Theseus, the son of Ægeus,—ay, I know
              And know indeed that no delusive light
              Led me to him with whom I have to do.
              Shall one among your fellow-citizens
              Bear your King word from one who once was King,
              And who, unkinglike as his presence now,
              Can tell him that which, if he hearken to,
              Shall, for a little service done to me,
              Do to his kingdom and himself much more?
    Ath.
              Strange as the message from so strange a man,
              Yet shall King Theseus hear of it. Meanwhile,
              If in despite of warning and advice
              You still refuse to leave this holy ground,
              I, that am but a simple citizen,
              Dare not enforce; but forthwith shall apprize
              Those of the City who shall deal with you,
              As in their wisdom best they shall advise. Oedipus, Antigone.
    Oed.
              Is he departed?
    Ant.
                                                     We are all alone.
    Oed.
              Daughters of Earth and Darkness! In whose womb
              Unborn till Sovereign Order the new World
              From Chaos woke, yourselves you still secrete,
              With those three Fatal Sisters who the thread
              Of Human Life do spin among the Dead,
              While you the scourge of human Wrong prepare;
              If peradventure with unlicensed feet
              The consecrated earth I have profaned,
              That veils your Presence from this upper air,
              Renounce me not: no, nor in me the God
              Who destined, nor the God who prophesied,
              That, after drifting the blind wreck I am
              About the world, a Horror to Mankind,
            Within the Temple of that Triple wrath
            That Nemesis unyoked to scourge me down,
            At last the haven of my rest should find;
            If satisfied at last be wrath Divine,
            And men err not who name its ministers,
            Though not without a shudder—'The Benign,'
            Let your avenging Justice, that so long
            Hath chased the guiltless instrument of Wrong,
            Here grant him rest until the Power whose throne
            You dwell beside in Darkness give the sign. Chorus, Oedipus, Antigone.
    Cho.
            These are the strangers—this the sightless man,
            And this the maiden that he told us of,
            Who impiously this consecrated ground
            Have ventured to profane.
    Oed.
                                                   Not impiously,
            But ignorantly, who first setting foot
            Upon this alien soil—
    Cho.
                                                   But impiously,
            When warn'd upon what consecrated ground,
            With honey-flowing waters running through
            The inviolable herbage still persist—
            A stranger too, where no Athenian born,
            Not only dares not enter, but pass by
            Save with averted eyes, and inward prayer,
            That holy lips scarce dare articulate.
    Ant.
            We must obey them, Father, as we should,
    Oed.
            You will not, if I quit the Sanctuary,
            Do, nor let others do me violence?
    Cho.
            Fear not the wrath of men, but that of those
            Who watch you through the soil which you profane.
    Oed.
            But who, if of their counsel more you knew,
            As sooner than you look for know you may,
            Would not resent, as you, the wrong I do them.
            Meanwhile, on no worse usage than from them
            Relying when committed to your hands—
            Lead me, Antigone.
    Cho.
                                                   Till you have pass'd
            The bound of sequestration—further yet—
            And yet a little further—so, enough.
            There, travel-wearied, and, perchance, in years
            Well stricken, rest upon the bank awhile.
            But, ere I bid you welcome to the land
            Whose sanctity your foot at first profaned,
            Tell who you are, and whence.
    Oed.
                                                   To tell you 'Who'
            Would tell you all: and if I hesitate—
    Cho.
            Not to declare your country and your name
            Augurs but evil for yourself or it.
    Oed.
            You of that City have heard tell, whose walls
            To Music rose, and whose Inhabitants,
            From the sown Dragon's teeth sprung up arm'd men?
    Cho.
            Of Thebes? Ay, much of olden times, and of
            The worse than Dragon Sphinx that in our day
            The Dragon seed devour'd.
    Oed.
                                                   And of the man
            Who slew that worse than Dragon—
    Cho.
                                                   Oedipus!
            As by the signal of those sightless eyes,
            And lingering self-avowal, I divine—
    Oed.
            Revolt not from me.
    Cho.
                                                   And for You! for You—
            May be, the monster most unnatural—
            To set your foot upon the holiest spot
            Of this all-consecrated Athens! You!
            Who, were your very presence not enow
            Contamination to the land, and shame,
            May bring on us the plague you left at Thebes!
            I should not wrong a promise half implied
            If with these hands I tore you from the Land
            Your impious presence doubly violates,
            Where e'en the guiltless dare not enter—Hence!
            Begone! Pollute our land no more! Begone!
    Ant.
            O men of Athens! if you will not hear
            My Father pleading for himself, hear me,
            Not for myself, but for my Father pleading,
            As to a Father, by the love you bear
            The Daughter by yon Altar-hearth at home,
            And by the Gods we worship as yourselves.
    Cho.
            Daughter, the Gods whom you adjure us by,
            Repudiating Oedipus from Thebes,
            From Athens also do repudiate.
    Oed.
            O then of Fame that blows about the world
            The praise of men and nations, what the worth,
            If Athens—Athens, through the world renown'd
            For hospitable generosity—
            Athens, who boasts the power as much as will
            To save and succour the misfortunate—
            If she that honour forfeit at your hands,
            Who, from the very horror of my name,
            And shapeless rumour of the terrible things
            Which I have suffer'd, rather than have done,
            Would thrust me from the Sanctuary forth
            Of those whose law you violate no less
            By broken Faith, than with unwary foot
            Did I their consecrated soil transgress?
            One, too, that howsoe'er you know it not,
            Ev'n with the Ban that drives him from his own
            Carries a Blessing with him to the Land
            That shall accept him, and a Curse to those
            Who, being his, henceforth shall be their foes.
            All which, unto my inward eye as clear
            As yonder Sun that shines in Heav'n to yours,
            I shall reveal to him who governs here,
            If hearing he deny me not. Meanwhile,
            I do adjure you, by those Deities
            Whose Sanctuary you have drawn me from,
            Do me no violence; remembering
            That, if Benign they be, Avengers too,
            As of all outraged Law, so not the less
            Of violated hospitality.
    Cho.
            We have discharged ourselves in warning you,
            And to King Theseus, whom you summon'd here,
            Your cause and self henceforward we commit
            To deal with, and adjudge as seems him fit. Theseus, Oedipus, Antigone, Chorus
    Thes.
            I have been hither summon'd at the call
            Of one from whom, 'twas said, the light of Day
            Together with his Kingdom pass'd away:
            And, knowing of one such, and one alone,
            Reported in the roll of living men,
            Nor uninstructed in the destiny
            Which from the glory it had raised him to
            Precipitated to a depth so low,
            Amid the ruin of this fallen man
            I know that Oedipus of Thebes is he.
            I too remember when like him forlorn,
            I wandered friendless in a foreign land,
            And with an alien people much endured:
            And, had I always been what now I am,
            Yet none the less by what myself have known
            Than by the records of Mankind, aware
            That, howsoever great a King To-day,
            No surer of To-morrow than yourself;
            Therefore whatever Athens or her King
            Of hospitable service can supply,
            Let him demand: for much indeed it were
            For Oedipus to ask and me withhold.
    Oed.
            O Theseus, if indeed the King I was
            Look through the ruin of the wretch I am,
            No less doth full assurance of a King,
            Although to these quench'd eyes insensible,
            Breathe through the generous welcome of your word,
            And ere of my necessities I tell,
            Assure me of the boon as yet unask'd.
            For the detested story of my life,
            Unask'd, you know it—whence, and what I was,
            To what catastrophe reserved you see—
            Yet not so ignominious to myself,
            No, nor to Athens so unprofitable,
            Will you but listen, and do that for me,
            Which, howsoever strange from lips like mine,
            Is sure as Fate itself, as Fate it is.
    Thes.
            Doubt not, however strange, whether or not
            To Athens profitable, if to you,
            What Oedipus demands shall Theseus do.
    Oed.
            But profitable shall it be to both,
            Unless the Spokesman of Futurity
            From Delphi shall have prophesied a lie:
            For this unsightly remnant of a king—
            Though while it breathes a burden to us both,
            But when the breath is out of it, to be
            More serviceable to you than good looks—
            I do consign to you for sepulture
            Under the walls that, as they shelter'd me
            While living, after death will I defend.
    Thes.
            But of the life you have to live between
            This hour and that why take you no account?
    Oed.
            No; for the life between this hour and that
            In that sepulture is provided for.
    Thes.
            You ask an easy favour at my hands,
            Whether for life or death.
    Oed.
                                                   Nevertheless,
            May be, to promise easier than to do.
    Thes.
            How so?
    Oed.
                                                   Those loving friends of mine in Thebes,
            Who would not when I pray'd them, now, perforce,
            If not per-suasion, when myself would not,
            Will have me back with them.
    Thes.
                                                   And what if Thebes,
            Relenting, or repenting, Oedipus—
    Oed.
            O, not repenting or relenting, Thebes,
            But by an Oracle of Phoebus scared,
            Which told them that unless they get me home,
            To live what Life they leave me, and, when dead,
            Lie tomb'd outside—outside, I say—their Gates
            They shall not thrive in war against the foe,
            Whose walls shall overshadow what they lose.
            As Thebes shall find should ever strife arise
            Between herself and Athens, if their King
            Vouchsafe me that which I have ask'd of him.
    Thes.
            But Thebes and Athens, friendly powers of old,
            What quarrel should arise to make them foes?
    Oed.
            O Son of Ægeus! to the Gods alone
            Belongs immunity from Change and Death:
            All else doth all controlling Time confound.
            Earth waxes old: and all that from her womb
            She brings to light upon her bosom dies,
            And all is mutability between.
            Ev'n so with Man, who never at one stay,
            No less in mind than body changeable,
            Likes what he liked not, loathes where once he loved,
            And then perchance to liking turns again.
            And as with man, with Nation none the less.
            If now with Thebes and Athens all look fair,
            Yet Time his furrow'd track of Night and Day
            Pursues, wherein some grain of Discord dropt,
            Perhaps no bigger than an idle word,
            That shall infect his kindly Brotherhood,
            And ripen'd Amity to rancour turn.
            As one day—for I prophesy—shall be,
            When my cold ashes underneath these walls
            Shall drink the warm blood of my enemies—
            Ev'n as they might upon this quarrel now,
            Had Thebes not other foe to deal withal.
    Thes.
            Rumour hath reach'd us of some warlike stir.
            But on what quarrel—
    Oed.
                                                   Thebes against herself.
            For those two sons of mine, who for so long
            In the Egyptian fashion, as I thought,
            Kept house, and did the women's work within,
            Now, full adult in arrogance and pride,
            Assert their sex to quarrel for the throne
            From which they banish'd me: Eteocles
            The younger, with the subtle Creon's aid,
            Not only seizes first, but yet withholds
            The sceptre from his elder brother's hand;
            Who, as by sure intelligence I learn,
            Hath fled to Argos, and so cunningly
            Made good his cause, that King Adrastus there
            Gives him his daughter's hand in marriage, and
            Along with her, by way of royal dower,
            A host in arms that shall reconquer Thebes,
            And set my elder son upon—my Throne.
            And now by Phoebus' Oracle forewarn'd
            That Victory no less within my Tomb
            Shall live than in what now survives of me,
            And fearful now of what they wish'd before,
            Lest any day should find, where they might not,
            Their victim, less by years than by the load
            Of shame and woe they laid upon him, dead,
            They dog my steps like vultures on the track
            Of gathering battle, and the sharpest scent
            May even now be close upon my heels.
    Cho.
            Whether with Argos Thebes for war prepares,
            Behold a Herald, from whatever land
            I know not, as a messenger of Peace
            To Athens, with that Olive in his hand. Enter Herald from Thebes.
    Her.
            Creon of Thebes by mine his Herald's voice
            To Theseus, King of Athens, greeting sends,
            Craving from him due licence to confer
            With Oedipus, the King of Thebes that was,
            Now by report upon Athenian soil—
    Oed.
            Oh, I forefelt his coming in the wind!—
    Her.
            Until which licence granted by the King,
            With a small retinue he waits aloof
            Before advancing to the City's wall.
    Thes.
            Your King does well; and to his courtesy
            With a like greeting Athens shall reply.
    Oed.
            Oh, let no greeting made to him impeach
            What first vouchsafed to me!
    Thes.
                                                   Fear not for that:
            The courtesy which courtesy returns
            No less leaves Oedipus sole arbiter
            To grant or to refuse what Thebes demands.
    Oed.
            If so, this Herald need not tarry long,
            Nor overtax his memory with the word
            That I shall freight him with.
    Thes.
                                                   And yet methinks
            That e'en from lips he loves not Oedipus
            Might hear a word that should send up the scale
            Which now so down against his Country weighs.
            What once you heard, if when you heard it true
            May, by the changing Time and Circumstance
            Of which you tell me, now be Truth no more.
    Oed.
            More false than Creon Falsehood cannot be.
            O Theseus, one of heart and speech yourself,
            You know not what the double tongue can do.
    Thes.
            Nay, but the tongue which you so much distrust
            Will have to deal not with myself but you,
            Who know the man, and how to sift the word,
            As once of one more cunning than himself.
            And for all other argument than word,
            Myself and Athens are engaged for that.
    Oed.
            Be't so—vouchsafe but to be here yourself,
            As Witness and as Judge between us both,
            And you shall hear the Truth from those false lips
            Wrung out, which had been told you by the true,
            Had not that busy Herald interposed
            His olive leaf between yourself and me.
    Thes.
            Witness I may be, but of neither Judge
            In that which but concerns yourself and Thebes.
            But, whichsoever way the scale may turn,
            Not Judgment's self, save from the God's own lip,
            Against your will shall move you from my side.
            Meanwhile, within the City, Oedipus,
            With such observance as becomes myself
            With me abide this meeting.
    Oed.
                                                   Ill beseems
            The mendicant demurring at the hand
            That but too generously deals with him.
            But the prophetic voice of Destiny,
            That led me hither, will not let me hence,
            Till he have giv'n the signal to be gone.
    Thes.
            Be't as you will; with these good men abide
            Secure, as in my promise, which I call
            The Power beside whose sacred grove we stand
            To witness, as I pledge it with my hand.
    Oed.
            Theseus, ere this the Gods whom you adjure
            Themselves had sworn by Fate the fore-decreed
            Requital of that generosity
            Which no requital looks for; and I know
            That even now, escaping through their hands,
            The Blessing strives to anticipate the Deed.
    Cho.
            But, that no evil influence thwart its way,
            And to propitiate that jealous Power
            Whose Sanctuary you at first profaned—
            You, Oedipus, and you, whose pious hand
            Leading him wrong, like expiation need—
            Returning to the consecrated shade
            Of one that in its inmost shadow dwells,
            Its dedicated Priest and Minister,
            The ceremonial he enjoins obey,
            First, by lustration in the sacred stream;
            Then to the sacred Earth, whereunder keep
            Those Three Benign ones ever on the watch,
            Thrice three libations from three vessels pour—
            Or honey mix'd with water, but no wine:
            Which when the forest-shaded Earth has supp'd,
            Upon her bosom olive wands thrice three
            Lay with a prayer within the lips suppress'd;
            And then, with unreverting eyes to us
            Returning, wait in confidence the rest.
    Chorus.
    Strophe 1.
               Well, stranger, to these rural seats
               Thou comest, this region's blest retreats,
               Where white Colonus lifts his head,
               And glories in the bounding steed.
            Where sadly sweet the frequent nightingale
               Impassion'd pours her evening song,
            And charms with varied notes each verdant vale,
               The ivy's dark-green boughs among;
               Or shelter'd 'midst the cluster'd vine,
               Which high above, to form a bow'r
               Safe from the sun or stormy show'r,
               Loves its thick branches to entwine;
               Where frolic Bacchus always roves,
            And visits with his fost'ring Nymphs the groves.
    Antistrophe 1.
               Bathed in the dew of heav'n each morn
               Fresh is the fair Narcissus born,
               Of these great pow'rs the crown of old:
               The Crocus glitters robed in gold.
            Here restless fountains ever murm'ring glide,
               And as their crisped streamlets stray
               To feed, Cephisus, thy unfailing tide,
               Fresh verdure marks their winding way;
               And as their pure streams roll along
               O'er the rich bosom of the ground,
               Quick spring the plants, the flow'rs around.
               Here oft to raise the tuneful song
               The virgin band of Muses deigns;
            And car-borne Venus guides her golden reins.
    Strophe 2.
            What nor rich Asia's wide domain,
            Nor all that sea-encircled land
            From Doric Pelops named, contain,
            Here, unrequired the cult'ring hand,
            The hallow'd plant spontaneous grows,
            Striking cold terror through our foes.
            Here blooms, this favour'd region round,
            The fertile Olive's hoary head;
            The young, the old behold it spread,
            Nor dare with impious hand to wound:
            For Morian Jove with guardian care
            Delights to see it flourish fair;
            And Pallas, fav'ring, from the skies
            Rolls the blue lustre of her eyes.
    Antistrophe 2.
            My voice yet once more let me raise,
            Yet other glories to relate:
            A potent god for these we praise,
            His presents to this favour'd state;
            The Steed obedient to the rein,
            And safe to plough the subject main.
            Our highest vaunt is this, thy grace,
            Saturnian Neptune, we behold
            The ruling curb emboss'd with gold
            Control the courser's managed pace.
            Though loud, O King, thy billows roar,
            Our strong hands grasp the well-form'd oar;
            And, while the Nereids round it play,
            Light cuts our bounding bark its way. Theseus, Oedipus, Creon, Antigone, Chorus.
    Thes.
            Son of Menoeceus, of the realm of Thebes,
            A Ruler, and its Representative;
            Your peaceful advent by your Herald's voice
            Duly proclaim'd as much from me demands
            Of courteous welcome and acknowledgment.
            The purport of your mission to this Land
            Yourself have told me, as foretold by him,
            Who, till to-day a stranger like yourself,
            And by no Herald like yourself announced,
            Yet once a King, is still a King to me.
            And at his bidding am I present now,
            Not as a Judge between you to decide
            A question that concerns yourselves alone,
            But to hear that which, though he needs it not,
            Should justify that honour at my hands
            Which his ill Fate has forfeited in Thebes;
            And as a King in Athens to remain,
            If by persuasion or just argument
            You fail to move him ev'n to reign with you.
    Cre.
            O Theseus, Son of Ægeus, and still more
            Than Ægeus' self about the world proclaim'd,
            Slayer of the fiery-breathing Minotaur,
            And hordes of Men than one such monster worse:
            The Monarch of a State, if any in Greece,
            In men and means abounding, of the Gods
            Observant, and of Justice to Mankind,
            With your world-famous Areopagus,
            No less for Wisdom than for Arms renown'd,
            Like Her whose tutelary name you boast.
            On what a peaceful mission I am come,
            My Herald first, and the small retinue
            That follows me, sufficiently declare:
            To trespass not on foreign Land or Law—
            No, nor on his who, having found his way,
            Hath found a home on this Athenian soil;
            But whom, with what fair argument I may
            Of Kindred and of Country, I would fain,
            However royally entreated here,
            Persuade with me back to his home again.
    Cho.
            You know the man, though, haply, not the man
            He was, whom now you are to deal withal.
    Cre.
            Therefore to him will I address myself,
            In words as few and unrhetorical
            As simple Truth needs to be clothed withal
            In summing a momentous question up:
            Praying the Goddess underneath whose shade
            We here are standing to direct them home.
            O Oedipus! my Brother—once my King—
            And King once more to be, will you but hear
            What for myself, and with me Thebes, I speak;
            Sore wearied both under this long divorce
            From one that once the Saviour was of all,
            Under a judgment which your evil Fate
            Prepared, yourself invoked on your own head,
            And Thebes must execute if Thebes would live.
            But as no judgment wrought by human hand,
            And most to him that suffers from the blow,
            But of the shaking hand that dealt it tells—
            What of misdeed, or of misfortune what,
            Suffer'd or done—unwittingly by you
            Done, and by Thebes unwillingly redress'd—
            Behold at last, by Fate's accomplishment,
            The Oracles of Phoebus justified,
            The Gods by expiation of the Curse
            Appeased, and Thebes once more herself again,
            Like one recover'd from a mortal throe,
            And fain to fold him to her heart once more
            Who saved her once, and yet a second time
            Who sacrificed himself that she might live;
            Your Country reaches out beseeching arms,
            Land over land, until she finds you here,
            Among a People, with a King alike
            In hospitality renown'd as arms,
            But, welcome and entreat you as they may,
            Who cannot be to you, nor you to them,
            As Oedipus to Thebes, or Thebes to him.
            Wherefore I do beseech you, Oedipus,
            By all the ties that man to man endear
            Of kindred and of country; by all those
            That King to People bind, as them to him:
            Yea, by the God, who, for a secret end
            That Man not fathoms, having parted them,
            Now, reconciled himself, would reconcile;
            Be all that erring Man on either side
            Hath done amiss forgotten as forgiv'n,
            And Oedipus and Thebes as one again.
            Look! I, more burden'd than yourself by years;
            And, little as you think it, like yourself
            Bow'd down with execution of the Doom
            Whereunder you now labour self-condemn'd,
            With long and weary travel have I come,
            Half fearful of less prosperous return,
            Imploring you, if I cannot persuade
            With argument that shall commend itself,
            If not to you, to those you trust in here,
            Yet in the eyes of Athens shame me not
            By sending empty-handed back to Thebes.
    Cho.
            The Man has spoken: and to us it seems
            In well-consider'd word, King Oedipus,
            And temper that invites a like reply.
    Oed.
            Temper and word so well consider'd, friends,
            That, unaccustom'd as I long have been
            To civil greeting till I lighted here,
            And haply not the man I was to guess
            The well-consider'd word—But thus it runs:
            That, satisfied at length with all the shame
            And beggary Thebes condemn'd and left me to,
            To expiate the crime—
    Cre.
                                                   I said not that—
    Oed.
            On which just Judgment done—though, by the way,
            Granting the Judgment just, I yet might ask
            If you, my kinsman, and those sons of mine,
            Must needs become its executioner?
    Cre.
            To Greece do I appeal if you yourself
            On your own head drew not the Judgment down
            Which Fate decreed and Phoebus prophesied,
            And upon which the People's Being hung;
            And which who but the People's Magistrate,
            Kinsman or other, needs must execute?
    Oed.
            By setting on the rabble pack of Thebes
            To yelp me through the gates? But let that pass:
            For now the rabble pack, to make amends,
            Send those who set them on to hunt me back.
    Cre.
            If you will have it so, so must it be:
            So but to good result on either side.
    Oed.
            Yet somewhat late amends on yours, I think,
            Whether by People or by Magistrate:
            Who, when the Plague by ceasing long ago
            Proved Expiation duly made by me,
            And I myself, worn with the load of shame
            I bore about with me among strange men,
            Cried out to lay my weary burden down—
            Were't with my life—among mine own once more,
            Then would you not to my entreaty grant
            What, unbesought, you come beseeching now.
    Cre.
            The People, panic-stricken with the storm
            That, having made such havoc in their ranks,
            Had scarcely pass'd, still dreaded its return.
    Oed.
            And prithee, Creon, how recomforted,
            And to my presence reconciled at last?
    Cre.
            The Magistrates whom you so much distrust,
            Adding the voice of their authority
            To theirs who by their sacred ministry
            The will of Heaven divine—
    Oed.
                                                   Teiresias still!
            Whose refluent years against the base itself
            Of Delphi breaking shiver out of sight?
            Ay, he it was who with its breath surcharged,
            First trumpeted me forth; and now perhaps,
            When other Augury and Omen fail'd
            People and Magistrate to reassure,
            By some new summons from the Delphian shrine,
            Hath quicken'd Thebes to reconciliation
            By something stronger than regretful Love.
    Cre.
            What mean you, Oedipus?
    Oed.
                                                   No more but this;
            That, as I wander'd—not so long ago—
            About the world begging my daily bread,
            A little wind from Delphi wandering too
            Came up with me, and whisper'd in my ears
            That, unless Thebes should have me back again,
            She would not thrive in arms against the foe
            That even then was knocking at her doors.
    Cre.
            I scarcely thought the selfsame Oedipus,
            Who scarce would heed Apollo's Prophet once,
            Should for a Prophet's take the wandering voice
            Of rumour in the wind.
    Oed.
                                                   And, did I not,
            As, spite of taunt, now better taught, I do,
            The pious Creon never fail'd in faith,
            And by his presence here and now attests
            That wandering voice from Delphi told me true:
            And somewhat more. For, to be plain with you,
            Another wind, that not from Delphi blew,
            But somehow slipping through your city gates,
            Whisper'd how Thebes, of that same Oracle
            From Delphi self-assured, but not the less,
            Despite of Augur and of Soothsayer,
            Still apprehensive of my presence there,
            Would have me back—would have me back indeed,
            Not while I lived to fold me to her heart
            With those beseeching arms you tell me of,
            But at arm's length—outside the city walls—
            Like some infectious leper there to bide
            Till Death, which surely could not come too fast,
            And might perchance be quicken'd if too slow,
            Even in death dishonour'd as in life,
            Should safely hide me in the ground below.
    Cre.
            What! has some traitor been deluding you
            With some swoll'n rumour of the market-place?
    Oed.
            Traitor to you, as true to me, but not
            To you more traitor than to you yourself,
            If, as I think, who cannot see your face—
            I thank the Gods I cannot—but those here
            Shall witness where the startled countenance
            Convicts the false denial of the tongue.
    Cre.
            Ev'n were that babbling traitor's word as true
            As he is false, I see not Oedipus
            Much otherwise among his new friends here,
            Than among those he counts for foes at home.
    Oed.
            You see not, for you know not how ere long—
            How soon I know not, but not long, I know—
            What others here now witness, standing round,
            And some you see not watching underground,
            Why from this spot, by which I first set foot,
            I would not—no, not to be seated by
            King Theseus' side in his Acropolis,
            I would not move until I went to die.
            Whether or no you guess my mystery,
            Enough! you see I have unravell'd yours.
            Begone! You lose but time and tongue—Begone!
            And tell your people this on your return:
            That, were the word from Delphi, and the word
            From Thebes as false as you pretend it—yea,
            False as yourself—I would not back with you;
            No—not were all the Dragon brood of Thebes,
            From the first armèd harvest of the teeth
            That ancient Cadmus sow'd the field withal
            Raised from the dust to join the living host
            Who yell'd me forth—all these, and all the way
            From Thebes to Athens grovelling at your heels
            Back would I not with you—no, not to reign
            Enthroned among them as I was before,
            Much less a tainted leper like to lie
            Outside your walls while living, and, when dead,
            There huddled under as a thing accursed,
            Save for the Victory that within me lies,
            And shall but quicken as the body dies.
            No; the same answer that I make to you,
            Take home with you to all: on this same spot
            Of earth, which now I stand a beggar on,
            Beside this consecrated Grove, in which
            By no delusive Inspiration drawn
            I first set foot—I say, my Throne is here,
            Deep-based as Hades, fix'd as Fate itself;
            And this poor staff I long have lean'd upon
            The Sceptre, wherewith from the world beneath
            I shall direct the issues of the war
            That shall determine wingèd Victory
            To settle on the Land where tomb'd I lie.
    Cre.
            Theseus, in vain to reason with a man,
            Still more the slave that evermore he was
            Of Passion which inveterates with years;
            Suspecting even those who mean him well,
            As once myself; and when, to his own cost,
            Falsely he found, as with such men it fares,
            He first injustice justifies by worse.
            Therefore to you, King Theseus, and to these
            Grave Councillors of Athens, I appeal:
            And, irrespective of the ties that bind
            All men to kith and country, but which he,
            Despite all loving offer on their side,
            Irreconcilably repudiates—ask,
            If that same Oracle which he pretends
            By some vague rumour reach'd his ears say true,
            And that victorious power, as he pretends,
            Be lodged in him, whether alive or dead—
            Is he not bound, reluctant though he be,
            With his returning presence to requite
            The deadly mischief which it wrought before?—
            A Pestilence so terrible to Thebes
            As almost to extermination thinn'd
            Her people, and yet leaves but half array'd
            Against the foe now knocking at her doors.
            For such a foe we have to deal withal—
            Adrastus, King of Argos, who, by this
            Man's son, and by his own ambition, led,
            Has, with some several powers allied with him,
            Raised such a Force as threatens to destroy
            What little life the Father left in Thebes,
            And either to reconquer and there reign,
            Or raze our sacred ramparts to the dust.
            And on that second count I ask again—
            Whether, if that wing'd Victory do indeed
            Abide with him, he be not doubly bound,
            By now submission to his country's will
            To counter-expiate his son's revolt,
            While for past wrong atoning for himself?
            And furthermore I ask, would it beseem
            A King and People wise and just as this,
            If not with Thebes confederate, not her Foe,
            Who, disregarding, as I know you do,
            All visionary profit for yourselves,
            Would not escape that censure in men's eyes,
            Withholding—nay, before those jealous eyes
            Upholding—one who, for his sake—still more
            For hers who innocently shares the shame—
            Were better in the bosom of his own
            To veil the remnant of a life defaced
            If not by Crime—yet by Calamity
            So crime-akin—so terrible—twofold—
            Of Parricide and—
    Oed.
                                                   Shameless villain, hold
            Who in the compass of this brief appeal
            Before these reverend Elders and their King,
            Dare show the double face and double tongue
            For which of old you were notorious:
            First with fair honey-sweet cajoling words
            Seeking to entice; and, when the honey fail'd,
            Intimidating with unsheathèd sting,
            As impotent to wound as that to win.
            Intimidate, I say—not me alone,
            But this great People and their Sovereign,
            Who dare, forsooth, who dare between us stand
            With talk—O not of Crime forsooth—but of
            Calamity so crime-like—'twas the word—
            So cunningly confused, that when at first
            You came, propitiation on your tongue,
            The word of pity floated on the top,
            But when that fail'd, then Crime came uppermost,
            And Crime left ringing in this people's ears.
            Lest which—albeit but empty breath, I know,
            To good King Theseus, and his Councillors,
            But with the Citizens, less well advised,
            Ring out the old alarm that shall again—
            And let it!—rouse the cry of baffled Thebes,
            I will arrest, and from denial false,
            Or the less guilty silence of consent,
            Convict you once for all, and let you go.
            Was't not predicted, ev'n before my birth,
            By Phoebus, Fate's unerring Oracle,
            That I should slay my father? And the God
            Provided for his own accomplishment,
            Ev'n by the very means that father took
            To wrench out of my hands his destiny,
            As old Kithæron wots of to this hour.
            For Fate, that was not to be baffled thus,
            And Phoebus, that was not to be forsworn,
            There found and rear'd me till my arm was strong
            To do the execution they fore-doom'd.
            Yea, on the very road King Laius
            Again was going to that Oracle
            He fondly dream'd—as afterward his son
            More vainly bragg'd—of having foil'd before,
            I met—I smote—I slew—my Father—yes—
            And you, before this presence, answer me!
            If one you knew not save that King he were,
            Upon the public thoroughfare of men
            Had struck you, no less royal than himself;
            Would you, sedate and pious as you are,
            In youth and courage strong as I was then—
            Would you have paused to think whether, in all
            The roll of human possibility
            The man who smote you might not in his veins
            Have running blood akin to that in yours,
            Or, in the sudden wrath of self-defence,
            Retaliated with a counter-blow?
            Yea! as the very Father whom I slew,
            Could his voice reach us though the earth between,
            Would ev'n now bear me witness, as he shall
            When I rejoin him in the world below;
            That, howsoever for the world's behoof,
            The Gods, albeit with pitying eyes from heaven,
            Chastise the guiltless instruments of crime
            For which they know that Fate is chargeable,
            They look not with a like compassion down
            Upon those mortal agents of their doom
            Who, with a vengeance more implacable,
            Pursue and persecute—ay, let it be
            The Parricide!—The Parricide!—
            And for that yet more terrible mischance
            That follow'd—and for which yourselves in Thebes
            Were, under Destiny, responsible—
            All shameless as thou art, art not ashamed
            Before an alien People and their King
            To breathe—as breathe thou wert about to do
            Had not I swept it from thy lips unsaid
            The Word which not myself alone involves,
            But one—whose Memory Thou least of all
            Shouldst have untomb'd—involves, I say, in that
            Which unaware to have done is less shame
            Than with aforethought malice to proclaim!
    Cho.
            If to King Creon Reason heretofore
            Seem'd choked in wrath, 'tis not to wonder now
            That, with this burst of Fury overwhelm'd,
            He leaves in silence Theseus to reply.
    Thes.
            Albeit on either side appeal'd to now,
            And whichsoever way myself inclined,
            I shall not from my former purpose swerve;
            To stand as Witness, not as Arbiter,
            Between two Princes of an alien land,
            Whereof one yet is Ruler, and though fall'n
            From rule the other, still a King to me.
            To whom, first coming to the land I rule,
            I pledged an oath by those Eumenides
            Beside whose sanctuary e'en now we stand,
            That if Persuasion and fair Argument
            Should fail with him,—as fail'd it has, you see,
            Nor less with her, who, wedded to his fate,
            Clings all the closer to her father's side—
            No power but Heav'n's should move him from my land.
            And therefore, heedless what the world may say,
            Well knowing that my hospitality
            To no remoter self-advantage looks,
            I should not—even if not engaged by oath—
            I should not from my plighted promise swerve.
    Cre.
            I may not, were I minded—I, with these
            Few followers—in the teeth of Athens arm'd,
            Arraign the adverse judgment of their King;
            But to the courteous welcome I have met,
            Reciprocating with a like farewell,
            Must to my people leave on my return
            How minded, and how temper'd, to receive
            This unforeseen denial of their right.
    Thes.
            That you shall settle with your friends at home;
            And in what temper and to what result
            Among yourselves decided and declared,
            Thebes shall not find our Athens unprepared.

    Chorus

    Strophe 1


            Were I where the dauntless train
            Swells the battle's brazen roar;
            On the hallow'd Pythian plain;
            Or the torch-illumined shore,
            Where for men their holy flame
            O'er the sacred Mysteries wakes,
            And 'mongst Priests of honour'd name
            Where his station Silence takes,
            Wont his golden key to bear
            In his firm tongue-locking hand!
            There the warrior Theseus, there
            Join'd the virgin sisters stand;
            There they shall soon the conflict share,
            And pour the torrent rage of war.

    Antistrophe 1.


            Westward haply on the plain,
            Where the white and rocky steep
            Tow'rs o'er Oia's rich domain,
            May th' ensanguined battle sweep:
            Where impetuous in their speed,
            Glowing with the flames of war,
            Warriors spur the foaming steed,
            Other warriors roll the car.
            Brave the youths who here reside,
            Brave th' Athenian troops in fight;
            Shine their reins with martial pride,
            All their trappings glitter bright;
            These honours in their rich array
            To Pallas all and Neptune pay.

    Strophe 2.


               Is the dreadful work begun?
               Or does ought their force delay?
            O let me give the glad presages way!
               Soon shall yon bright ethereal sun
               Behold him, vaunting now no more,
            Compell'd th' afflicted virgin to restore,
               Afflicted through her father's woes.
               Each day some deed effected shows,
               The ruling hand of righteous Jove.
            I am the prophet of a prosperous fight.
               Had I the pennons of a dove
               High o'er the clouds to whirl my flight,
               Then should my raptured eyes behold
               The victory my thoughts foretold.

    Antistrophe 2.


               Thou in heav'n's high throne adored,
               Sovereign of the gods above,
            Give strength, O pow'rful all-beholding Jove,
               Give conquest to my country's lord;
            With glory mark his purple way,
            And make the ambush'd foe an easy prey!
               Pallas, propitious hear my pray'r,
               And show that Athens is thy care!
               Thee, Hunter Phoebus, skill'd to trace
            The sylvan savage in his rapid flight;
               Thee, whom the pleasures in the chase
               Of the fleet, spotted hind delight,
               Thee I implore, chaste Huntress Maid,
               Aid her brave sons, our country aid! Oedipus, Antigone, Messenger, Chorus.
    Mes.
            Where is King Oedipus?
    Cho.
                                                   Behold him here.
    Mes.
            King Oedipus, Theseus, of Athens King,
            Hath sent me back with this report full speed:
            That Creon with a cloud of armèd men
            Whom we found ambush'd on a neighbouring height,
            Without encounter, but with lowering brows,
            And muttered thunder of Revenge to come,
            Broke up and blew away the way they came.
    Oed.
            The Gods be praised, and Theseus blest withal!
    Mes.
            Who bids me tell you further what myself
            Did also witness; that, as we returned,
            Before Poseidon's Altar by the way,
            Whereat we stay'd to sacrifice and pray,
            A strange man, as with distant travel worn,
            And low beneath a load of sorrow bow'd,
            By that same Altar they both worshipp'd at
            Besought a boon of Theseus; and, when ask'd
            His country, name, and parentage replied,
            From Argos—
    Oed.
                               Argos!
    Mes.
                                                   But himself, he said,
            The Son of Oedipus, once King of Thebes,
            Whom, ere he went to conquer and retrieve
            By arms the throne usurp'd from both in Thebes,
            With many tears King Theseus he besought
            To see, perchance before he went to die:
            And Theseus, moved by pity for the man,
            And reverence for the shrine by which he pray'd—
    Oed.
            I will not see him!
    Cho.
                                                   Nay, consider yet;
            As by the sacred earth you stand beside
            From Theseus welcome for yourself you found,
            So by the shrine at which with Theseus pray'd
            Your son, refuse not what to Creon granted
            Of hearing and reply.
    Mes.
                                                   So pray'd the King.
    Ant.
            Oh, Father, young and maiden as I am,
            Unfit to lift my voice among these men,
            Yet hear me—if not for my brother's sake,
            May be less guilty than you now believe,
            Or if yet guilty, not impenitent,
            Who comes to plead forgiveness at your feet—
            If not for his sake, Father, yet for mine—
            Let me but see my brother's face once more,
            And hear his voice, before he goes to die.
    Oed.
            You know not what you ask, Antigone;
            But thus by Theseus at the altar's side
            Entreated, let what has to be be done,
            And leave me to such peace as may be mine.
    Cho.
            And yonder, lo! the solitary man
            Comes slowly weeping hither.
    Ant.
                                                   Oh, my brother!
    Cho.
            Approach, unhappy man, approach, and plead
            Your sorrows, and, as you deserve, succeed. Polynices, Oedipus, Antigone, Chorus.
    Pol.

            Appeal! Alas, how scarcely dare approach,
            Who scarce aloof dare contemplate through tears
            That Vision of paternal majesty,
            Or his misfortune like my own deplore!
            Beholding him an outcast like myself,
            In sorry raiment—travel-torn as mine—
            With that bow'd head, those tangled locks that fall
            O'er the benighted temple of his brows;
            And her, who, like my father, loved me once,
            And even now whose falling tears confess
            That ev'n the eternal love she bears to him
            Hath not yet quencht the Sister in her heart—
            Oh, wretched, and part-guilty as I am,
            Albeit the judgment on yourself you brought,
            Of living worse than death that Thebes might live,
            Had I but known—but heard—much more had seen,
            What now I see, and know, had never been;
            Never had been—much less so long endured,
            And shall no longer, now I witness, be,
          Despite of those who drown'd my single voice,
          As now their treason has confounded me.

          No word? No sign? revolted from me still?—
          For, were I guilty as you guilty deem,
          Yet not so guilty as Eteocles,
          Who proves himself arch-criminal tow'rd you
          By after treason to your elder-born,
          Seizing the Throne which, if you leave, devolves
          Upon your first-born second self in me.
          This hath Eteocles, my Brother, done,
          By subornation of the Citizens,
          With the connivance of the subtle Creon,
          Who spins his web within the City walls
          To catch the Sons, their Father as he caught,
          Involving us in that unnatural strife
          By which he purposes, when rid of one,
          To rule the other; or, destroying both,
          Himself in title as in deed to reign.
          Thus me, who least came easy to his hand,
          Hath he like you driv'n out, like you to seek
          And find a country and a home elsewhere;
          You, on this hospitable soil, with this
          Great Sovereign and his generous people here;
          Whom, without asking further service from,
          Nor wishing to dissever from your side,
          Unless by restoration to your own
          To sweeten separation from themselves,
          I do implore you, Father, were it but
          With one relenting gesture of the hand,
          One speechless inclination of the head,
          Vouchsafe your wretched son some dawning sign
          Of that forgiveness, wherewith fully arm'd,
          I may for more than past misdeed atone,
          By vengeance upon those who wrong us both.
          For when, so foully by those two betray'd,
          I fled to Argos, King Adrastus there
          Gave me not only welcome when I came,
          But after, when possess'd of all my wrongs,
          His daughter's hand in wedlock; and with that,
          By way of dowry, such an Host in Arms,
          As, with the favour of the Gods, which your
          Forgiveness, oh my Father! shall secure,
          Shall Thebes recover, and re-throne us both.
          For look! for us a seven-fold Armament
          By seven such Champions headed and array'd
          As yet the world has not together seen,
          Leagued in our cause; Amphiaraus first,
          For Divination famous as for Arms,
          Knowing the issue of the War he joins;
          Ætolian Tydeus next; and next to him
          Eteoclus of Argos; and the fourth,
          Hippomedon: then Capaneus, who boasts
          Of bringing down the walls of Thebes by Fire:
          Parthenopæus next of Arcady,
          So from his mother Atalanta named:
          And seventh, and last, myself, your elder-born,
          And right successor to your dynasty.
          With sev'n such Champions, and with such an Host,
          One need we yet to consecrate our arms
          And triumph in the cause which is your own.
          Wherefore, repenting what unfilial wrong,
          By others wrought on, I have done to you,
          Hither on foot from Argos am I come,
          A contrite suppliant at my Father's feet;
          Imploring him, by all those Household Gods
          Whose statues are before our palace door—
          Yea, by the faithful men within the walls,
          Who, to a statue-like inaction cow'd,
          Stand mutely wondering for their absent lord—
          And for her sake who, having shared so long
          Your sorrow, now your triumph shall partake—
          Remit your righteous wrath against a son,
          Who, tow'rd you guilty as he may have been,
          And all distasteful in your eyes as now,
          Shall now for more than past misdeed atone,
          Or, in just retribution failing, fall. (After a long pause.)
    Oed.
          Hath this man said all he came charged to say?
    Cho.
          So from the unruffled silence into which
          His words have fall'n and vanish'd I conceive.
    Oed.
          But that the Sovereign Ruler of this Land
          Had sent this man to me, and thought it well
          That I should hear and answer, hear I might,
          But not a word of answer from my lips:
          No, nor a sign, save with averted face,
          And one blind warning of the hand—'Begone!'
          But thus entreated, by the word of one
          Whose word should be the law of Love to me,
          And of the friendly Council here beside,
          I will not only hear, but will reply—
          Such a reply as he that asks for it
          Shall wish he had not come so far to hear.
          Who—Wretch!—who when thou hadst the sovereign power,
          Which now thy Brother to himself usurps,
          Then—not cajoled nor forced, as you pretend—
          For was not I, the Victim, Witness too?—
          But, one with them, didst set the rabble on
          To hoot me forth to shame and beggary;
          Yea, when, not like yourselves implacable,
          The God allow'd and I besought return,
          Still shut me out, and, but to serve your ends,
          Still would have let me linger till I died
          In a strange country, and in such a plight
          As now, forsooth, you weep to look upon!
          Thou hypocrite! with those pretended tears
          Of false contrition, which, were't true, too late,
          Think'st to cajole me with a show of Love—
          Ay, of such Love wherewith a man regards
          The tool he needs to work his purpose with,
          And forthwith fling regardlessly away,
          Laying on those the load of infamy
          Thou sharèdst with them of the royal spoil
          They stole from me, and now, like other thieves,
          Would keep between themselves, outwitting thee,
          Who, them outwitting, to thyself wouldst keep?
          Oh Fool as Hypocrite! suspecting not
          How that most cunning rogue of all the three
          Has been before you, and the mask you wear,
          But that, behind it playing such a part
          In his mid passion he was forced to drop,
          And, as he fled discomfited away,
          Left you to wear, and to a like result.
          Fools both, as Hypocrites! suspecting not
          That he you would deceive your errand knows,
          Each to win back the stolen stakes you lost—
          The Kingdom once without the King, but now
          The King himself to bring the Kingdom back;
          Who, flung before as offal from your walls,
          Is now become a treasure of such price
          As each of you would fain get home again,
          Like stolen treasure—to be buried there.
          You see I know your errand: if you fail
          To guess my answer—
          One way lies Argos, and another Thebes,
          Which those tired feet might fail to reach in time;
          But could you borrow Hermes' feather'd heel
          Might catch your Rival ere the Sun goes down,
          And from his lip learn all. If not from him,
          Then somewhat later, from your brother there,
          When you shall meet him, arm to arm, in arms,
          Under the wall where you would bury me.
          Then might you tell him in return, were not
          The story swallow'd up enacting it,
          How, as he speaks, your living Father's Ghost
          Foresees you both, up-looking from the tomb
          In which your hopes of conquest die with him,
          You, not the Champion leading, lance-erect,
          Your Argive Host to sack your native Thebes;
          Nor him within it in mock majesty
          Posting his people to defend the Gates:
          Not thus, but in your golden feathers both,
          Where one another challenging you stood,
          Stretch'd in the dust, slain by each other's hand.
          This, standing on the consecrated ground
          Of those avenging Sisters underneath
          Who hear, and even as I speak prepare
          To do their destined work, I prophesy;
          You never to reconquer or regain
          The Kingdom lost where he shall never reign;
          But ev'n before the walls that you contest,
          Die, slaying him by whom yourself are slain!
    Cho.
          Terrible words from human lip to hear!
          And by what witness from what other world
          Attested, as methought heard once before,
          While this man spoke, and heav'n and earth look'd clear!
    Ant.
          Alas! Alas! for my belovèd Brother!
    Pol.
          Ay, and Alas! not for myself alone,
          But for all those arm'd in my cause, Alas!
          To whom returning I may not reveal
          The doom of death to me, to them defeat!
    Ant.
          Oh then by all you worship, and hold dear,
          Return to Argos not; or, if return,
          Revealing that you carry back with you,
          Revolt them from your fatal Enterprise,
          And, leaving graceless Thebes to go her way,
          With those you loved, and you are loved by, live!
    Pol.
          Love me they would no more, Antigone,
          If, having roused them at the trumpet's sound
          To arms, both Men and Champions, in my cause,
          Then to dissuade them, if dissuade I could,
          By rumour of uncertain Prophecies,
          And Malediction that to them would seem
          But empty raving of impotent wrath.
          Or, ev'n would they retreat, as will they not,
          Could I endure in Argos to survive
          My younger brother's laughing-stock in Thebes?
    Ant.
          Oh, better that than this unnatural war,
          Which cannot end, which cannot end, I know,
          But with the fatal consequence that leads
          Or haunts my Father's footsteps where he goes!
          While the false Creon, who has set you on,
          Shall mock you both, who die that he may win!
    Pol.
          Too late, too late, Antigone, too late!
          And when that comes which is foredoom'd, and I
          Lie stark and cold before the walls of Thebes,
          With him whom slaying I am doom'd to die,
          Shall not one pious hand, Antigone,
          Protect your lifeless brother from the dog
          With some few handfuls of his Mother Earth?
    Ant.
          Oh, but it shall not need! You shall not go!
          If not for Love, in Pity, for you both,
          My Father shall relent!
    Pol.
                                                 But Fate shall not.
    Oed.
          No, by that other roll of thunder, no!
    Cho.
          Again! Yet not a cloud in Heav'n above—
    Oed.
          These are no thunders from the hand of Zeus,
          But the dark Ruler of the World below,
          Reverberating from the vault of Heav'n—
          Shall some one here go straightway to your King,
          And bid him, whatsoever busied with—
          Yea, were it by the Altar worshipping,
          Forthwith unworshipp'd leave it; for the God
          Who links the Fate of Athens with mine own,
          By those three thunders hence has summon'd me.
          Gather no dust upon the feet of him
          Who goes this errand: for the God, I know,
          Who, brandishing aloft his Oracles
          Accomplish'd, in one compass of the sky
          From my meridian drove me to my fall,
          And, as himself he sank behind the Night,
          Into the hands of those who therein rule
          My destiny resign'd—the God, I say,
          Whose rising found me here, with his descent
          Shall take me down with him, and leave me there.
    Chorus.
          Strange things hath this day witness'd and heard tell
             By the strange man whom Phoebus from the stream
             Of Ocean rising with his levell'd beam
          Surprised, as with a cloud of Oracle
             Encompass'd, in the consecrated shade
          Of those who underneath more darkly dwell,
          Whose more propitious name scarce daring we
          To whisper, he—seemingly not unheard—
             No, nor unanswer'd—calls on undismay'd.
          Strange things—and if the word of presage hold,
             Not unattested by those thunders three,
          Yet stranger are we likely to behold,
             Prophetical of Evil if to some,
          To Athens, and her People and her Kings,
             Auspicious all, and for all time to come. Theseus, Oedipus, Antigone, Chorus.
    Thes.
          Look, at your bidding, Oedipus, once more
          I come, prepared to do as I have done
          Of hospitable service all I may.
    Oed.
          Yea, once more, Theseus, and for one last time,
          Before the God recalls me to himself,
          Have I recall'd you, to solicit nought,
          But the good service of a single day,
          Which, were life longer, were, I know, life-long,
          With Death's eternal blessing to repay:
          Which when I prophesied as soon to be,
          Not knowing then how soon; but knowing now.
    Thes.
          By what assurance, Oedipus?
    Oed.
                                                 By those
          Three subterranean thunders summon'd hence.
    Thes.
          From Athens?
    Oed.
                                                 From the eyes of Athens, ay;
          And yet nowhither else: a mystery
          Whose peremptory resolution
          The God who loves you but for you delays.
    Thes.
          I must believe that one whom destiny
          Hath step by step oracularly led,
          Reads and interprets right the wondrous Signs
          Which others but attest and wonder at.
    Oed.
          And for a further witness and a last—
          Blind as I am, and hitherto so long
          Compell'd to find my way with others' eyes,
          Myself shall those who led me forthwith lead
          Along the road where that shall have to be
          Which other eyes than Theseus' none may see.
          Which having seen, King Theseus, in your heart
          Keep unreveal'd; and when you come to die,
          To him alone who after you the Throne
          Of Athens mounts reveal it; he in turn
          To him who him shall follow; and so forth,
          From hand to hand, until the end of Time:
          Not trusting that into the People's hand,
          Who, loyal, wise, and pious, let them be,
          Seducible by those seditious few
          That still infest the soundest Commonweal,
          Abuse the power committed to their hands,
          And by disorder and revolt at home
          Lay bare your bosom to the foe without.
          And now the Powers to you and yours Benign,
          Who thrice have call'd me from the world below,
          Now that the word of vantage in your heart
          Is register'd, will brook no more delay,
          And the mute Hermes of the lower world,
          Ev'n as I speak, prepares to lead the way.
    Chorus.
    Strophe.
             If I may thee, infernal Queen,
          Thou gloomy pow'r by mortal eyes unseen,
                With holy awe revere;
          And thee, stern Monarch, whose terrific sway
             The dreary realms of night obey,
                Hear Pluto, Pluto hear!
             Let not pangs of tort'ring pow'r
             Rack the stranger's dying hour,
             While the cheerless path he treads
             To the Stygian house that leads.—
             Guiltless thou wast doom'd to know
             Various ills and bitter woe:
             May the god with just regard
             Grace thee with a bright reward!
    Antistrophe.
             Ye awful pow'rs, from realms of night
          Who vengeful rise the guilty to affright!
                And thou, grim Dog of Hell,
          Before the iron gates of Pluto spread
             Enormous on thy horrid bed,
                With many a hideous yell
             Whilst thy echoing cave resounds,
             Guarding fierce those dismal bounds;
             Thou, whom Earth to Tartarus bore,
             Cease, oh cease thy dreaded roar;
             Gentle meet him in those glades;
             When he joins the silent shades;
             Ever wakeful, cease t'appal;
             Dog of Hell on thee I call! Messenger, Chorus.
    Mes.
          O citizens of Athens, to sum up
          In fewest words what, to be told at large,
          Would need an apter tongue than mine to tell—
          King Oedipus—
    Cho.
                             Is dead—
    Mes.
                                                 I say not that;
          From human eyes departed, I will say;
          And with such circumstance as, could I tell
          All that myself I saw, who saw not all—
    Cho.
          But, if not all, yet what you saw, recount.
    Mes.
          How the blind King, by what interior light
          Guided himself we know not, guided us,
          You that were present witness for yourselves;
          And how with Theseus and the woeful Maid
          Beside him, and some wondering few behind,
          Straightforward, with unhesitating step,
          That needed not his staff to feel the way,
          Led on; till, reach'd the threshold of the road
          Which leads, they say, down to the nether world,
          Beside the monumental stone that marks
          Where our King Theseus and Peirithous,
          After long warfare, plighted hands of peace,
          He stopp'd, sat down, his tatter'd raiment loosed,
          And bade his daughter from the running brook
          Bring him wherewith himself to purify.
          Which she, resorting to the nearest field
          Of Ceres, with what decent haste she might,
          Return'd, and wash'd him, and in raiment clean
          Reclothed, as to the rite of Burial due.
          And when all this was done, as for the Dead,
          Weeping himself, he folded in his arms
          His weeping child, and told her, from that hour,
          She that so long had suffer'd for his sake,
          With but the love between them to requite,
          The face of him she loved must see no more.
          And so they wept together for a while,
          Together folded in each other's arms,
          And all was silent else; when suddenly,
          A thunder-speaking voice, as from the jaws
          Of earth that yawn'd beneath us, call'd aloud:
          'Ho! Thou there! Why so long a-coming? Come!'
          Then Oedipus, who knew the word, and whence,
          Relax'd his folding arms, and, rising up,
          Took Theseus' hand, and, in it laying hers,
          Besought him never to desert the child,
          Nor yield her up to any against her will,
          But be to her the Father whom she lost.
          To which King Theseus having pledged his word,
          The other, folding in one last embrace,
          With one last kiss, his daughter to his heart,
          Bade her return with us and never once
          Look back on what was not for any one
          But for King Theseus and himself to know.
          Which said, and all in awful wonder hush'd,
          The weeping Daughter turn'd away with us,
          Slowly, like those who leave a funeral pyre,
          With us our way re-tracing; until I,
          Seized with a longing I could not control,
          Despite the word yet ringing in my ears,
          Look'd back—and saw King Theseus standing there,
          Stock-still, his hands before his eyes, like one
          Smit with a sudden blaze: but Oedipus
          There—anywhere—there was not—vanish'd—gone—
          But, whether by someflash from Heav'n despatch'd,
          Or by His hand who through the shatter'd Earth
          Had summon'd him in thunder, drawn below,
          No living man but Theseus' self may know.
    Chorus.

          Let not the Man by Man be deem'd unblest,
             Who, howsoever in the midnight gloom
             Encompass'd of inexorable Doom
          That shrouds him from his Zenith to the West,
             Not till he sink below the Verge redeems
             His unexpected Lustre in such beams
          As reaching Heav'n-aloft enshrine his Tomb. (or as follows)

          Strange Destinies of Man! But in the range
          Of Destiny recorded none more strange
             Than his, who, from his Sovereign Glory hurl'd,
          Among strange men a Spectacle became
             Of Horror and Reproach about the World:

          Till by the ..... hand
          That drove him forth and forward to the land
             Of sacred Athens led, he did repay
             The hospitable Welcome of one day
          With such Farewell of Welfare as on those
          Who serve him some departing God bestows,
             His tutelary care bequeathing—yea,
             Himself bequeathing albeit pass'd away.

          Nor let the Man by Man be deem'd unblest
             Who, howsoever in the midnight gloom
             Eclipsed of some inexorable Doom
          That shrouds him from his Zenith to the West,
             Not till he sinks below the Earth redeems
             His unextinguish'd lustre in such beams
          As rising Zenith-high enshrine his Tomb.

    VOL. VII


    RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM
    FIRST EDITION 1859


    I
                Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
                Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
                   And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
                The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.
    II
                Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
                I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
                   'Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
                Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.'
    III
                And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
              The Tavern shouted—'Open then the Door!
                 You know how little while we have to stay,
              And, once departed, may return no more.'
    IV
              Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
              The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
                 Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
              Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
    V
              Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
              And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
                 But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
              And still a Garden by the Water blows.
    VI
              And David's Lips are lockt; but in divine
              High piping Pehleví, with 'Wine! Wine! Wine!
                 Red Wine!'—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
              That yellow Cheek of her's to'incarnadine.
    VII
              Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
              The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
                 The Bird of Time has but a little way
              To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
    VIII
              And look—a thousand Blossoms with the Day
              Woke—and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
                 And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
              Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.
    IX
              But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot
              Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot:
                 Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
              Or Hátim Tai cry Supper—heed them not.
    X
              With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
              That just divides the desert from the sown,
                 Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
              And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his Throne.
    XI
              Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
              A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
                 Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
              And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
    XII
              'How sweet is mortal Sovranty!'—think some:
              Others—'How blest the Paradise to come!'
                 Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
              Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
    XIII
              Look to the Rose that blows about us—'Lo,
              Laughing,' she says, 'into the World I blow:
                 At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
              Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'
    XIV
              The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
              Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
                 Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
              Lighting a little Hour or two—is gone.
    XV
              And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
              And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
                 Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
              As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
    XVI
              Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
              Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
                 How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
              Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
    XVII
              They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
              The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep;
                 And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
              Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
    XVIII
              I sometimes think that never blows so red
              The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
                 That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
              Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
    XIX
              And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
              Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean—
                 Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
              From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
    XX
              Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
              To-day of past Regrets and future Fears—
                 To-morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be
              Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
    XXI
              Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best
              That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
                 Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
              And one by one crept silently to Rest.
    XXII
              And we, that now make merry in the Room
              They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
                 Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
              Descend, ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?
    XXIII
              Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
              Before we too into the Dust descend;
                 Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
              Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
    XXIV
              Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
              And those that after a To-morrow stare,
                 A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries
              'Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!'
    XXV
              Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
              Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
                 Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
            Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
    XXVI
            Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise
            To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
               One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
            The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
    XXVII
            Myself when young did eagerly frequent
            Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
               About it and about: but evermore
            Came out by the same Door as in I went.
    XXVIII
            With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
            And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
               And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—
            'I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'
    XXIX
            Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
            Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
               And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
            I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
    XXX
            What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
            And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
               Another and another Cup to drown
            The Memory of this Impertinence!
    XXXI
            Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
            I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
               And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
            But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
    XXXII
            There was a Door to which I found no Key:
            There was a Veil past which I could not see:
               Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee
            There seem'd—and then no more of Thee and Me.
    XXXIII
            Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
            Asking, 'What Lamp had Destiny to guide
               Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?'
            And—'A blind Understanding!' Heav'n replied.
    XXXIV
            Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn
            My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:
               And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—'While you live
            Drink!—for once dead you never shall return.'
    XXXV
            I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
            Articulation answer'd, once did live,
               And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'd
            How many Kisses might it take—and give!
    XXXVI
            For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
            I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
               And with its all obliterated Tongue
            It murmur'd—'Gently, Brother, gently, pray!'
    XXXVII
            Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat
            How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
               Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday,
            Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
    XXXVIII
            One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
            One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
               The Stars are setting and the Caravan
            Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!
    XXXIX
            How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit
            Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
               Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
            Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
    XL
            You know, my Friends, how long since in my House
            For a new Marriage I did make Carouse:
               Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
            And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
    XLI
            For 'Is' and 'Is-not' though with Rule and Line,
            And 'Up-and-down' without, I could define,
               I yet in all I only cared to know,
            Was never deep in anything but—Wine.
    XLII
            And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
            Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
               Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
            He bid me taste of it; and 'twas—the Grape!
    XLIII
            The Grape that can with Logic absolute
            The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
               The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
            Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
    XLIV
            The mighty Mahmúd, the victorious Lord,
            That all the misbelieving and black Horde
               Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
            Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.
    XLV
            But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
            The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
               And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
            Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
    XLVI
            For in and out, above, about, below,
            'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
               Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
            Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
    XLVII
            And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
            End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
               Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
            Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.
    XLVIII
            While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
            With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:
               And when the Angel with his darker Draught
            Draws up to Thee—take that, and do not shrink.
    XLIX
            'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
            Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
               Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
            And one by one back in the Closet lays.
    L
            The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
            But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
               And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
            He knows about it all—He knows—HE knows!
    LI
            The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
            Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
               Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
            Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
    LII
            And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
            Whereunder crawling coopt we live and die,
               Lift not thy hands to It for help—for It
            Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
    LIII
            With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead,
            And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
               Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
            What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
    LIV
            I tell Thee this—When, starting from the Goal,
            Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
               Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtara they flung,
            In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul
    LV
            The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
            If clings my Being—let the Súfi flout;
               Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
            That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
    LVI
            And this I know: whether the one True Light,
            Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
               One glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
            Better than in the Temple lost outright.
    LVII
            Oh Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
            Beset the Road I was to wander in,
               Thou wilt not with Predestination round
            Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin!
    LVIII
            Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
            And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
               For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
            Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give—and take!

    KÚZA-NÁMA.


    LIX
            Listen again. One evening at the Close
            Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose,
               In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
            With the clay Population round in Rows.
    LX
            And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
            Some could articulate, while others not:
               And suddenly one more impatient cried—
            'Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?'
    LXI
            Then said another—'Surely not in vain
            My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
               That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
            Should stamp me back to common Earth again.'
    LXII
            Another said—'Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,
            Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
               Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love
            And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!'
    LXIII
            None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
            A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
               'They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
            What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?'
    LXIV
            Said one—'Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
            And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
               They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish!
            He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well.'
    LXV
            Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
            'My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
               But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
            Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!'
    LXVI
            So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
            One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
               And then they jogg'd each other, 'Brother! Brother!
            Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!'
    LXVII
            Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
            And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
               And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
            So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.
    LXVIII
            That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
            Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
               As not a True Believer passing by
            But shall be overtaken unaware.
    LXIX
            Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
            Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
               Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
            And sold my Reputation for a Song.
    LXX
            Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
            I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
               And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
            My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
    LXXI
            And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
            And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—well,
               I often wonder what the Vintners buy
            One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
    LXXII
            Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
            That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
               The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
            Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
    LXXIII
            Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
            To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
               Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
            Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
    LXXIV
            Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
            The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
               How oft hereafter rising shall she look
            Through this same Garden after me—in vain!
    LXXV
            And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
            Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
               And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
            Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass! TAMÁM SHUD

    RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM

    I


                Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
                The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
                   Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
                The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
    II
                Before the phantom of False morning died,
                Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
                   'When all the Temple is prepared within,
                Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?'
    III
                And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
              The Tavern shouted—'Open then the Door!
                 You know how little while we have to stay,
              And, once departed, may return no more.'
    IV
              Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
              The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
                 Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
              Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
    V
              Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
              And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
                 But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
              And many a Garden by the Water blows.
    VI
              And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
              High-piping Pehleví, with 'Wine! Wine! Wine!
                 Red Wine!'—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
              That sallow cheek of hers to' incarnadine.
    VII
              Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
              Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
                 The Bird of Time has but a little way
              To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.
    VIII
              Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon,
              Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
                 The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
              The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
    IX
              Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
              Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
                 And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
              Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away.
    X
              Well, let it take them! What have we to do
              With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?
                 Let Zál and Rustum bluster as they will,
              Or Hátim call to Supper—heed not you.
    XI
              With me along the strip of Herbage strown
              That just divides the desert from the sown,
                 Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot—
              And Peace to Mahmúd on his golden Throne!
    XII
              A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
              A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou
                 Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
              Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
    XIII
              Some for the Glories of This World; and some
              Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
                 Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
              Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
    XIV
              Look to the blowing Rose about us—'Lo,
              Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,
                 At once the silken tassel of my Purse
              Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'
    XV
              And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
              And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
                 Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
              As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
    XVI
              The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
              Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
                 Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
              Lighting a little hour or two—is gone.
    XVII
              Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
              Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
                 How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
              Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
    XVIII
              They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
              The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
                 And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
              Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
    XIX
              I sometimes think that never blows so red
              The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
                 That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
              Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
    XX
              And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
              Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean—
                 Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
              From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
    XXI
              Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
              To-day of past Regrets and Future Fears:
                 To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be
              Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
    XXII
              For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
              That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
                 Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
              And one by one crept silently to rest.
    XXIII
              And we, that now make merry in the Room
              They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
                 Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
              Descend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?
    XXIV
              Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
              Before we too into the Dust descend;
                 Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
              Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
    XXV
              Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
              And those that after some To-morrow stare,
                 A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries,
            'Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.'
    XXVI
            Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
            Of the Two Worlds so wisely—they are thrust
               Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
            Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
    XXVII
            Myself when young did eagerly frequent
            Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
               About it and about: but evermore
            Came out by the same door where in I went.
    XXVIII
            With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
            And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow
               And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—
            'I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'
    XXIX
            Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
            Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
               And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
            I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
    XXX
            What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
            And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
               Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
            Must drown the memory of that insolence!
    XXXI
            Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
            I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
               And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
            But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
    XXXII
            There was the Door to which I found no Key;
            There was the Veil through which I might not see:
               Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
            There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.
    XXXIII
            Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
            In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
               Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
            And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
    XXXIV
            Then of the Thee in Me who works behind
            The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
               A lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
            As from Without—'The Me within Thee blind!'
    XXXV
            Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
            I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
               And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—'While you live,
            Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.'
    XXXVI
            I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
            Articulation answer'd once did live,
               And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
            How many Kisses might it take—and give!
    XXXVII
            For I remember stopping by the way
            To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
               And with its all-obliterated Tongue
            It murmur'd—'Gently, Brother, gently, pray!'
    XXXVIII
            And has not such a Story from of Old
            Down Man's successive generations roll'd
               Of such a clod of saturated Earth
            Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
    XXXIX
            And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
            For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
               To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
            There hidden—far beneath, and long ago.
    XL
            As then the Tulip for her morning sup
            Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
               Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
            To Earth invert you—like an empty Cup.
    XLI
            Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
            To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
               And lose your fingers in the tresses of
            The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
    XLII
            And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
            End in what All begins and ends in—Yes;
               Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
            You were—To-morrow you shall not be less.
    XLIII
            So when that Angel of the darker Drink
            At last shall find you by the river-brink,
               And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
            Forth to your Lips to quaff—you shall not shrink.
    XLIV
            Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
            And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
               Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for him
            In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
    XLV
            'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
            A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest;
               The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh
            Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
    XLVI
            And fear not lest Existence closing your
            Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
               The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour'd
            Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
    XLVII
            When You and I behind the Veil are past,
            Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
               Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
            As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
    XLVIII
            A Moment's Halt—a momentary taste
            Of Being from the Well amid the Waste—
               And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reach'd
            The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!
    XLIX
            Would you that spangle of Existence spend
            About the secret—quick about it, Friend!
               A Hair perhaps divides the False and True—
            And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
    L
            A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
            Yes; and a single Alif were the clue—
               Could you but find it—to the Treasure-house,
            And peradventure to The Master too;
    LI
            Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
            Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
               Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; and
            They change and perish all—but He remains;
    LII
            A moment guess'd—then back behind the Fold
            Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
               Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
            He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
    LIII
            But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
            Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door,
               You gaze To-day, while You are You—how then
            To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
    LIV
            Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
            Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
               Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
            Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
    LV
            You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
            I made a Second Marriage in my house;
               Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
            And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
    LVI
            For 'Is' and 'Is-not' though with Rule and Line
            And 'Up-and-down' by Logic I define,
               Of all that one should care to fathom, I
            Was never deep in anything but—Wine.
    LVII
            Ah, but my Computations, People say,
            Reduced the Year to better reckoning?—Nay,
               'Twas only striking from the Calendar
            Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
    LVIII
            And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
            Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
               Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
            He bid me taste of it; and 'twas—the Grape!
    LIX
            The Grape that can with Logic absolute
            The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
               The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
            Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
    LX
            The mighty Mahmúd, Allah-breathing Lord,
            That all the misbelieving and black Horde
               Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
            Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
    LXI
            Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
            Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
               A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
            And if a Curse—why, then, Who set it there?
    LXII
            I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
            Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
               Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
            To fill the Cup—when crumbled into Dust!
    LXIII
            Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
            One thing at least is certain—This Life flies;
               One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
            The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
    LXIV
            Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
            Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
               Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
            Which to discover we must travel too.
    LXV
            The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
            Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
               Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep
            They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
    LXVI
            I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
            Some letter of that After-life to spell:
               And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
            And answer'd 'I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:'
    LXVII
            Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
            And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
               Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
            So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
    LXVIII
            We are no other than a moving row
            Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
               Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
            In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
    LXIX
            But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
            Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
               Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
            And one by one back in the Closet lays.
    LXX
            The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
            But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
               And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
            He knows about it all—he knows—HE knows!
    LXXI
            The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
            Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
               Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
            Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
    LXXII
            And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
            Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
               Lift not your hands to It for help—for It
            As impotently moves as you or I.
    LXXIII
            With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
            And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
               And the first Morning of Creation wrote
            What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
    LXXIV
            Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
            To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
               Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
            Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
    LXXV
            I tell you this—When, started from the Goal,
            Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
               Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtarí they flung,
            In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul
    LXXVI
            The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
            If clings my being—let the Dervish flout;
               Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
            That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
    LXXVII
            And this I know: whether the one True Light
            Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
               One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
            Better than in the Temple lost outright.
    LXXVIII
            What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
            A conscious Something to resent the yoke
               Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
            Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
    LXXIX
            What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
            Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd—
               Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
            And cannot answer—Oh the sorry trade!
    LXXX
            Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
            Beset the Road I was to wander in,
               Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
            Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
    LXXXI
            Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
            And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
               For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
            Is blacken'd—Man's forgiveness give—and take!
    LXXXII
            As under cover of departing Day
            Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away,
               Once more within the Potter's house alone
            I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
    LXXXIII
            Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
            That stood along the floor and by the wall;
               And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
            Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
    LXXXIV
            Said one among them—'Surely not in vain
            My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
               And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
            Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again.'
    LXXXV
            Then said a Second—'Ne'er a peevish Boy
            Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
               And He that with his hand the Vessel made
            Will surely not in after Wrath destroy.'
    LXXXVI
            After a momentary silence spake
            Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
               'They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
            What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?'
    LXXXVII
            Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot—
            I think a Súfi pipkin—waxing hot—
               'All this of Pot and Potter—Tell me then,
            Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?'
    LXXXVIII
            'Why,' said another, 'Some there are who tell
            Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
               The luckless Pots he marr'd in making—Pish!
            He's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well.'
    LXXXIX
            'Well,' murmur'd one, 'Let whoso make or buy,
            My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
               But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
            Methinks I might recover by and by.'
    XC
            So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
            The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
               And then they jogg'd each other, 'Brother! Brother!
            Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!'

    XCI


            Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
            And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
               And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
            By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
    XCII
            That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare
            Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
               As not a True-believer passing by
            But shall be overtaken unaware.
    XCIII
            Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
            Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
               Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup,
            And sold my Reputation for a Song.
    XCIV
            Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
            I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
               And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
            My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
    XCV
            And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
            And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—Well,
               I wonder often what the Vintners buy
            One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
    XCVI
            Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
            That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
               The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
            Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
    XCVII
            Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
            One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
               To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
            As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
    XCVIII
            Would but some winged Angel ere too late
            Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
               And make the stern Recorder otherwise
            Enregister, or quite obliterate!
    XCIX
            Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
            To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
               Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
            Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

    C


            Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—
            How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
               How oft hereafter rising look for us
            Through this same Garden—and for one in vain!
    CI
            And when like her, oh Sáki, you shall pass
            Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
               And in your joyous errand reach the spot
            Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass! TAMÁM

    SALÁMÁN AND ABSÁL
    AN ALLEGORY TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN OF JÁMÍ

    PRELIMINARY INVOCATION.



                Oh Thou, whose Spirit through this universe,
                In which Thou dost involve thyself diffused,
                Shall so perchance irradiate human clay
                That men, suddenly dazzled, lose themselves
                In ecstasy before a mortal shrine
                Whose Light is but a Shade of the Divine;
                Not till thy Secret Beauty through the cheek
                Of Laila smite doth she inflame Majnún;
                And not till Thou have kindled Shírín's Eyes
              The hearts of those two Rivals swell with blood.
              For Loved and Lover are not but by Thee,
              Nor Beauty;—mortal Beauty but the veil
              Thy Heavenly hides behind, and from itself
              Feeds, and our hearts yearn after as a Bride
              That glances past us veil'd—but ever so
              That none the veil from what it hides may know.
              How long wilt thou continue thus the World
              To cozen with the fantom of a veil
              From which thou only peepest? I would be
              Thy Lover, and thine only—I, mine eyes
              Seal'd in the light of Thee to all but Thee,
              Yea, in the revelation of Thyself
              Lost to Myself, and all that Self is not
              Within the Double world that is but One.
              Thou lurkest under all the forms of Thought,
              Under the form of all Created things;
              Look where I may, still nothing I discern
              But Thee throughout this Universe, wherein
              Thyself Thou dost reflect, and through those eyes
              Of him whom Man thou madest, scrutinize.
              To thy Harím Dividuality
              No entrance finds—no word of This and That;
              Do Thou my separate and derivèd Self
              Make one with thy Essential! Leave me room
              On that Diván which leaves no room for Twain;
              Lest, like the simple Arab in the tale,
              I grow perplext, oh God! 'twixt 'Me' and 'Thee;'
              If I—this Spirit that inspires me whence?
              If Thou—then what this sensual Impotence?

              From the solitary Desert
              Up to Baghdád came a simple
                 Arab; there amid the rout
              Grew bewilder'd of the countless
              People, hither, thither, running,
              Coming, going, meeting, parting,
              Clamour, clatter, and confusion,
                 All about him and about.
              Travel-wearied, hubbub-dizzy,
              Would the simple Arab fain
              Get to sleep—'But then, on waking,
              'How,' quoth he, 'amid so many
                 'Waking know Myself again?'
              So, to make the matter certain,
              Strung a gourd about his ankle,
              And, into a corner creeping,
              Baghdád and Himself and People
                 Soon were blotted from his brain.
              But one that heard him and divined
              His purpose, slily crept behind;
              From the Sleeper's ankle slipping,
                 Round his own the pumpkin tied,
                 And laid him down to sleep beside.
              By and by the Arab waking
              Looks directly for his Signal—
              Sees it on another's Ankle—
              Cries aloud, 'Oh Good-for-nothing
              'Rascal to perplex me so!
              'That by you I am bewilder'd,
              'Whether I be I or no!
              'If I—the Pumpkin why on You?
              'If You—then Where am I, and Who?

              And yet, how long, O Jámí, stringing Verse,
              Pearl after pearl, on that old Harp of thine?
              Year after year attuning some new Song,
              The breath of some old Story? Life is gone,
              And that last song is not the last; my Soul
              Is spent—and still a Story to be told!
              And I, whose back is crooked as the Harp
              I still keep tuning through the Night till Day!
              That harp untuned by Time—the harper's hand
              Shaking with Age—how shall the harper's hand
              Repair its cunning, and the sweet old harp
              Be modulated as of old? Methinks
              'Twere time to break and cast it in the fire;
              The vain old harp, that, breathing from its strings
              No music more to charm the ears of men,
              May, from its scented ashes, as it burns,
              Breathe resignation to the Harper's soul,
              Now that his body looks to dissolution.
              My teeth fall out—my two eyes see no more
              Till by Feringhí glasses turn'd to four;
              Pain sits with me sitting behind my knees,
              From which I hardly rise unhelpt of hand;
              I bow down to my root, and like a Child
              Yearn, as is likely, to my Mother Earth,
              Upon whose bosom I shall cease to weep,
              And on my Mother's bosom fall asleep.
     bsp;         The House in ruin, and its music heard
              No more within, nor at the door of speech,
            Better in silence and oblivion
            To fold me head and foot, remembering
            What The Voice whisper'd in the Master's ear—
            'No longer think of Rhyme, but think of Me!'—
            Of Whom?—Of Him whose Palace the Soul is,
            And Treasure-house—who notices and knows
            Its income and out-going, and then comes
            To fill it when the Stranger is departed.
            Yea; but whose Shadow being Earthly Kings,
            Their Attributes, their Wrath and Favour, His,—
            Lo! in the meditation of His glory,
            The Sháh whose subject upon Earth I am,
            As he of Heaven's, comes on me unaware,
            And suddenly arrests me for his due.
            Therefore for one last travel, and as brief
            As may become the feeble breath of Age,
            My weary pen once more drinks of the well,
            Whence, of the Mortal writing, I may read
            Anticipation of the Invisible.

            One who travell'd in the Desert
            Saw Majnún where he was sitting
            All alone like a Magician
               Tracing Letters in the Sand.
            'Oh distracted Lover! writing
            'What the Sword-wind of the Desert
            'Undeciphers so that no one
               'After you shall understand.'
            Majnún answer'd—'I am writing
            'Only for myself, and only
            '"Laila,"—if for ever "Laila"
            'Writing, in that Word a Volume,
            'Over which for ever poring,
            'From her very Name I sip
            'In Fancy, till I drink, her Lip.'

    THE STORY.

    Part I.

                A Sháh there was who ruled the realm of Yún,
                And wore the Ring of Empire of Sikander;
                And in his reign A Sage, of such report
                For Insight reaching quite beyond the Veil,
                That Wise men from all quarters of the World,
                To catch the jewel falling from his lips
                Out of the secret treasure as he went,
                Went in a girdle round him.—Which The Sháh
                Observing, took him to his secresy;
              Stirr'd not a step, nor set design afoot,
              Without the Prophet's sanction; till, so counsell'd,
              From Káf to Káf reach'd his Dominion:
              No People, and no Prince that over them
              The ring of Empire wore, but under his
              Bow'd down in Battle; rising then in Peace
              Under his Justice grew, secure from wrong,
              And in their strength was his Dominion strong.
              The Sháh that has not Wisdom in himself,
              Nor has a Wise one for his Counsellor,
              The wand of his Authority falls short,
              And his Dominion crumbles at the base.
              For he, discerning not the characters
              Of Tyranny and Justice, confounds both,
              Making the World a desert, and Redress
              A fantom-water of the Wilderness.

              God said to the Prophet David—
              'David, whom I have exalted
              'From the sheep to be my People's
                 'Shepherd, by your Justice my
                 'Revelation justify.
              'Lest the misbelieving—yea,
              'The Fire-adoring Princes rather
              'Be my Prophets, who fulfil,
              'Knowing not my Word, my Will.'

              One night The Sháh of Yúnan as he sate
              Contemplating his measureless extent
              Of Empire, and the glory wherewithal,
              As with a garment robed, he ruled alone;
              Then found he nothing wanted to his heart
              Unless a Son, who, while he lived, might share,
              And, after him, his robe of Empire wear.
              And then he turn'd him to The Sage, and said:
              'O Darling of the soul of Iflatún;
              'To whom with all his school Aristo bows;
              'Yea, thou that an Eleventh to the Ten
              'Intelligences addest: Thou hast read
              'The yet unutter'd secret of my Heart;
              'Answer—Of all that man desires of God
              'Is any blessing greater than a Son?
              'Man's prime Desire; by whom his name and he
              'Shall live beyond himself; by whom his eyes
              'Shine living, and his dust with roses blows.
              'A Foot for thee to stand on, and an Arm
              'To lean by; sharp in battle as a sword;
              'Salt of the banquet-table; and a tower
              'Of salutary counsel in Diván;
              'One in whose youth a Father shall prolong
              'His years, and in his strength continue strong.'           When the shrewd Sage had heard The Sháh's discourse
              In commendation of a Son, he said:
              'Thus much of a Good Son, whose wholesome growth
              'Approves the root he grew from. But for one
              'Kneaded of Evil—well, could one revoke
              'His generation, and as early pull
              'Him and his vices from the string of Time.
              'Like Noah's, puff'd with insolence and pride,
              'Who, reckless of his Father's warning call,
              'Was by the voice of Allah from the door
              'Of refuge in his Father's Ark debarr'd,
              'And perish'd in the Deluge. And as none
                 Who long for children, may their children choose,
              'Beware of teazing Allah for a Son,
                 'Whom having, you may have to pray to lose.'

              Sick at heart for want of Children,
              Ran before the Saint a Fellow,
              Catching at his garment, crying,
                 'Master, hear and help me! Pray
                 'That Allah from the barren clay
              'Raise me up a fresh young Cypress,
              'Who my longing eyes may lighten,
              'And not let me like a vapour
                 'Unremember'd pass away.'
              But the Dervish said—'Consider;
                 'Wisely let the matter rest
              'In the hands of Allah wholly,
              'Who, whatever we are after,
                 'Understands our business best.'
              Still the man persisted—'Master,
              'I shall perish in my longing:
              'Help, and set my prayer a-going!'
                 Then the Dervish raised his hand—
                 From the mystic Hunting-land
              Of Darkness to the Father's arms
                 A musky Fawn of China drew—
              A Boy—who, when the shoot of Passion
                 In his Nature planted grew,
              Took to drinking, dicing, drabbing.
              From a corner of the house-top
              Ill-insulting honest women,
            Dagger-drawing on the husband;
               And for many a city-brawl
            Still before the Cadi summon'd,
               Still the Father pays for all.
            Day and night the youngster's doings
            Such—the city's talk and scandal;
            Neither counsel, threat, entreaty,
            Moved him—till the desperate Father
            Once more to the Dervish running,
            Catches at his garment—crying—
            'Oh my only Hope and Helper!
            'One more Prayer! That God, who laid,
            'Would take this trouble from my head!'
            But the Saint replied 'Remember
            'How that very Day I warn'd you
            'Not with blind petition Allah
            'Trouble to your own confusion;
               'Unto whom remains no more
            'To pray for, save that He may pardon
               'What so rashly pray'd before.'
            'So much for the result; and for the means—
            'Oh Sháh, who would not be himself a slave,
            'Which Sháh least should, and of an appetite
            'Among the basest of his slaves enslaved—
            'Better let Azrael find him on his throne
            'Of Empire sitting childless and alone,
            'Than his untainted Majesty resign
            'To that seditious drink, of which one draught
            'Still for another and another craves,
            'Till it become a noose to draw the Crown
            'From off thy brows—about thy lips a ring,
            'Of which the rope is in a Woman's hand,
            'To lead thyself the road of Nothing down.
            'For what is She? A foolish, faithless thing—
            'A very Káfir in rapacity;
            'Robe her in all the rainbow-tinted woof
            'Of Susa, shot with rays of sunny Gold;
            'Deck her with jewel thick as Night with star;
            'Pamper her appetite with Houri fruit
            'Of Paradise, and fill her jewell'd cup
            'From the green-mantled Prophet's Well of Life—
            'One little twist of temper—all your cost
            'Goes all for nothing: and, as for yourself—
            'Look! On your bosom she may lie for years;
               'But, get you gone a moment out of sight,
            'And she forgets you—worse, if, as you turn,
               'Her eyes on any younger Lover light.'
            Once upon the Throne together
            Telling one another Secrets,
            Sate Sulaymán and Balkís;
            The Hearts of both were turn'd to Truth,
            Unsullied by Deception.
            First the King of Faith Sulaymán
               Spoke—'However just and wise
            'Reported, none of all the many
            'Suitors to my palace thronging
               'But afar I scrutinize;
            'And He who comes not empty-handed
               'Grows to Honour in mine Eyes.'
            After this, Balkís a Secret
            From her hidden bosom utter'd,
            Saying—'Never night or morning
            'Comely Youth before me passes
            'Whom I look not after, longing'—
            'If this, as wise Firdausí says, the curse
            'Of better women, what then of the worse?'
            The Sage his satire ended; and The Sháh,
            Determined on his purpose, but the means
            Resigning to Supreme Intelligence,
            With Magic-mighty Wisdom his own Will
            Colleagued, and wrought his own accomplishment.
            For Lo! from Darkness came to Light A Child,
            Of carnal composition unattaint;
            A Perfume from the realm of Wisdom wafted;
            A Rosebud blowing on the Royal stem;
            The crowning Jewel of the Crown; a Star
            Under whose augury triumph'd the Throne.
            For whom dividing, and again in one
            Whole perfect Jewel re-uniting, those
            Twin Jewel-words, Salámat and Asmán,
            They hail'd him by the title of Salámán.
            And whereas from no Mother milk he drew,
            They chose for him a Nurse—her name Absál—
            So young, the opening roses of her breast
            But just had budded to an infant's lip;
            So beautiful, as from the silver line
            Dividing the musk-harvest of her hair
            Down to her foot that trampled crowns of Kings,
            A Moon of beauty full; who thus elect
            Should in the garment of her bounty fold
            Salámán of auspicious augury,
            Should feed him with the flowing of her breast.
            And, once her eyes had open'd upon Him,
            They closed to all the world beside, and fed
            For ever doating on her Royal jewel
            Close in his golden cradle casketed:
            Opening and closing which her day's delight,
            To gaze upon his heart-inflaming cheek,—
            Upon the Babe whom, if she could, she would
            Have cradled as the Baby of her eye.
            In rose and musk she wash'd him—to his lip
            Press'd the pure sugar from the honeycomb;
            And when, day over, she withdrew her milk,
            She made, and having laid him in, his bed,
            Burn'd all night like a taper o'er his head.
     bsp;       And still as Morning came, and as he grew,
            Finer than any bridal-puppet, which
            To prove another's love a woman sends,
            She trick'd him up—with fresh Collyrium dew
            Touch'd his narcissus eyes—the musky locks
            Divided from his forehead—and embraced
            With gold and ruby girdle his fine waist.
     bsp;       So for seven years she rear'd and tended him:
            Nay, when his still-increasing moon of Youth
            Into the further Sign of Manhood pass'd,
            Pursued him yet, till full fourteen his years,
            Fourteen-day full the beauty of his face,
            That rode high in a hundred thousand hearts.
            For, when Salámán was but half-lance high,
            Lance-like he struck a wound in every one,
            And shook down splendour round him like a Sun.
            Soon as the Lord of Heav'n had sprung his horse
            Over horizon into the blue field,
            Salámán kindled with the wine of sleep,
            Mounted a barb of fire for the Maidán;
            He and a troop of Princes—Kings in blood,
            Kings in the kingdom-troubling tribe of beauty,
            All young in years and courage, bat in hand
            Gallop'd a-field, toss'd down the golden ball
            And chased, so many crescent Moons a full:
            And, all alike intent upon the Game,
            Salámán still would carry from them all
            The prize, and shouting 'Hál!' drive home the ball.
     bsp;       This done, Salámán bent him as a bow
            To Archery—from Masters of the craft
            Call'd for an unstrung bow—himself the cord
            Fitted unhelpt, and nimbly with his hand
            Twanging made cry, and drew it to his ear:
            Then, fixing the three-feather'd fowl, discharged:
            And whether aiming at the fawn a-foot,
            Or bird on wing, direct his arrow flew,
            Like the true Soul that cannot but go true.
            When night came, that releases man from toil,
            He play'd the chess of social intercourse;
            Prepared his banquet-hall like Paradise,
            Summon'd his Houri-faced musicians,
            And, when his brain grew warm with wine, the veil
            Flung off him of reserve: taking a harp,
            Between its dry string and his finger quick
            Struck fire: or catching up a lute, as if
            A child for chastisement, would pinch its ear
            To wailing that should agèd eyes make weep.
            Now like the Nightingale he sang alone;
            Now with another lip to lip; and now
            Together blending voice and instrument;
            And thus with his associates night he spent.
     bsp;       His Soul rejoiced in knowledge of all kind;
            The fine edge of his Wit would split a hair,
            And in the noose of apprehension catch
            A meaning ere articulate in word;
            Close as the knitted jewel of Parwín
            His jewel Verse he strung; his Rhetoric
            Enlarging like the Mourners of the Bier.
            And when he took the nimble reed in hand
            To run the errand of his Thought along
            Its paper field—the character he traced,
            Fine on the lip of Youth as the first hair,
            Drove Penmen, as that Lovers, to despair.
     bsp;       His Bounty like a Sea was fathomless
            That bubbled up with jewel, and flung pearl
            Where'er it touch'd, but drew not back again;
            It was a Heav'n that rain'd on all below
            Dirhems for drops—                                                But here that inward Voice
            Arrested and rebuked me—'Foolish Jámí!
            'Wearing that indefatigable pen
            'In celebration of an alien Sháh
            'Whose Throne, not grounded in the Eternal World,
            'If Yesterday it were, To-day is not,
            'To-morrow cannot be.' But I replied;
            'Oh Fount of Light!—under an alien name
            'I shadow One upon whose head the Crown
            'Was and yet Is, and Shall be; whose Firmán
            'The Kingdoms Sev'n of this World, and the Seas,
            'And the Sev'n Heavens, alike are subject to.
            'Good luck to him who under other Name
            'Instructed us that Glory to disguise
            'To which the Initiate scarce dare lift his eyes.'

            Sate a Lover in a garden
            All alone, apostrophizing
            Many a flower and shrub about him,
               And the lights of Heav'n above.
            Nightingaling thus, a Noodle
            Heard him, and, completely puzzled,
            'What,' quoth he, 'and you a Lover,
            'Raving, not about your Mistress,
            'But about the stars and roses—
               'What have these to do with Love?'
            Answer'd he; 'Oh thou that aimest
            'Wide of Love, and Lovers' language
               'Wholly misinterpreting;
            'Sun and Moon are but my Lady's
               'Self, as any Lover knows;
            'Hyacinth I said, and meant her
               'Hair—her cheek was in the rose—
            'And I myself the wretched weed
               'That in her cypress shadow grows.'
            And now the cypress stature of Sáláman
            Had reached his top, and now to blossom full
            The garden of his Beauty: and Absál,
            Fairest of hers, as of his fellows he
            The fairest, long'd to gather from the tree.
            But, for that flower upon the lofty stem
            Of Glory grew to which her hand fell short,
            She now with woman's sorcery began
            To conjure as she might within her reach.
            The darkness of her eyes she darken'd round
            With surma, to benight him in mid day,
            And over them adorn'd and arch'd the bows
            To wound him there when lost: her musky locks
            Into so many snaky ringlets curl'd,
            In which Temptation nestled o'er the cheek
            Whose rose she kindled with vermilion dew,
            And then one subtle grain of musk laid there,
            The bird of that belovèd heart to snare.
            Sometimes in passing with a laugh would break
            The pearl-enclosing ruby of her lips;
            Or, busied in the room, as by mischance
            Would let the lifted sleeve disclose awhile
            The vein of silver running up within:
            Or, rising as in haste, her golden anklets
            Clash, at whose sudden summons to bring down
            Under her silver feet the golden Crown.
            Thus, by innumerable witcheries,
            She went about soliciting his eyes,
            Through which she knew the robber unaware
            Steals in, and takes the bosom by surprise.

            Burning with her love Zulaikhá
            Built a chamber, wall and ceiling
            Blank as an untarnisht mirror,
            Spotless as the heart of Yúsuf.
            Then she made a cunning painter
            Multiply her image round it;
            Not an inch of wall or ceiling
            But re-echoing her beauty.
            Then amid them all in all her
            Glory sat she down, and sent for
               Yúsuf—she began a tale
               Of Love—and lifted up her veil.
            Bashfully beneath her burning
            Eyes he turn'd away; but turning
            Wheresoever, still about him
            Saw Zulaikhá, still Zulaikhá,
            Still, without a veil, Zulaikhá.
            But a voice as if from Canaan
            Call'd him; and a Hand from Darkness
               Touch'd; and ere a living Lip
            Through the mirage of bewilder'd
            Eyes seduced him, he recoil'd,
               And let the skirt of danger slip.

    Part II.

                Alas for those who having tasted once
                Of that forbidden vintage of the lips
                That, press'd and pressing, from each other draw
                The draught that so intoxicates them both,
                That, while upon the wings of Day and Night
                Time rustles on, and Moons do wax and wane,
                As from the very Well of Life they drink,
                And, drinking, fancy they shall never drain,
                But rolling Heaven from his ambush whispers,
              'So in my license is it not set down:
              'Ah for the sweet societies I make
              'At Morning, and before the Nightfall break,
              'Ah for the bliss that coming Night fills up,
              'And Morn looks in to find an empty Cup!'

              Once in Baghdád a poor Arab,
              After weary days of fasting,
              Into the Khalífah's banquet-
              Chamber, where, aloft in State
              Harún the Great at supper sate,
                 Push'd and pushing, with the throng,
              Got before a perfume-breathing
              Pasty, like the lip of Shírín
                 Luscious, or the Poet's song.
              Soon as seen, the famisht clown
              Seizes up and swallows down.
              Then his mouth undaunted wiping—
              'Oh Khalífah, hear me swear,
              'While I breathe the dust of Baghdád,
              'Ne'er at any other Table
              'Than at Thine to sup or dine.'
              Grimly laugh'd Harún, and answer'd;
                 'Fool! who think'st to arbitrate
                 'What is in the hands of Fate—
                 'Take, and thrust him from the Gate!'
              While a full Year was counted by the Moon,
              Salámán and Absál rejoiced together,
              And neither Sháh nor Sage his face beheld.
              They question'd those about him, and from them
              Heard something: then himself to presence summon'd,
              And all the truth was told. Then Sage and Sháh
              Struck out with hand and foot in his redress.
              And first with Reason, which is also best;
              Reason that rights the wanderer; that completes
              The imperfect; Reason that resolves the knot
              Of either world, and sees beyond the Veil.
              For Reason is the fountain from of old
              From which the Prophets drew, and none beside:
              Who boasts of other inspiration, lies—
              There are no other Prophets than The Wise.
     bsp;         And first The Sháh:—'Salámán, Oh my Soul
              'Light of the eyes of my Prosperity,
              'And making bloom the court of Hope with rose;
              'Year after year, Salámán, like a bud
              'That cannot blow, my own blood I devour'd,
              'Till, by the seasonable breath of God,
              'At last I blossom'd into thee, my Son;
              'Oh, do not wound me with a dagger thorn;
              'Let not the full-blown rose of Royalty
              'Be left to wither in a hand unclean.
              'For what thy proper pastime? Bat in hand
              'To mount and manage Rakhsh along the Field;
              'Not, with no weapon but a wanton curl
              'Idly reposing on a silver breast.
              'Go, fly thine arrow at the antelope
              'And lion—let me not My lion see
              Slain by the arrow eyes of a ghazál.
              Go, challenge Zál or Rustam to the Field,
              'And smite the warriors' neck; not, flying them,
              'Beneath a woman's foot submit thine own.
              'Oh wipe the woman's henna from thy hand,
              'Withdraw thee from the minion who from thee
              'Dominion draws, and draws me with thee down;
              'Years have I held my head aloft, and all
              'For Thee—Oh shame if thou prepare my Fall!'

              When before Shirúyeh's dagger
                 Kai Khusrau, his Father, fell,
                 He declared this Parable—
              'Wretch!—There was a branch that waxing
              'Wanton o'er the root he drank from,
              'At a draught the living water
                 'Drain'd wherewith himself to crown;
              'Died the root—and with him died
                 'The branch—and barren was brought down!'
              The Sháh ceased counsel, and The Sage began.
              'Oh last new vintage of the Vine of Life
              'Planted in Paradise; Oh Master-stroke,
              'And all-concluding flourish of the Pen
              'Kun fa yakún; Thyself prime Archetype,
              'And ultimate Accomplishment of Man!
              'The Almighty hand, that out of common earth
              'Thy mortal outward to the perfect form
              'Of Beauty moulded, in the fleeting dust
              'Inscribed Himself, and in thy bosom set
              'A mirror to reflect Himself in Thee.
              'Let not that dust by rebel passion blown
              'Obliterate that character: nor let
              'That Mirror, sullied by the breath impure,
              'Or form of carnal beauty fore-possest,
              'Be made incapable of the Divine.
            'Supreme is thine Original degree,
            'Thy Star upon the top of Heaven; but Lust
            'Will bring it down, down even to the Dust!'

            Quoth a Muezzín to the crested
            Cock—'Oh Prophet of the Morning,
               'Never Prophet like to you
            'Prophesied of Dawn, nor Muezzín
            'With so shrill a voice of warning
            'Woke the sleeper to confession
            'Crying, "Lá allah illá 'llah,
               'Muhammad rasúluhu.'"
            'One, methinks, so rarely gifted
               'Should have prophesied and sung
               'In Heav'n, the Birds of Heav'n among,
            'Not with these poor hens about him,
               'Raking in a heap of dung.'
            'And,' replied the Cock, 'in Heaven
            'Once I was; but by my foolish
            'Lust to this uncleanly living
            'With my sorry mates about me
               'Thus am fallen. Otherwise,
            'I were prophesying Dawn
               'Before the gates of Paradise.'

            Of all the Lover's sorrows, next to that
            Of Love by Love forbidden, is the voice
            Of Friendship turning harsh in Love's reproof,
            And overmuch of Counsel—whereby Love
            Grows stubborn, and recoiling unsupprest
            Within, devours the heart within the breast.
     bsp;       Salámán heard; his Soul came to his lips;
            Reproaches struck not Absál out of him,
            But drove Confusion in; bitter became
            The drinking of the sweet draught of Delight,
            And waned the splendour of his Moon of Beauty.
            His breath was Indignation, and his heart
            Bled from the arrow, and his anguish grew.
            How bear it?—By the hand of Hatred dealt,
            Easy to meet—and deal with, blow for blow;
            But from Love's hand which one must not requite,
            And cannot yield to—what resource but Flight?
            Resolved on which, he victuall'd and equipp'd
            A Camel, and one night he led it forth,
            And mounted—he with Absál at his side,
            Like sweet twin almonds in a single shell.
            And Love least murmurs at the narrow space
            That draws him close and closer in embrace.

            When the Moon of Canaan Yúsuf
            In the prison of Egypt darken'd,
            Nightly from her spacious Palace-
                  Chamber, and its rich array,
            Stole Zulaikhá like a fantom
            To the dark and narrow dungeon
               Where her buried Treasure lay.
            Then to those about her wond'ring—
            'Were my Palace,' she replied,
            'Wider than Horizon-wide,
            'It were narrower than an Ant's eye,
            'Were my Treasure not inside:
            'And an Ant's eye, if but there
            'My Lover, Heaven's horizon were.'

            Six days Salámán on the Camel rode,
            And then the hissing arrows of reproof
            Were fallen far behind; and on the Seventh
            He halted on the Seashore; on the shore
            Of a great Sea that reaching like a floor
            Of rolling Firmament below the Sky's
            From Káf to Káf, to Gau and Máhí down
            Descended, and its Stars were living eyes.
            The Face of it was as it were a range
            Of moving Mountains; or a countless host
            Of Camels trooping tumultuously up,
            Host over host, and foaming at the lip.
            Within, innumerable glittering things
            Sharp as cut Jewels, to the sharpest eye
            Scarce visible, hither and hither slipping,
            As silver scissors slice a blue brocade;
            But should the Dragon coil'd in the abyss
            Emerge to light, his starry counter-sign
            Would shrink into the depth of Heav'n aghast.
     bsp;       Salámán eyed the moving wilderness
            On which he thought, once launcht, no foot, nor eye
            Should ever follow; forthwith he devised
            Of sundry scented woods along the shore
            A little shallop like a Quarter-moon,
            Wherein Absál and He like Sun and Moon
            Enter'd as into some Celestial Sign;
            That, figured like a bow, but arrow-like
            In flight, was feather'd with a little sail,
            And, pitcht upon the water like a duck,
            So with her bosom sped to her Desire.
     bsp;       When they had sail'd their vessel for a Moon,
            And marr'd their beauty with the wind o' the Sea,
            Suddenly in mid sea reveal'd itself
            An Isle, beyond imagination fair;
            An Isle that all was Garden; not a Flower,
            Nor Bird of plumage like the flower, but there;
            Some like the Flower, and others like the Leaf;
            Some, as the Pheasant and the Dove adorn'd
            With crown and collar, over whom, alone,
            The jewell'd Peacock like a Sultan shone;
            While the Musicians, and among them Chief
            The Nightingale, sang hidden in the trees
            Which, arm in arm, from fingers quivering
            With any breath of air, fruit of all kind
            Down scatter'd in profusion to their feet,
            Where fountains of sweet water ran between,
            And Sun and shadow chequer-chased the green.
            Here Iram-garden seem'd in secresy
            Blowing the rosebud of its Revelation;
            Or Paradise, forgetful of the dawn
            Of Audit, lifted from her face the veil.
     bsp;       Salámán saw the Isle, and thought no more
            Of Further—there with Absál he sate down,
            Absál and He together side by side
            Together like the Lily and the Rose,
            Together like the Soul and Body, one.
            Under its trees in one another's arms
            They slept—they drank its fountains hand in hand—
            Paraded with the Peacock—raced the Partridge—
            Chased the green Parrot for his stolen fruit,
            Or sang divisions with the Nightingale.
            There was the Rose without a thorn, and there
            The Treasure and no Serpent to beware—
            Oh think of such a Mistress at your side
            In such a Solitude, and none to chide!

            Said to Wámik one who never
            Knew the Lover's passion—'Why
            'Solitary thus and silent
            'Solitary places haunting,
            'Like a Dreamer, like a Spectre,
               'Like a thing about to die?'
            Wámik answer'd—'Meditating
            'Flight with Azrá to the Desert:
            'There by so remote a Fountain
               'That, whichever way one travell'd,
            'League on league, one yet should never
            'See the face of Man; for ever
            'There to gaze on my Belovèd;
            'Gaze, till Gazing out of Gazing
            'Grew to Being Her I gaze on,
            'She and I no more, but in One
            'Undivided Being blended.
            'All that is by Nature twain
            'Fears, or suffers by, the pain
            'Of Separation: Love is only
               'Perfect when itself transcends
            'Itself, and, one with that it loves,
               'In undivided Being blends.'
            When by and by the Sháh was made aware
            Of that heart-breaking Flight, his royal robe
            He changed for ashes, and his Throne for dust,
            And wept awhile in darkness and alone.
            Then rose; and, taking counsel from the Sage,
            Pursuit set everywhere afoot: but none
            Could trace the footstep of the flying Deer.
            Then from his secret Art the Sage-Vizyr
            A Magic Mirror made; a Mirror like
            The bosom of All-wise Intelligence
            Reflecting in its mystic compass all
            Within the sev'n-fold volume of the World
            Involved; and, looking in that Mirror's face,
            The Sháh beheld the face of his Desire.
            Beheld those Lovers, like that earliest pair
            Of Lovers, in this other Paradise
            So far from human eyes in the mid sea,
            And yet within the magic glass so near
            As with a finger one might touch them, isled.
            The Sháh beheld them; and compassion touch'd
            His eyes and anger died upon his lips;
            And arm'd with Righteous Judgment as he was,
            Yet, seeing those two Lovers with one lip
            Drinking that cup of Happiness and Tears
            In which Farewell had never yet been flung,
            He paused for their repentance to recall
            The lifted arm that was to shatter all.
     bsp;       The Lords of Wrath have perish'd by the blow
            Themselves had aim'd at others long ago.
            Draw not in haste the sword, which Fate, may be,
            Will sheathe, hereafter to be drawn on Thee.
            Farhád, who the shapeless mountain
            Into human likeness moulded,
            Under Shírín's eyes as slavish
               Potters' earth himself became.
     bsp;       Then the secret fire of jealous
            Frenzy, catching and devouring
               Kai Khusrau, broke into flame.
     bsp;       With that ancient Hag of Darkness
            Plotting, at the midnight Banquet
            Farhád's golden cup he poison'd,
               And in Shírín's eyes alone
            Reign'd—But Fate that Fate revenges,
            Arms Shírúyeh with the dagger
            That at once from Shírín tore,
               And hurl'd him lifeless from his throne.
            But as the days went on, and still The Sháh
            Beheld his Son how in the Woman lost,
            And still the Crown that should adorn his head,
            And still the Throne that waited for his foot,
            Both trampled under by a base desire,
            Of which the Soul was still unsatisfied—
            Then from the sorrow of The Sháh fell Fire;
            To Gracelessness ungracious he became,
            And, quite to shatter that rebellious lust,
            Upon Salámán all his Will, with all
            His Sage-Vizyr's Might-magic arm'd, discharged.
            And Lo! Salámán to his Mistress turn'd,
            But could not reach her—look'd and look'd again,
            And palpitated tow'rd her—but in vain!
            Oh Misery! As to the Bankrupt's eyes
            The Gold he may not finger! or the Well
            To him who sees a-thirst, and cannot reach,
            Or Heav'n above reveal'd to those in Hell!
            Yet when Salámán's anguish was extreme,
            The door of Mercy open'd, and he saw
            That Arm he knew to be his Father's reacht
            To lift him from the pit in which he lay:
            Timidly tow'rd his Father's eyes his own
               He lifted, pardon-pleading, crime-confest,
            And drew once more to that forsaken Throne,
               As the stray bird one day will find her nest.
            One was asking of a Teacher,
            'How a Father his reputed
               'Son for his should recognize?'
            Said the Master, 'By the stripling,
            'As he grows to manhood, growing
            'Like to his reputed Father,
               'Good or Evil, Fool or Wise.
     bsp;       'Lo the disregarded Darnel
            'With itself adorns the Wheat-field,
            'And for all the vernal season
               'Satisfies the farmer's eye;
            'But the hour of harvest coming,
               'And the thrasher by and by,
            'Then a barren ear shall answer,
               '"Darnel, and no Wheat, am I."'

            Yet Ah for that poor Lover! 'Next the curse
            'Of Love by Love forbidden, nothing worse
            'Than Friendship turn'd in Love's reproof unkind,
               'And Love from Love divorcing'—Thus I said:
            Alas, a worse, and worse, is yet behind—
               Love's back-blow of Revenge for having fled!
            Salámán bow'd his forehead to the dust
            Before his Father; to his Father's hand
            Fast—but yet fast, and faster, to his own
            Clung one, who by no tempest of reproof
            Or wrath might be dissever'd from the stem
            She grew to: till, between Remorse and Love,
            He came to loathe his Life and long for Death.
            And, as from him She would not be divorced,
            With Her he fled again: he fled—but now
            To no such Island centred in the sea
            As lull'd them into Paradise before;
            But to the Solitude of Desolation,
            The Wilderness of Death. And as before
            Of sundry scented woods along the shore
            A shallop he devised to carry them
            Over the waters whither foot nor eye
            Should ever follow them, he thought—so now
            Of sere wood strewn about the plain of Death,
            A raft to bear them through the wave of Fire
            Into Annihilation, he devised,
            Gather'd, and built; and, firing with a Torch,
            Into the central flame Absál and He
            Sprung hand in hand exulting. But the Sage
            In secret all had order'd; and the Flame,
            Directed by his self-fulfilling Will,
            Devouring Her to ashes, left untouch'd
            Salámán—all the baser metal burn'd,
            And to itself the authentic Gold return'd.

    Part III.


                From the Beginning such has been the Fate
                Of Man, whose very clay was soak'd in tears.
                For when at first of common Earth they took,
                And moulded to the stature of the Soul,
                For Forty days, full Forty days, the cloud
                Of Heav'n wept over him from head to foot:
                And when the Forty days had passed to Night,
                The Sunshine of one solitary day
                Look'd out of Heav'n to dry the weeping clay.
              And though that sunshine in the long arrear
                 Of darkness on the breathless image rose,
                 Yet, with the Living, every wise man knows
              Such consummation scarcely shall be here!
              Salámán fired the pile; and in the flame
              That, passing him, consumed Absál like straw,
              Died his Divided Self, his Individual
              Survived, and, like a living Soul from which
              The Body falls, strange, naked, and alone.
              Then rose his cry to Heaven—his eyelashes
              Wept blood—his sighs stood like a smoke in Heaven,
              And Morning rent her garment at his anguish.
              And when Night came, that drew the pen across
              The written woes of Day for all but him,
              Crouch'd in a lonely corner of the house,
              He seem'd to feel about him in the dark
              For one who was not, and whom no fond word
              Could summon from the Void in which she lay.
     bsp;         And so the Wise One found him where he sate
              Bow'd down alone in darkness; and once more
              Made the long-silent voice of Reason sound
              In the deserted Palace of his Soul;
              Until Salámán lifted up his head
              To bow beneath the Master; sweet it seem'd,
              Sweeping the chaff and litter from his own,
              To be the very dust of Wisdom's door,
              Slave of the Firmán of the Lord of Life,
              Who pour'd the wine of Wisdom in his cup,
              Who laid the dew of Peace upon his lips;
              Yea, wrought by Miracle in his behalf.
              For when old Love return'd to Memory,
              And broke in passion from his lips, The Sage,
              Under whose waxing Will Existence rose
              From Nothing, and, relaxing, waned again,
              Raising a Fantom Image of Absál,
              Set it awhile before Salámán's eyes,
              Till, having sow'd the seed of comfort there,
              It went again down to Annihilation.
              But ever, as the Fantom past away,
              The Sage would tell of a Celestial Love;
              'Zuhrah,' he said, 'Zuhrah, compared with whom
              'That brightest star that bears her name in Heav'n
              'Was but a winking taper; and Absál,
              'Queen-star of Beauties in this world below,
              'But her distorted image in the stream
              'Of fleeting Matter; and all Eloquence,
              'And Soul-enchaining harmonies of Song,
              'A far-off echo of that Harp in Heav'n
              'Which Dervish-dances to her harmony.'           Salámán listen'd, and inclined—again
              Entreated, inclination ever grew;
              Until The Sage beholding in his Soul
              The Spirit quicken, so effectually
              With Zuhrah wrought, that she reveal'd herself
              In her pure lustre to Salámán's Soul,
              And blotting Absál's Image from his breast
              There reign'd instead. Celestial Beauty seen,
              He left the Earthly; and, once come to know
              Eternal Love, the Mortal he let go.
              The Crown of Empire how supreme a lot!
              The Sultan's Throne how lofty! Yea, but not
              For All—None but the Heaven-ward foot may dare
              To mount—The head that touches Heaven to wear!—           When the Beloved of Royal augury
              Was rescued from the bondage of Absál,
              Then he arose, and shaking off the dust
              Of that lost travel, girded up his heart,
              And look'd with undefilèd robe to Heaven.
              Then was his Head worthy to wear the Crown,
              His Foot to mount the Throne. And then The Sháh
              From all the quarters of the World-wide realm
              Summon'd all those who under Him the ring
              Of Empire wore, King, Counsellor, Amír;
              Of whom not one but to Salámán did
              Obeisance, and lifted up his neck
              To yoke it under His supremacy.
              Then The Sháh crown'd him with the Golden Crown,
              And set the Golden Throne beneath his feet,
              And over all the heads of the Assembly,
              And in the ears of all, his Jewel-word
              With the Diamond of Wisdom cut, and said:—           'My Son, the Kingdom of the World is not
              'Eternal, nor the sum of right desire;
              'Make thou the Law reveal'd of God thy Law,
              'The voice of Intellect Divine within
              'Interpreter; and considering To-day
              'To-morrow's Seed-field, ere That come to bear,
              'Sow with the harvest of Eternity.
              'And, as all Work, and, most of all, the Work
              'That Kings are born to, wisely should be wrought,
            'Where doubtful of thine own sufficiency,
            'Ever, as I have done, consult the Wise.
            'Turn not thy face away from the Old ways,
            'That were the canon of the Kings of Old;
            'Nor cloud with Tyranny the glass of Justice:
            'By Mercy rather to right Order turn
            'Confusion, and Disloyalty to Love.
            'In thy provision for the Realm's estate,
            'And for the Honour that becomes a King,
            'Drain not thy People's purse—the Tyranny
            'Which thee enriches at thy Subject's cost,
            'Awhile shall make thee strong; but in the end
            'Shall bow thy neck beneath thy People's hate,
            'And lead thee with the Robber down to Hell.
            'Thou art a Shepherd, and thy Flock the People,
            'To help and save, not ravage and destroy;
            'For which is for the other, Flock or Shepherd?
            'And join with thee True men to keep the Flock—
            'Dogs, if you will—but trusty—head in leash,
            'Whose teeth are for the Wolf, not for the Lamb,
            'And least of all the Wolf's accomplices.
            'For Sháhs must have Vizyrs—but be they Wise
            'And Trusty—knowing well the Realm's estate—
            'Knowing how far to Sháh and Subject bound
            'On either hand—not by extortion, nor
            'By usury wrung from the People's purse,
            'Feeding their Master, and themselves (with whom
            'Enough is apt enough to make rebel)
            'To such a surfeit feeding as feeds Hell.
            'Proper in soul and body be they—pitiful
            'To Poverty—hospitable to the Saint—
            'Their sweet Access a salve to wounded Hearts;
            'Their Wrath a sword against Iniquity,
            'But at thy bidding only to be drawn;
            'Whose Ministers they are, to bring thee in
            'Report of Good or Evil through the Realm:
               'Which to confirm with thine immediate Eye,
            'And least of all, remember—least of all,
            'Suffering Accuser also to be Judge,
               'By surest steps up-builds Prosperity.'

    Meaning of The Story.



            Under the leaf of many a Fable lies
            The Truth for those who look for it; of this
            If thou wouldst look behind and find the Fruit,
            (To which the Wiser hand hath found his way)
            Have thy desire—No Tale of Me and Thee,
            Though I and Thou be its Interpreters.
            What signifies The Sháh? and what The Sage?
            And what Salámán not of Woman born?
            Who was Absál who drew him to Desire?
            And what the Kingdom that awaited him
            When he had drawn his Garment from her hand?
            What means That Sea? And what that Fiery Pile?
            And what that Heavenly Zuhrah who at last
            Clear'd Absál from the Mirror of his Soul?
            Listen to me, and you shall understand
            The Word that Lover wrote along the sand.
            The Incomparable Creator, when this World
            He did create, created first of all
            The First Intelligence—First of a Chain
            Of Ten Intelligences, of which the Last
            Sole Agent is in this our Universe,
            Active Intelligence so call'd; The One
            Distributer of Evil and of Good,
            Of Joy and Sorrow. Himself apart from Matter,
            In Essence and in Energy—He yet
            Hath fashion'd all that is—Material Form,
            And Spiritual, all from Him—by Him
            Directed all, and in his Bounty drown'd.
            Therefore is He that Firmán-issuing Sháh
            To whom the World was subject. But because
            What He distributes to the Universe
               Another and a Higher Power supplies,
            Therefore all those who comprehend aright,
               That Higher in The Sage will recognise.
     bsp;       HIS the Prime Spirit that, spontaneously
            Projected by the Tenth Intelligence,
            Was from no womb of Matter reproduced
            A special Essence called The Soul of Man;
            A Child of Heaven, in raiment unbeshamed
            Of Sensual taint, and so Salámán named.
     bsp;       And who Absál?—The Sense-adoring Body,
            Slave to the Blood and Sense—through whom The Soul,
            Although the Body's very Life it be,
            Doth yet imbibe the knowledge and delight
            Of things of Sense; and these in such a bond
            United as God only can divide,
            As Lovers in this Tale are signified.
            And what the Flood on which they sail'd, with those
            Fantastic creatures peopled; and that Isle
            In which their Paradise awhile they made,
            And thought, for ever?—That false Paradise
            Amid the fluctuating Waters found
            Of Sensual passion, in whose bosom lies
            A world of Being from the light of God
            Deep as in unsubsiding Deluge drown'd.
     bsp;       And why was it that Absál in that Isle
            So soon deceived in her Delight, and He
            Fell short of his Desire?—that was to show
            How soon the Senses of their Passion tire,
            And in a surfeit of themselves expire.
     bsp;       And what the turning of Salámán's Heart
            Back to The Shah, and to the throne of Might
            And Glory yearning?—What but the return
            Of the lost Soul to his true Parentage,
            And back from Carnal error looking up
            Repentant to his Intellectual Right.
     bsp;       And when the Man between his living Shame
            Distracted, and the Love that would not die,
            Fled once again—what meant that second Flight
            Into the Desert, and that Pile of Fire
            On which he fain his Passion with Himself
            Would immolate?—That was the Discipline
            To which the living Man himself devotes,
            Till all the Sensual dross be scorcht away,
            And, to its pure integrity return'd,
            His Soul alone survives. But forasmuch
            As from a darling Passion so divorced
            The wound will open and will bleed anew,
            Therefore The Sage would ever and anon
            Raise up and set before Salámán's eyes
            That Fantom of the past; but evermore
            Revealing one Diviner, till his Soul
            She fill'd, and blotted out the Mortal Love.
            For what is Zuhrah?—What but that Divine
            Original, of which the Soul of Man
            Darkly possesst, by that fierce Discipline
            At last he disengages from the Dust,
            And flinging off the baser rags of Sense,
            And all in Intellectual Light array'd,
            As Conqueror and King he mounts the Throne,
            And wears the Crown of Human Glory—Whence,
            Throne over Throne surmounting, he shall reign
            One with the Last and First Intelligence.
            This is the meaning of this Mystery,
            Which to know wholly ponder in thy Heart,
            Till all its ancient Secret be enlarged.
            Enough—The written Summary I close,
            And set my Seal—

                                                   THE TRUTH GOD ONLY KNOWS

    A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF FARÍD-UDDÍN ATTAR'S BIRD-PARLIAMENT


                Once on a time from all the Circles seven
                Between the stedfast Earth and rolling Heaven
                The Birds, of all Note, Plumage, and Degree,
                That float in Air, and roost upon the Tree;
                And they that from the Waters snatch their Meat,
                And they that scour the Desert with long Feet:
                Birds of all Natures, known or not to Man,
                Flock'd from all Quarters into full Divan,
                On no less solemn business than to find
              Or choose, a Sultán Khalif of their kind,
              For whom, if never their's, or lost, they pined.
              The Snake had his, 'twas said; and so the Beast
              His Lion-lord: and Man had his, at least:
              And that the Birds, who nearest were the Skies,
              And went apparell'd in its Angel Dyes,
              Should be without—under no better Law
              Than that which lost all other in the Maw—
              Disperst without a Bond of Union—nay,
              Or meeting to make each the other's Prey—
              This was the Grievance—this the solemn Thing
              On which the scatter'd Commonwealth of Wing,
              From all the four Winds, flying like to Cloud
              That met and blacken'd Heav'n, and Thunder-loud
              With Sound of whirring Wings and Beaks that clash'd
              Down like a Torrent on the Desert dash'd:
              Till by Degrees, the Hubbub and Pell-mell
              Into some Order and Precedence fell,
              And, Proclamation made of Silence, each
              In special Accent, but in general Speech
              That all should understand, as seem'd him best,
              The Congregation of all Wings addrest.
     bsp;         And first, with Heart so full as from his Eyes
              Ran weeping, up rose Tájidár the Wise;
              The mystic Mark upon whose Bosom show'd
              That he alone of all the Birds The Road
              Had travell'd: and the Crown upon his Head
              Had reach'd the Goal; and He stood forth and said.           'Oh Birds, by what Authority divine
              I speak you know by His authentic Sign,
              And Name, emblazon'd on my Breast and Bill:
              Whose Counsel I assist at, and fulfil:
              At His Behest I measured as he plann'd
              The Spaces of the Air and Sea and Land;
              I gauged the secret sources of the Springs
              From Cloud to Fish: the Shadow of my Wings
              Dream'd over sleeping Deluge: piloted
              The Blast that bore Sulaymán's Throne: and led
              The Cloud of Birds that canopied his Head;
              Whose Word I brought to Balkís: and I shared
              The Counsel that with Ásaf he prepared.
              And now you want a Khalif: and I know
              Him, and his whereabout, and How to go:
              And go alone I could, and plead your cause
              Alone for all: but, by the eternal laws,
              Yourselves by Toil and Travel of your own
              Must for your old Delinquency atone.
              Were you indeed not blinded by the Curse
              Of Self-exile, that still grows worse and worse,
              Yourselves would know that, though you see him not,
              He is with you this Moment, on this Spot,
              Your Lord through all Forgetfulness and Crime,
              Here, There, and Everywhere, and through all Time.
              But as a Father, whom some wayward Child
              By sinful Self-will has unreconciled,
              Waits till the sullen Reprobate at cost
              Of long Repentance should regain the Lost,
              Therefore, yourselves to see as you are seen,
              Yourselves must bridge the Gulf you made between
              By such a Search and Travel to be gone
              Up to the mighty mountain Káf, whereon
              Hinges the World, and round about whose Knees
              Into one Ocean mingle the Sev'n Seas;
              In whose impenetrable Forest-folds
              Of Light and Dark 'Sýmurgh' his Presence holds;
              Not to be reach'd, if to be reach'd at all
              But by a Road the stoutest might appal;
              Of Travel not of Days or Months, but Yeàrs—
              Life-long perhaps: of Dangers, Doubts, and Fears
              As yet unheard of: Sweat of Blood and Brain
              Interminable—often all in vain—
              And, if successful, no Return again:
              A Road whose very Preparation scared
              The Traveller who yet must be prepared.
              Who then this Travel to Result would bring
              Needs both a Lion's Heart beneath the Wing,
              And even more, a Spirit purified
              Of Worldly Passion, Malice, Lust, and Pride:
              Yea, ev'n of Worldly Wisdom, which grows dim
              And dark, the nearer it approaches Him,
              Who to the Spirit's Eye alone reveal'd,
              By sacrifice of Wisdom's self unseal'd;
              Without which none who reach the Place could bear
              To look upon the Glory dwelling there.'           One Night from out the swarming City Gate
              Stept holy Bajazyd, to meditate
              Alone amid the breathing Fields that lay
              In solitary Silence leagues away,
              Beneath a Moon and Stars as bright as Day.
              And the Saint wondering such a Temple were,
            And so lit up, and scarce one worshipper,
            A voice from Heav'n amid the stillness said;
            'The Royal Road is not for all to tread,
            Nor is the Royal Palace for the Rout,
            Who, even if they reach it, are shut out.
            The Blaze that from my Harím window breaks
            With fright the Rabble of the Roadside takes;
            And ev'n of those that at my Portal din,
            Thousands may knock for one that enters in.'
            Thus spoke the Tájidár: and the wing'd Crowd,
            That underneath his Word in Silence bow'd,
            Clapp'd Acclamation: and their Hearts and Eyes
            Were kindled by the Firebrand of the Wise.
            They felt their Degradation: they believed
            The word that told them how to be retrieved,
            And in that glorious Consummation won
            Forgot the Cost at which it must be done.
            'They only long'd to follow: they would go
            Whither he led, through Flood, or Fire, or Snow.'—
            So cried the Multitude. But some there were
            Who listen'd with a cold disdainful air,
            Content with what they were, or grudging Cost
            Of Time or Travel that might all be lost;
            These, one by one, came forward, and preferr'd
            Unwise Objection: which the wiser Word
            Shot with direct Reproof, or subtly round
            With Argument and Allegory wound.
     bsp;       The Pheasant first would know by what pretence
            The Tájidár to that pre-eminence
            Was raised—a Bird, but for his lofty Crest
            (And such the Pheasant had) like all the Rest—         Who answer'd—'By no Virtue of my own
            Sulaymán chose me, but by His alone:
            Not by the Gold and Silver of my Sighs
            Made mine, but the free Largess of his Eyes.
            Behold the Grace of Allah comes and goes
            As to Itself is good: and no one knows
            Which way it turns: in that mysterious Court
            Not he most finds who furthest travels for't.
            For one may crawl upon his knees Life-long,
            And yet may never reach, or all go wrong:
            Another just arriving at the Place
            He toil'd for, and—the Door shut in his Face:
            Whereas Another, scarcely gone a Stride,
            And suddenly—Behold he is Inside!—
            But though the Runner win not, he that stands,
            No Thorn will turn to Roses in his Hands:
            Each one must do his best and all endure,
            And all endeavour, hoping but not sure.
            Heav'n its own Umpire is; its Bidding do,
            And Thou perchance shalt be Sulaymán's too.'         One day Shah Mahmúd, riding with the Wind
            A-hunting, left his Retinue behind,
            And coming to a River, whose swift Course
            Doubled back Game and Dog, and Man and Horse,
            Beheld upon the Shore a little Lad
            A-fishing, very poor, and Tatter-clad
            He was, and weeping as his Heart would break.
            So the Great Sultán, for Good humour's sake
            Pull'd in his Horse a moment, and drew nigh,
            And after making his Salám, ask'd why
            He wept—weeping, the Sultán said, so sore
            As he had never seen one weep before.
            The Boy look'd up, and 'Oh Amír,' he said,
            'Sev'n of us are at home, and Father dead,
            And Mother left with scarce a Bit of Bread:
            And now since Sunrise have I fish'd—and see!
            Caught nothing for our Supper—Woe is Me!'
            The Sultán lighted from his Horse. 'Behold,'
            Said he, 'Good Fortune will not be controll'd:
            And, since To-day yours seems to turn from you,
            Suppose we try for once what mine will do,
            And we will share alike in all I win.'
            So the Shah took, and flung his Fortune in,
            The Net; which, cast by the Great Mahmúd's Hand,
            A hundred glittering Fishes brought to Land.
            The Lad look'd up in Wonder—Mahmúd smiled
            And vaulted into Saddle. But the Child
            Ran after—'Nay, Amír, but half the Haul
            Is yours by Bargain'—'Nay, To-day take all,'
            The Sultán cried, and shook his Bridle free—
            'But mind—To-morrow All belongs to Me—'
            And so rode off. Next morning at Divan
            The Sultán's Mind upon his Bargain ran,
            And being somewhat in a mind for sport
            Sent for the Lad: who, carried up to Court,
            And marching into Royalty's full Blaze
            With such a Catch of Fish as yesterday's,
            The Sultán call'd and set him by his side,
            And asking him, 'What Luck?' The Boy replied,
            'This is the Luck that follows every Cast,
            Since o'er my Net the Sultán's Shadow pass'd.'
            Then came The Nightingale, from such a Draught
            Of Ecstasy that from the Rose he quaff'd
            Reeling as drunk, and ever did distil
            In exquisite Divisions from his Bill
            To inflame the Hearts of Men—and thus sang He—
            'To me alone, alone, is giv'n the Key
            Of Love; of whose whole Mystery possesst,
            When I reveal a little to the Rest,
            Forthwith Creation listening forsakes
            The Reins of Reason, and my Frenzy takes:
            Yea, whosoever once has quaff'd this wine
            He leaves unlisten'd David's Song for mine.
            In vain do Men for my Divisions strive,
            And die themselves making dead Lutes alive:
            I hang the Stars with Meshes for Men's Souls:
            The Garden underneath my Music rolls.
            The long, long Morns that mourn the Rose away
            I sit in silence, and on Anguish prey:
            But the first Air which the New Year shall breathe
            Up to my Boughs of Message from beneath
            That in her green Harím my Bride unveils,
            My Throat bursts silence and her Advent hails,
            Who in her crimson Volume registers
            The Notes of Him whose Life is lost in hers.
            The Rose I love and worship now is here;
            If dying, yet reviving, Year by Year;
            But that you tell of, all my Life why waste
            In vainly searching; or, if found, not taste?'         So with Division infinite and Trill
            On would the Nightingale have warbled still,
            And all the World have listen'd; but a Note
            Of sterner Import check'd the love-sick Throat.
     bsp;       'Oh watering with thy melodious Tears
            Love's Garden, and who dost indeed the Ears
            Of men with thy melodious Fingers mould
            As David's Finger Iron did of old:
            Why not, like David, dedicate thy Dower
            Of Song to something better than a Flower?
            Empress indeed of Beauty, so they say,
            But one whose Empire hardly lasts a Day,
            By Insurrection of the Morning's Breath
            That made her hurried to Decay and Death:
            And while she lasts contented to be seen,
            And worshipt, for the Garden's only Queen,
            Leaving thee singing on thy Bough forlorn,
            Or if she smile on Thee, perhaps in Scorn.'         Like that fond Dervish waiting in the throng
            When some World-famous Beauty went along,
            Who smiling on the Antic as she pass'd—
            Forthwith Staff, Bead and Scrip away he cast,
            And grovelling in the Kennel, took to whine
            Before her Door among the Dogs and Swine.
            Which when she often went unheeding by,
            But one day quite as heedless ask'd him—'Why?'—
            He told of that one Smile, which, all the Rest
            Passing, had kindled Hope within his Breast—
            Again she smiled and said, 'Oh self-beguiled
            Poor Wretch, at whom and not on whom I smiled.'
            Then came the subtle Parrot in a coat
            Greener than Greensward, and about his Throat
            A Collar ran of sub-sulphureous Gold;
            And in his Beak a Sugar-plum he troll'd,
            That all his Words with luscious Lisping ran,
            And to this Tune—'Oh cruel Cage, and Man
            More iron still who did confine me there,
            Who else with him whose Livery I wear
            Ere this to his Eternal Fount had been,
            And drunk what should have kept me ever-green.
            But now I know the Place, and I am free
            To go, and all the Wise will follow Me.
            Some'—and upon the Nightingale one Eye
            He leer'd—'for nothing but the Blossom sigh:
            But I am for the luscious Pulp that grows
            Where, and for which the Blossom only blows:
            And which so long as the Green Tree provides
            What better grows along Káf's dreary Sides?
            And what more needful Prophet there than He
            Who gives me Life to nip it from the Tree?'         To whom the Tájidár—'Oh thou whose Best
            In the green leaf of Paradise is drest,
            But whose Neck kindles with a lower Fire—
            Oh slip the collar off of base Desire,
            And stand apparell'd in Heav'n's Woof entire!
            This Life that hangs so sweet about your Lips
            But, spite of all your Khizar, slips and slips,
            What is it but itself the coarser Rind
            Of the True Life withinside and behind,
            Which he shall never never reach unto
            Till the gross Shell of Carcase he break through?'         For what said He, that dying Hermit, whom
            Your Prophet came to, trailing through the Gloom
            His Emerald Vest, and tempted—'Come with Me,
            And Live.' The Hermit answered—'Not with Thee.
            Two Worlds there are, and This was thy Design,
            And thou hast got it; but The Next is mine;
            Whose Fount is this Life's Death, and to whose Side
            Ev'n now I find my Way without a Guide.'
            Then like a Sultán glittering in all Rays
            Of Jewelry, and deckt with his own Blaze,
            The glorious Peacock swept into the Ring:
            And, turning slowly that the glorious Thing
            Might fill all Eyes with wonder, thus said He.
            'Behold, the Secret Artist, making me,
            With no one Colour of the skies bedeckt,
            But from its Angel's Feathers did select
            To make up mine withal, the Gabriel
            Of all the Birds: though from my Place I fell
            In Eden, when Acquaintance I did make
            In those blest Days with that Sev'n-headed Snake,
            And thence with him, my perfect Beauty marr'd
            With these ill Feet, was thrust out and debarr'd.
            Little I care for Worldly Fruit or Flower,
            Would you restore me to lost Eden's Bower,
            But first my Beauty making all complete
            With reparation of these ugly Feet.'         'Were it,' 'twas answer'd, 'only to return
            To that lost Eden, better far to burn
            In Self-abasement up thy plumèd Pride,
            And ev'n with lamer feet to creep inside—
            But all mistaken you and all like you
            That long for that lost Eden as the true;
            Fair as it was, still nothing but the Shade
            And Out-court of the Majesty that made
            That which I point you tow'rd, and which the King
            I tell you of broods over with his Wing,
            With no deciduous leaf, but with the Rose
            Of Spiritual Beauty, smells and glows:
            No plot of Earthly Pleasance, but the whole
            True Garden of the Universal Soul.'
            For so Creation's Master-jewel fell
            From that same Eden: loving which too well,
            The Work before the Artist did prefer,
            And in the Garden lost the Gardener.
            Wherefore one Day about the Garden went
            A voice that found him in his false Content,
            And like a bitter Sarsar of the North
            Shrivell'd the Garden up, and drove him forth
            Into the Wilderness: and so the Eye
            Of Eden closed on him till by and by.
     bsp;       Then from a Ruin where conceal'd he lay
            Watching his buried Gold, and hating Day,
            Hooted The Owl.—'I tell you, my Delight
            Is in the Ruin and the Dead of Night
            Where I was born, and where I love to wone
            All my Life long, sitting on some cold stone,
            Away from all your roystering Companies,
            In some dark Corner where a Treasure lies;
            That, buried by some Miser in the Dark,
            Speaks up to me at Midnight like a Spark;
            And o'er it like a Talisman I brood,
            Companion of the Serpent and the Toad.
            What need of other Sovereign, having found,
            And keeping as in Prison underground,
            One before whom all other Kings bow down,
            And with his glittering Heel their Foreheads crown?'
            'He that a Miser lives and Miser dies,
            At the Last Day what Figure shall he rise?'         A Fellow all his life lived hoarding Gold,
            And, dying, hoarded left it. And behold,
            One Night his Son saw peering through the House
            A Man, with yet the semblance of a Mouse,
            Watching a crevice in the Wall—and cried—
            'My Father?'—'Yes,' the Musulman replied,
            'Thy Father!'—'But why watching thus?'—'For fear
            Lest any smell my Treasure buried here.'
            'But wherefore, Sir, so metamousified?'
            'Because, my Son, such is the true outside
            Of the inner Soul by which I lived and died.'
            'Ay,' said The Partridge, with his Foot and Bill
            Crimson with raking Rubies from the Hill,
            And clattering his Spurs—'Wherewith the Ground
            'I stab,' said he, 'for Rubies, that, when found
            I swallow; which, as soon as swallow'd, turn
            To Sparks which through my beak and eyes do burn.
            Gold, as you say, is but dull Metal dead,
            And hanging on the Hoarder's Soul like Lead:
            But Rubies that have Blood within, and grown
            And nourisht in the Mountain Heart of Stone,
            Burn with an inward Light, which they inspire,
            And make their Owners Lords of their Desire.'         To whom the Tájidár—'As idly sold
            To the quick Pebble as the drowsy Gold,
            As dead when sleeping in their mountain mine
            As dangerous to Him who makes them shine:
            Slavish indeed to do their Lord's Commands,
            And slave-like, aptest to escape his Hands,
            And serve a second Master like the first,
            And working all their wonders for the worst.'         Never was Jewel after or before
            Like that Sulaymán for a Signet wore:
            Whereby one Ruby, weighing scarce a grain
            Did Sea and Land and all therein constrain,
            Yea, ev'n the Winds of Heav'n—made the fierce East
            Bear his League-wide Pavilion like a Beast,
            Whither he would: yea, the Good Angel held
            His subject, and the lower Fiend compell'd.
            Till, looking round about him in his pride,
            He overtax'd the Fountain that supplied,
            Praying that after him no Son of Clay
            Should ever touch his Glory. And one Day
            Almighty God his Jewel stole away,
            And gave it to the Div, who with the Ring
            Wore also the Resemblance of the King,
            And so for forty days play'd such a Game
            As blots Sulaymán's forty years with Shame.
            Then The Shah-Falcon, tossing up his Head
            Blink-hooded as it was—'Behold,' he said,
            'I am the chosen Comrade of the King,
            And perch upon the Fist that wears the Ring;
            Born, bred, and nourisht, in the Royal Court,
            I take the Royal Name and make the Sport.
            And if strict Discipline I undergo
            And half my Life am blinded—be it so;
            Because the Shah's Companion ill may brook
            On aught save Royal Company to look.
            And why am I to leave my King, and fare
            With all these Rabble Wings I know not where?'—         'Oh blind indeed'—the Answer was, 'and dark
            To any but a vulgar Mortal Mark,
            And drunk with Pride of Vassalage to those
            Whose Humour like their Kingdom comes and goes;
            All Mutability: who one Day please
            To give: and next Day what they gave not seize:
            Like to the Fire: a dangerous Friend at best,
            Which who keeps farthest from does wiseliest.'
            A certain Shah there was in Days foregone
            Who had a lovely Slave he doated on,
            And cherish'd as the Apple of his Eye,
            Clad gloriously, fed sumptuously, set high,
            And never was at Ease were He not by,
            Who yet, for all this Sunshine, Day by Day
            Was seen to wither like a Flower away.
            Which, when observing, one without the Veil
            Of Favour ask'd the Favourite—'Why so pale
            And sad?' thus sadly answer'd the poor Thing—
            'No Sun that rises sets until the King,
            Whose Archery is famous among Men,
            Aims at an Apple on my Head; and when
            The stricken Apple splits, and those who stand
            Around cry "Lo! the Shah's unerring Hand!"
            Then He too laughing asks me "Why so pale
            And sorrow-some? as could the Sultan fail,
            Who such a master of the Bow confest,
            And aiming by the Head that he loves best."'
            Then on a sudden swoop'd The Phoenix down
            As though he wore as well as gave The Crown:
            And cried—'I care not, I, to wait on Kings,
            Whose crowns are but the Shadow of my Wings!'         'Ay,' was the Answer—'And, pray, how has sped,
            On which it lighted, many a mortal Head?'         A certain Sultán dying, his Vizier
            In Dream beheld him, and in mortal Fear
            Began—'Oh mighty Shah of Shahs! Thrice-blest'—
            But loud the Vision shriek'd and struck its Breast,
            And 'Stab me not with empty Title!' cried—
            'One only Shah there is, and none beside,
            Who from his Throne above for certain Ends
            Awhile some Spangle of his Glory lends
            To Men on Earth; but calling in again
            Exacts a strict account of every Grain.
            Sultán I lived, and held the World in scorn:
            Oh better had I glean'd the Field of Corn!
            Oh better had I been a Beggar born,
            And for my Throne and Crown, down in the Dust
            My living Head had laid where Dead I must!
            Oh wither'd, wither'd, wither'd, be the Wing
            Whose overcasting Shadow made me King!'
            Then from a Pond, where all day long he kept,
            Waddled the dapper Duck demure, adept
            At infinite Ablution, and precise
            In keeping of his Raiment clean and nice.
            And 'Sure of all the Race of Birds,' said He,
            'None for Religious Purity like Me,
            Beyond what strictest Rituals prescribe—
            Methinks I am the Saint of all our Tribe,
            To whom, by Miracle, the Water, that
            I wash in, also makes my Praying-Mat.'         To whom, more angrily than all, replied
            The Leader, lashing that religious Pride,
            That under ritual Obedience
            To outer Law with inner might dispense:
            For, fair as all the Feather to be seen,
            Could one see through, the Maw was not so clean:
            But He that made both Maw and Feather too
            Would take account of, seeing through and through.
     bsp;       A Shah returning to his Capital,
            His subjects drest it forth in Festival,
            Thronging with Acclamation Square and Street,
            And kneeling flung before his Horse's feet
            Jewel and Gold. All which with scarce an Eye
            The Sultán superciliously rode by:
            Till coming to the public Prison, They
            Who dwelt within those grisly Walls, by way
            Of Welcome, having neither Pearl nor Gold,
            Over the wall chopt Head and Carcase roll'd,
            Some almost parcht to Mummy with the Sun,
            Some wet with Execution that day done.
            At which grim Compliment at last the Shah
            Drew Bridle: and amid a wild Hurrah
            Of savage Recognition, smiling threw
            Silver and Gold among the wretched Crew,
            And so rode forward. Whereat of his Train
            One wondering that, while others sued in vain
            With costly gifts, which carelessly he pass'd,
            But smiled at ghastly Welcome like the last;
            The Shah made answer—'All that Pearl and Gold
            Of ostentatious Welcome only told:
            A little with great Clamour from the Store
            Of Hypocrites who kept at home much more.
            But when those sever'd Heads and Trunks I saw—
            Save by strict Execution of my Law
            They had not parted company; not one
            But told my Will not talk'd about, but done.'         Then from a Wood was heard unseen to coo
            The Ring-dove—'Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yú-'
            (For thus her sorrow broke her Note in twain,
            And, just where broken, took it up again)
            '-suf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf!'—But one Note,
            Which still repeating, she made hoarse her throat:
            Till checkt—'Oh You, who with your idle Sighs
            Block up the Road of better Enterprize;
            Sham Sorrow all, or bad as sham if true,
            When once the better thing is come to do;
            Beware lest wailing thus you meet his Doom
            Who all too long his Darling wept, from whom
            You draw the very Name you hold so dear,
            And which the World is somewhat tired to hear.'
            When Yúsuf from his Father's Home was torn,
            The Patriarch's Heart was utterly forlorn,
            And, like a Pipe with but one stop, his Tongue
            With nothing but the name of 'Yúsuf' rung.
            Then down from Heaven's Branches flew the Bird
            Of Heav'n, and said 'God wearies of that word:
            Hast thou not else to do and else to say?'
            So Yacúb's lips were sealéd from that Day.
            But one Night in a Vision, far away
            His darling in some alien Field he saw
            Binding the Sheaf; and what between the Awe
            Of God's Displeasure and the bitter Pass
            Of passionate Affection, sigh'd 'Alas—'
            And stopp'd—But with the morning Sword of Flame
            That oped his Eyes the sterner Angel's came—
            'For the forbidden Word not utter'd by
            Thy Lips was yet sequester'd in that Sigh.'
            And the right Passion whose Excess was wrong
            Blinded the aged Eyes that wept too long.
            And after these came others—arguing,
            Enquiring and excusing—some one Thing,
            And some another—endless to repeat,
            But, in the Main, Sloth, Folly, or Deceit.
            Their Souls were to the vulgar Figure cast
            Of earthly Victual not of Heavenly Fast.
            At last one smaller Bird, of a rare kind,
            Of modest Plume and unpresumptuous Mind,
            Whisper'd, 'Oh Tájidár, we know indeed
            How Thou both knowest, and would'st help our Need;
            For thou art wise and holy, and hast been
            Behind the Veil, and there The Presence seen.         But we are weak and vain, with little care
            Beyond our yearly Nests and daily Fare—
            How should we reach the Mountain? and if there
            How get so great a Prince to hear our Prayer?
            For there, you say, dwells The Symurgh alone
            In Glory, like Sulaymán on his Throne,
            And we but Pismires at his feet: can He
            Such puny Creatures stoop to hear, or see;
            Or hearing, seeing, own us—unakin
            As He to Folly, Woe, and Death, and Sin?'—         To whom the Tájidár, whose Voice for those
            Bewilder'd ones to full Compassion rose—
            'Oh lost so long in Exile, you disclaim
            The very Fount of Being whence you came,
            Cannot be parted from, and, will or no,
            Whither for Good or Evil must re-flow!
            For look—the Shadows into which the Light
            Of his pure Essence down by infinite
            Gradation dwindles, which at random play
            Through Space in Shape indefinite—one Ray
            Of his Creative Will into defined
            Creation quickens: We that swim the Wind,
            And they the Flood below, and Man and Beast
            That walk between, from Lion to the least
            Pismire that creeps along Sulaymán's Wall—
            Yea, that in which they swim, fly, walk, and crawl—
            However near the Fountain Light, or far
            Removed, yet His authentic Shadows are;
            Dead Matter's Self but the dark Residue
            Exterminating Glory dwindles to.
            A Mystery too fearful in the Crowd
            To utter—scarcely to Thyself aloud—
            But when in solitary Watch and Prayer
            Consider'd: and religiously beware
            Lest Thou the Copy with the Type confound;
            And Deity, with Deity indrown'd,—
            For as pure Water into purer Wine
            Incorporating shall itself refine
            While the dull Drug lies half-resolved below,
            With Him and with his Shadows is it so:
            The baser Forms, to whatsoever Change
            Subject, still vary through their lower Range:
            To which the higher even shall decay,
            That, letting ooze their better Part away
            For Things of Sense and Matter, in the End
            Shall merge into the Clay to which they tend.
            Unlike to him, who straining through the Bond
            Of outward Being for a Life beyond,
            While the gross Worldling to his Centre clings,
            That draws him deeper in, exulting springs
            To merge him in the central Soul of Things.
            And shall not he pass home with other Zest
            Who, with full Knowledge, yearns for such a Rest,
            Than he, who with his better self at strife,
            Drags on the weary Exile call'd This Life?
            One, like a child with outstretcht Arms and Face
            Up-turn'd, anticipates his Sire's Embrace;
            The other crouching like a guilty Slave
            Till flogg'd to Punishment across the Grave.
            And, knowing that His glory ill can bear
            The unpurged Eye; do thou Thy Breast prepare;
            And the mysterious Mirror He set there,
            To temper his reflected Image in,
            Clear of Distortion, Doubleness, and Sin:
            And in thy Conscience understanding this,
            The Double only seems, but The One is,
            Thy-self to Self-annihilation give
            That this false Two in that true One may live.
            For this I say: if, looking in thy Heart,
            Thou for Self-whole mistake thy Shadow-part,
            That Shadow-part indeed into The Sun
            Shall melt, but senseless of its Union:
            But in that Mirror if with purgèd eyes
            Thy Shadow Thou for Shadow recognize,
            Then shalt Thou back into thy Centre fall
            A conscious Ray of that eternal All.'         He ceased, and for a while Amazement quell'd
            The Host, and in the Chain of Silence held:
            A Mystery so awful who would dare—
            So glorious who would not wish—to share?
            So Silence brooded on the feather'd Folk,
            Till here and there a timid Murmur broke
            From some too poor in honest Confidence,
            And then from others of too much Pretence;
            Whom both, as each unduly hoped or fear'd,
            The Tájidár in answer check'd or cheer'd.
     bsp;       Some said their Hearts were good indeed to go
            The Way he pointed out: but they were slow
            Of Comprehension, and scarce understood
            Their present Evil or the promised Good:
            And so, tho' willing to do all they could,
            Must not they fall short, or go wholly wrong,
            On such mysterious Errand, and so long?
            Whom the wise Leader bid but Do their Best
            In Hope and Faith, and leave to Him the rest,
            For He who fix'd the Race, and knew its Length
            And Danger, also knew the Runner's Strength.
     bsp;       Shah Mahmúd, absent on an Enterprize,
            Ayas, the very Darling of his eyes,
            At home under an Evil Eye fell sick,
            Then cried the Sultán to a soldier 'Quick!
            To Horse! to Horse! without a Moment's Stay,—
            The shortest Road with all the Speed you may,—
            Or, by the Lord, your Head shall pay for it!'—
            Off went the Soldier, plying Spur and Bit—
            Over the Sandy Desert, over green
            Valley, and Mountain, and the Stream between,
            Without a Moment's Stop for rest or bait,—
            Up to the City—to the Palace Gate—
            Up to the Presence-Chamber at a Stride—
            And Lo! The Sultán at his Darling's side!—
            Then thought the Soldier—'I have done my Best,
            And yet shall die for it.' The Sultán guess'd
            His Thought and smiled. 'Indeed your Best you did,
            The nearest Road you knew, and well you rid:
            And if I knew a shorter, my Excess
            Of Knowledge does but justify thy Less.'
            And then, with drooping Crest and Feather, came
            Others, bow'd down with Penitence and Shame.
            They long'd indeed to go; 'but how begin,
            Mesh'd and entangled as they were in Sin
            Which often-times Repentance of past Wrong
            As often broken had but knit more strong?'         Whom the wise Leader bid be of good cheer,
            And, conscious of the Fault, dismiss the Fear,
            Nor at the very Entrance of the Fray
            Their Weapon, ev'n if broken, fling away:
            Since Mercy on the broken Branch anew
            Would blossom were but each Repentance true.
     bsp;       For did not God his Prophet take to Task?
            'Sev'n-times of Thee did Kárún Pardon ask;
            Which, hadst thou been like Me his Maker—yea,
            But present at the Kneading of his Clay
            With those twain Elements of Hell and Heav'n,—
            One prayer had won what Thou deny'st to Sev'n.'         For like a Child sent with a fluttering Light
            To feel his way along a gusty Night
            Man walks the World: again and yet again
            The Lamp shall be by Fits of Passion slain:
            But shall not He who sent him from the Door
            Relight the Lamp once more, and yet once more?         When the rebellious Host from Death shall wake
            Black with Despair of Judgment, God shall take
            Ages of holy Merit from the Count
            Of Angels to make up Man's short Amount,
            And bid the murmuring Angel gladly spare
            Of that which, undiminishing his Share
            Of Bliss, shall rescue Thousands from the Cost
            Of Bankruptcy within the Prison lost.
     bsp;       Another Story told how in the Scale
            Good Will beyond mere Knowledge would prevail.
     bsp;       In Paradise the Angel Gabriel heard
            The Lips of Allah trembling with the Word
            Of perfect Acceptation: and he thought
            'Some perfect Faith such perfect Answer wrought,
            But whose?'—And therewith slipping from the Crypt
            Of Sidra, through the Angel-ranks he slipt
            Watching what Lip yet trembled with the Shot
            That so had hit the Mark—but found it not.
            Then, in a Glance to Earth, he threaded through
            Mosque, Palace, Cell and Cottage of the True
            Belief—in vain; so back to Heaven went
            And—Allah's Lips still trembling with assent!
            Then the tenacious Angel once again
            Threaded the Ranks of Heav'n and Earth—in vain—
            Till, once again return'd to Paradise,
            There, looking into God's, the Angel's Eyes
            Beheld the Prayer that brought that Benison
            Rising like Incense from the Lips of one
            Who to an Idol bow'd—as best he knew
            Under that False God worshipping the True.
     bsp;       And then came others whom the summons found
            Not wholly sick indeed, but far from sound:
            Whose light inconstant Soul alternate flew
            From Saint to Sinner, and to both untrue;
            Who like a niggard Tailor, tried to match
            Truth's single Garment with a worldly Patch.
            A dangerous Game; for, striving to adjust
            The hesitating Scale of either Lust,
            That which had least within it upward flew,
            And still the weightier to the Earth down drew,
            And, while suspended between Rise and Fall,
            Apt with a shaking Hand to forfeit all.
     bsp;       There was a Queen of Egypt like the Bride
            Of Night, Full-moon-faced and Canopus-eyed,
            Whom one among the meanest of her Crowd
            Loved—and she knew it, (for he loved aloud)
            And sent for him, and said 'Thou lovest thy Queen:
            Now therefore Thou hast this to choose between:
            Fly for thy Life: or for this one night Wed
            Thy Queen, and with the Sunrise lose thy Head.'
            He paused—he turn'd to fly—she struck him dead.
            'For had he truly loved his Queen,' said She,
            'He would at once have given his Life for me,
            And Life and Wife had carried: but he lied;
            And loving only Life, has justly died.'
            And then came one who having clear'd his Throat
            With sanctimonious Sweetness in his Note
            Thus lisp'd—'Behold I languish from the first
            With passionate and unrequited Thirst
            Of Love for more than any mortal Bird.
            Therefore have I withdrawn me from the Herd
            To pine in Solitude. But Thou at last
            Hast drawn a line across the dreary Past,
            And sure I am by Fore-taste that the Wine
            I long'd for, and Thou tell'st of, shall be mine.'         But he was sternly checkt. 'I tell thee this:
            Such Boast is no Assurance of such Bliss:
            Thou canst not even fill the sail of Prayer
            Unless from Him breathe that authentic Air
            That shall lift up the Curtain that divides
            His Lover from the Harím where He hides—
            And the Fulfilment of thy Vows must be,
            Not from thy Love for Him, but His for Thee.'
            The third night after Bajazyd had died,
            One saw him, in a dream, at his Bed-side,
            And said, 'Thou Bajazyd? Tell me Oh Pýr,
            How fared it there with Munkar and Nakýr?'
            And Bajazyd replied, 'When from the Grave
            They met me rising, and "If Allah's slave"
            Ask'd me, "or collar'd with the Chain of Hell?"
            I said "Not I but God alone can tell:
            My Passion for his service were but fond
            Ambition had not He approved the Bond:
            Had He not round my neck the Collar thrown
            And told me in the Number of his own;
            And that He only knew. What signifies
            A hundred Years of Prayer if none replies?"'
            'But' said Another, 'then shall none the Seal
            Of Acceptation on his Forehead feel
            Ere the Grave yield them on the other Side
            Where all is settled?'                                                But the Chief replied—
            'Enough for us to know that who is meet
            Shall enter, and with unreprovéd Feet,
            (Ev'n as he might upon the Waters walk)
            The Presence-room, and in the Presence talk
            With such unbridled License as shall seem
            To the Uninitiated to blaspheme.'         Just as another Holy Spirit fled,
            The Skies above him burst into a Bed
            Of Angels looking down and singing clear
            'Nightingale! Nightingale! thy Rose is here!'
            And yet, the Door wide open to that Bliss,
            As some hot Lover slights a scanty Kiss,
            The Saint cried 'All I sigh'd for come to this?
            I who life-long have struggled, Lord, to be
            Not of thy Angels one, but one with Thee!'
            Others were sure that all he said was true:
            They were extremely wicked, that they knew:
            And much they long'd to go at once—but some,
            They said, so unexpectedly had come
            Leaving their Nests half-built—in bad Repair—
            With Children in—Themselves about to pair—
            'Might he not choose a better Season—nay,
            Better perhaps a Year or Two's Delay,
            Till all was settled, and themselves more stout
            And strong to carry their Repentance out—
            And then'—                                                'And then, the same or like Excuse,
            With harden'd Heart and Resolution loose
            With dallying: and old Age itself engaged
            Still to shirk that which shirking we have aged;
            And so with Self-delusion, till, too late,
            Death upon all Repentance shuts the Gate;
            Or some fierce blow compels the Way to choose,
            And forced Repentance half its Virtue lose.'         As of an aged Indian King they tell
            Who, when his Empire with his Army fell
            Under young Mahmúd's Sword of Wrath, was sent
            At sunset to the Conqueror in his Tent;
            But, ere the old King's silver head could reach
            The Ground, was lifted up—with kindly Speech,
            And with so holy Mercy re-assured,
            That, after due Persuasion, he abjured
            His Idols, sate upon Mahmúd's Diván,
            And took the Name and Faith of Musulman.
            But when the Night fell, in his Tent alone
            The poor old King was heard to weep and groan
            And smite his Bosom; which, when Mahmúd knew,
            He went to him and said 'Lo, if Thou rue
            Thy lost Dominion, Thou shalt wear the Ring
            Of thrice as large a Realm.' But the dark King
            Still wept, and Ashes on his Forehead threw
            And cried 'Not for my Kingdom lost I rue;
            But thinking how at the Last Day, will stand
            The Prophet with The Volume in his Hand,
            And ask of me "How was't that, in thy Day
            Of Glory, Thou didst turn from Me and slay
            My People; but soon as thy Infidel
            Before my True Believers' Army fell
            Like Corn before the Reaper—thou didst own
            His Sword who scoutedst Me." Of seed so sown
            What profitable Harvest should be grown?'
            Then after cheering others who delay'd,
            Not of the Road but of Themselves afraid,
            The Tájidár the Troop of those address'd,
            Whose uncomplying Attitude confess'd
            Their Souls entangled in the old Deceit,
            And hankering still after forbidden Meat—         'Oh ye who so long feeding on the Husk
            Forgo the Fruit, and doating on the Dusk
            Of the false Dawn, are blinded to the True:
            That in the Maidán of this World pursue
            The Golden Ball which, driven to the Goal,
            Wins the World's Game but loses your own Soul:
            Or like to Children after Bubbles run
            That still elude your Fingers; or, if won,
            Burst in Derision at your Touch; all thin
            Glitter without, and empty Wind within.
            So as a prosperous Worldling on the Bed
            Of Death—"Behold, I am as one," he said,
            "Who all my Life long have been measuring Wind,
            And, dying, now leave even that behind"—
            This World's a Nest in which the Cockatrice
            Is warm'd and hatcht of Vanity and Vice:
            A false Bazár whose Wares are all a lie,
            Or never worth the Price at which you buy:
            A many-headed Monster that, supplied
            The faster, faster is unsatisfied;
            So as one, hearing a rich Fool one day
            To God for yet one other Blessing pray,
            Bid him no longer bounteous Heaven tire
            For Life to feed, but Death to quench, the Fire.
            And what are all the Vanities and Wiles
            In which the false World decks herself and smiles
            To draw Men down into her harlot Lap?
            Lusts of the Flesh that Soul and Body sap,
            And, melting Soul down into carnal Lust,
            Ev'n that for which 'tis sacrificed disgust:
            Or Lust of worldly Glory—hollow more
            Than the Drum beaten at the Sultán's Door,
            And fluctuating with the Breath of Man
            As the Vain Banner flapping in the Van.
            And Lust of Gold—perhaps of Lusts the worst;
            The mis-created Idol most accurst
            That between Man and Him who made him stands:
            The Felon that with suicidal hands
            He sweats to dig and rescue from his Grave,
            And sets at large to make Himself its Slave.
     bsp;       'For lo, to what worse than oblivion gone
            Are some the cozening World most doated on?
            Pharaoh tried Glory: and his Chariots drown'd:
            Kárún with all his Gold went underground:
            Down toppled Nembroth with his airy Stair:
            Schedád among his Roses lived—but where?         'And as the World upon her victims feeds
            So She herself goes down the Way she leads.
            For all her false allurements are the Threads
            The Spider from her Entrail spins, and spreads
            For Home and hunting-ground: And by and by
            Darts at due Signal on the tangled Fly,
            Seizes, dis-wings, and drains the Life, and leaves
            The swinging Carcase, and forthwith re-weaves
            Her Web: each Victim adding to the store
            Of poison'd Entrail to entangle more.
            And so She bloats in Glory: till one Day
            The Master of the House, passing that way,
            Perceives, and with one flourish of his Broom
            Of Web and Fly and Spider clears the Room.
     bsp;       'Behold, dropt through the Gate of Mortal Birth,
            The Knightly Soul alights from Heav'n on Earth;
            Begins his Race, but scarce the Saddle feels,
            When a foul Imp up from the distance steals,
            And, double as he will, about his Heels
            Closer and ever closer circling creeps,
            Then, half-invited, on the Saddle leaps,
            Clings round the Rider, and, once there, in vain
            The strongest strives to thrust him off again.
            In Childhood just peeps up the Blade of Ill,
            That Youth to Lust rears, Fury, and Self-will:
            And, as Man cools to sensual Desire,
            Ambition catches with as fierce a Fire;
            Until Old Age sends him with one last Lust
            Of Gold, to keep it where he found—in Dust.
            Life at both Ends so feeble and constrain'd
            How should that Imp of Sin be slain or chain'd?         'And woe to him who feeds the hateful Beast
            That of his Feeder makes an after-feast!
            We know the Wolf: by Stratagem and Force
            Can hunt the Tiger down: but what Resource
            Against the Plague we heedless hatch within,
            Then, growing, pamper into full-blown Sin
            With the Soul's self: ev'n, as the wise man said,
            Feeding the very Devil with God's own Bread;
            Until the Lord his Largess misapplied
            Resent, and drive us wholly from his Side?         'For should the Grey-hound whom a Sultán fed,
            And by a jewell'd String a-hunting led,
            Turn by the Way to gnaw some nasty Thing
            And snarl at Him who twitch'd the silken String,
            Would not his Lord soon weary of Dispute,
            And turn adrift the incorrigible Brute?         'Nay, would one follow, and without a Chain,
            The only Master truly worth the Pain,
            One must beware lest, growing over-fond
            Of even Life's more consecrated Bond,
            We clog our Footsteps to the World beyond.
            Like that old Arab Chieftain, who confess'd
            His soul by two too Darling Things possess'd—
            That only Son of his: and that one Colt
            Descended from the Prophet's Thunderbolt.
            "And I might well bestow the last," he said,
            "On him who brought me Word the Boy was dead."         'And if so vain the glittering Fish we get,
            How doubly vain to doat upon the Net,
            Call'd Life, that draws them, patching up this thin
            Tissue of Breathing out and Breathing in,
            And so by husbanding each wretched Thread
            Spin out Death's very Terror that we dread—
            For as the Rain-drop from the sphere of God
            Dropt for a while into the Mortal Clod
            So little makes of its allotted Time
            Back to its Heav'n itself to re-sublime,
            That it but serves to saturate its Clay
            With Bitterness that will not pass away.'         One day the Prophet on a River Bank,
            Dipping his Lips into the Channel, drank
            A Draught as sweet as Honey. Then there came
            One who an earthen Pitcher from the same
            Drew up, and drank: and after some short stay
            Under the Shadow, rose and went his Way,
            Leaving his earthen Bowl. In which, anew
            Thirsting, the Prophet from the River drew,
            And drank from: but the Water that came up
            Sweet from the Stream, drank bitter from the Cup.
            At which the Prophet in a still Surprise
            For Answer turning up to Heav'n his Eyes,
            The Vessel's Earthen Lips with Answer ran—
            'The Clay that I am made of once was Man,
            Who dying, and resolved into the same
            Obliterated Earth from which he came,
            Was for the Potter dug, and chased in turn
            Through long Vicissitude of Bowl and Urn:
            But howsoever moulded, still the Pain
            Of that first mortal Anguish would retain,
            And cast, and re-cast, for a Thousand years
            Would turn the sweetest Water into Tears.'
            And after Death?—that, shirk it as we may,
            Will come, and with it bring its After-Day—         For ev'n as Yúsuf, (when his Brotherhood
            Came up from Egypt to buy Corn, and stood
            Before their Brother in his lofty Place,
            Nor knew him, for a Veil before his Face,)
            Struck on his Mystic Cup, which straightway then
            Rung out their Story to those guilty Ten:—
            Not to them only, but to every one;
            Whatever he have said and thought and done,
            Unburied with the Body shall fly up,
            And gather into Heav'n's inverted Cup,
            Which, stricken by God's Finger, shall tell all
            The Story whereby we must stand or fall.
          And though we walk this World as if behind
          There were no Judgment, or the Judge half-blind,
          Beware, for He with whom we have to do
          Outsees the Lynx, outlives the Phoenix too—       So Sultán Mahmúd, coming Face to Face
          With mightier numbers of the swarthy Race,
          Vow'd that if God to him the battle gave,
          God's Dervish People all the Spoil should have.
          And God the Battle gave him; and the Fruit
          Of a great Conquest coming to compute,
          A Murmur through the Sultán's Army stirr'd
          Lest, ill committed to one hasty Word,
          The Shah should squander on an idle Brood
          What should be theirs who earn'd it with their Blood,
          Or go to fill the Coffers of the State.
          So Mahmúd's Soul began to hesitate:
          Till looking round in Doubt from side to side
          A raving Zealot in the Press he spied,
          And call'd and had him brought before his Face,
          And, telling, bid him arbitrate the case.
          Who, having listen'd, said—'The Thing is plain:
          If Thou and God should never have again
          To deal together, rob him of his share:
          But if perchance you should—why then Beware!'       So spake the Tájidár: but Fear and Doubt
          Among the Birds in Whispers went about:
          Great was their Need: and Succour to be sought
          At any Risk: at any Ransom bought:
          But such a Monarch—greater than Mahmúd
          The Great Himself! Why how should he be woo'd
          To listen to them? they too having come
          So suddenly, and unprepared from home
          With any Gold, or Jewel, or rich Thing
          To carry with them to so great a King—
          Poor Creatures! with the old and carnal Blind,
          Spite of all said, so thick upon the Mind,
          Devising how they might ingratiate
          Access, as to some earthly Potentate.
          'Let him that with this Monarch would engage
          Bring the Gold Dust of a long Pilgrimage:
          The Ruby of a bleeding Heart, whose Sighs
          Breathe more than Amber-incense as it dies;
          And while in naked Beggary he stands
          Hope for the Robe of Honour from his Hands.
          And, as no gift this Sovereign receives
          Save the mere Soul and Self of him who gives,
          So let that Soul for other none Reward
          Look than the Presence of its Sovereign Lord.'
          And as his Hearers seem'd to estimate
          Their Scale of Glory from Mahmúd the Great,
          A simple Story of the Sultán told
          How best a subject with his Shah made bold—       One night Shah Mahmúd who had been of late
          Somewhat distemper'd with Affairs of State
          Stroll'd through the Streets disguised, as wont to do—
          And, coming to the Baths, there on the Flue
          Saw the poor Fellow who the Furnace fed
          Sitting beside his Water-jug and Bread.
          Mahmúd stept in—sat down—unask'd took up
          And tasted of the untasted Loaf and Cup,
          Saying within himself, 'Grudge but a bit,
          And, by the Lord, your Head shall pay for it!'
          So having rested, warm'd and satisfied
          Himself without a Word on either side,
          At last the wayward Sultán rose to go.
          And then at last his Host broke silence—'So?—
          Art satisfied? Well, Brother, any Day
          Or Night, remember, when you come this Way
          And want a bit of Provender—why, you
          Are welcome, and if not—why, welcome too.'—
          The Sultán was so tickled with the whim
          Of this quaint Entertainment and of him
          Who offer'd it, that many a Night again
          Stoker and Shah forgather'd in that Vein—
          Till, the poor Fellow having stood the Test
          Of true Good-fellowship, Mahmúd confess'd
          One Night the Sultán that had been his Guest:
          And in requital of the scanty Dole
          The Poor Man offer'd with so large a soul,
          Bid him ask any Largess that he would—
          A Throne—if he would have it, so he should.
          The Poor Man kiss'd the Dust, and 'All,' said he,
          'I ask is what and where I am to be;
          If but the Shah from time to time will come
          As now and see me in the lowly Home
          His presence makes a palace, and my own
          Poor Flue more royal than another's Throne.'
          So said the cheery Tale: and, as they heard,
          Again the Heart beneath the Feather stirr'd:
          Again forgot the Danger and the Woes
          Of the long Travel in its glorious Close:—
          'Here truly all was Poverty, Despair
          And miserable Banishment—but there
          That more than Mahmúd, for no more than Prayer
          Who would restore them to their ancient Place,
          And round their Shoulders fling his Robe of Grace.'
          They clapp'd their Wings, on Fire to be assay'd
          And prove of what true Metal they were made,
          Although defaced, and wanting the true Ring
          And Superscription of their rightful King.
          'The Road! The Road!' in countless voices cried
          The Host—'The Road! and who shall be our Guide?'
          And they themselves 'The Tájidá!r' replied:
          Yet to make doubly certain that the Voice
          Of Heav'n accorded with the People's Choice,
          Lots should be drawn; and He on whom should light
          Heav'n's Hand—they swore to follow him outright.
          This settled, and once more the Hubbub quell'd,
          Once more Suspense the Host in Silence held,
          While, Tribe by Tribe, the Birds their Fortune drew;
          And Lo! upon the Tájidár it flew.
          Then rising up again in wide and high
          Circumference of wings that mesh'd the sky
          'The Tájidár! The Tájidár!' they cry—
          'The Tájidár! The Tájidár!' with Him
          Was Heav'n, and They would follow Life and Limb!
          Then, once more fluttering to their Places down,
          Upon his Head they set the Royal Crown
          As Khalif of their Khalif so long lost,
          And Captain of his now repentant Host;
          And setting him on high, and Silence call'd,
          The Tájidár, in Pulpit-throne install'd,
          His Voice into a Trumpet-tongue so clear
          As all the wingèd Multitude should hear
          Raised, to proclaim the Order and Array
          Of March; which, many as it frighten'd—yea,
          The Heart of Multitudes at outset broke,
          Yet for due Preparation must be spoke.
     bsp;     —A Road indeed that never Wing before
          Flew, nor Foot trod, nor Heart imagined—o'er
          Waterless Deserts—Waters where no Shore—
          Valleys comprising cloudhigh Mountains: these
          Again their Valleys deeper than the Seas:
          Whose Dust all Adders, and whose vapour Fire:
          Where all once hostile Elements conspire
          To set the Soul against herself, and tear
          Courage to Terror—Hope into Despair,
          And Madness; Terrors, Trials, to make stray
          Or stop where Death to wander or delay:
          Where when half dead with Famine, Toil, and Heat,
          'Twas Death indeed to rest, or drink, or eat.
          A Road still waxing in Self-sacrifice
          As it went on: still ringing with the Cries
          And Groans of Those who had not yet prevail'd,
          And bleaching with the Bones of those who fail'd:
          Where, almost all withstood, perhaps to earn
          Nothing: and, earning, never to return.—       And first the VALE OF SEARCH: an endless Maze,
          Branching into innumerable Ways
          All courting Entrance: but one right: and this
          Beset with Pitfall, Gulf, and Precipice,
          Where Dust is Embers, Air a fiery Sleet,
          Through which with blinded Eyes and bleeding Feet
          The Pilgrim stumbles, with Hyæna's Howl
          Around, and hissing Snake, and deadly Ghoul,
          Whose Prey he falls if tempted but to droop,
          Or if to wander famish'd from the Troop
          For fruit that falls to ashes in the Hand,
          Water that reacht recedes into the Sand.
          The only word is 'Forward!' Guide in sight,
          After him, swerving neither left nor right,
          Thyself for thine own Victual by Day,
          At night thine own Self's Caravanserai.
          Till suddenly, perhaps when most subdued
          And desperate, the Heart shall be renew'd
          When deep in utter Darkness, by one Gleam
          Of Glory from the far remote Harím,
          That, with a scarcely conscious Shock of Change,
          Shall light the Pilgrim toward the Mountain Range
          Of Knowledge: where, if stronger and more pure
          The Light and Air, yet harder to endure;
          And if, perhaps, the Footing more secure,
          Harder to keep up with a nimble Guide,
          Less from lost Road than insufficient Stride—
          Yet tempted still by false Shows from the Track,
          And by false Voices call'd aside or back,
          Which echo from the Bosom, as if won
          The Journey's End when only just begun,
          And not a Mountain Peak with Toil attain'd
          But shows a Top yet higher to be gain'd.
          Wherefore still Forward, Forward! Love that fired
          Thee first to search, by Search so re-inspired
          As that the Spirit shall the carnal Load
          Burn up, and double wing Thee on the Road;
          That wert thou knocking at the very Door
          Of Heav'n, thou still would'st cry for More, More, More!       Till loom in sight Káf's Mountain Peak ashroud
          In Mist—uncertain yet Mountain or Cloud,
          But where the Pilgrim 'gins to hear the Tide
          Of that one Sea in which the Sev'n subside;
          And not the Sev'n Seas only: but the sev'n
          And self-enfolded Spheres of Earth and Heav'n—
          Yea, the Two Worlds, that now as Pictures sleep
          Upon its Surface—but when once the Deep
          From its long Slumber 'gins to heave and sway—
          Under that Tempest shall be swept away
          With all their Phases and Phenomena:
          Not senseless Matter only, but combined
          With Life in all Varieties of Kind;
          Yea, ev'n the abstract Forms that Space and Time
          Men call, and Weal and Woe, Virtue and Crime,
          And all the several Creeds, like those who fell
          Before them, Musulman and Infidel
          Shall from the Face of Being melt away,
          Cancell'd and swept as Dreams before the Day.
          So hast thou seen the Astrologer prepare
          His mystic Table smooth of Sand, and there
          Inscribe his mystic Figures, Square, and Trine,
          Circle and Pentagram, and heavenly Sign
          Of Star and Planet: from whose Set and Rise,
          Meeting and Difference, he prophesies;
          And, having done it, with his Finger clean
          Obliterates as never they had been.
     bsp;     Such is when reacht the Table Land of One
          And Wonder: blazing with so fierce a Sun
          Of Unity that blinds while it reveals
          The Universe that to a Point congeals,
          So, stunn'd with utter Revelation, reels
          The Pilgrim, when that Double-seeming House,
          Against whose Beams he long had chafed his Brows,
          Crumbles and cracks before that Sea, whose near
          And nearer Voice now overwhelms his Ear.
          Till blinded, deafen'd, madden'd, drunk with doubt
          Of all within Himself as all without,
          Nay, whether a Without there be, or not,
          Or a Within that doubts: and if, then what?
          Ev'n so shall the bewilder'd Pilgrim seem
          When nearest waking deepliest in Dream,
          And darkest next to Dawn; and lost what had
          When All is found: and just when sane quite Mad—
          As one that having found the Key once more
          Returns, and Lo! he cannot find the Door
          He stumbles over—So the Pilgrim stands
          A moment on the Threshold—with raised Hands
          Calls to the eternal Sáki for one Draught
          Of Light from the One Essence: which when quaff'd,
          He plunges headlong in: and all is well
          With him who never more returns to tell.
     bsp;     Such being then the Race and such the Goal,
          Judge if you must not Body both and Soul
          With Meditation, Watch, and Fast prepare.
          For he that wastes his Body to a Hair
          Shall seize the Locks of Truth: and he that prays
          Good Angels in their Ministry way-lays:
          And the Midnightly Watcher in the Folds
          Of his own Darkness God Almighty holds.
          He that would prosper here must from him strip
          The World, and take the Dervish Gown and Scrip:
          And as he goes must gather from all Sides
          Irrelevant Ambitions, Lusts, and Prides,
          Glory and Gold, and sensual Desire,
          Whereof to build the fundamental Pyre
          Of Self-annihilation: and cast in
          All old Relations and Regards of Kin
          And Country: and, the Pile with this perplext
          World platform'd, from the Fables of the Next
          Raise it tow'rd Culmination, with the torn
          Rags and Integuments of Creeds out-worn;
          And top the giddy Summit with the Scroll
          Of Reason that in dingy Smoke shall roll
          Over the true Self-sacrifice of Soul:
          (For such a Prayer was his—'Oh God, do Thou
          With all my Wealth in the other World endow
          My Friends: and with my Wealth in this my Foes,
          Till bankrupt in thy Riches I repose!')
          Then, all the Pile completed of the Pelf
          Of either World—at last throw on Thyself,
          And with the Torch of Self-negation fire;
          And ever as the Flames rise high and higher,
          With Cries of agonizing Glory still
          All of that Self burn up that burn up will,
          Leaving the Phoenix that no Fire can slay
          To spring from its own Ashes kindled—nay,
          Itself an inextinguishable Spark
          Of Being, now beneath Earth-ashes dark,
          Transcending these, at last Itself transcends
          And with the One Eternal Essence blends.
     bsp;     The Moths had long been exiled from the Flame
          They worship: so to solemn Council came,
          And voted One of them by Lot be sent
          To find their Idol. One was chosen: went.
          And after a long Circuit in sheer Gloom,
          Seeing, he thought, the Taper in a Room
          Flew back at once to say so. But the chief
          Of Mothistán slighted so slight Belief,
          And sent another Messenger, who flew
          Up to the House, in at the window, through
          The Flame itself; and back the Message brings
          With yet no sign of Conflict on his wings.
          Then went a Third, who spurr'd with true Desire,
          Plunging at once into the sacred Fire,
          Folded his Wings within, till he became
          One Colour and one Substance with the Flame.
          He only knew the Flame who in it burn'd;
          And only He could tell who ne'er to tell return'd.
          After declaring what of this declared
          Must be, that all who went should be prepared,
          From his high Station ceased the Tájidár—
          And lo! the Terrors that, when told afar,
          Seem'd but as Shadows of a Noon-day Sun,
          Now that the talkt of Thing was to be done,
          Lengthening into those of closing Day
          Strode into utter Darkness: and Dismay
          Like Night on the husht Sea of Feathers lay,
          Late so elate—'So terrible a Track!
          Endless—or, ending, never to come back!—
          Never to Country, Family, or Friend!'—
          In sooth no easy Bow for Birds to bend!—
          Even while he spoke, how many Wings and Crests
          Had slunk away to distant Woods and Nests;
          Others again in Preparation spent
          What little Strength they had, and never went:
          And others, after Preparation due—
          When up the Veil of that first Valley drew
          From whose waste Wilderness of Darkness blew
          A Sarsar, whether edged of Flames or Snows,
          That through from Root to Tip their Feathers froze—
          Up went a Multitude that overhead
          A moment darken'd, then on all sides fled
          Dwindling the World-assembled Caravan
          To less than half the Number that began.
          Of those who fled not, some in Dread and Doubt
          Sat without stirring: others who set out
          With frothy Force, or stupidly resign'd,
          Before a League, flew off or fell behind.
          And howsoever the more Brave and Strong
          In Courage, Wing, or Wisdom push'd along,
          Yet League by League the Road was thicklier spread
          By the fast falling Foliage of the Dead:
          Some spent with Travel over Wave and Ground;
          Scorcht, frozen, dead for Drought, or drinking drown'd.
          Famisht, or poison'd with the Food when found:
          By Weariness, or Hunger, or Affright
          Seduced to stop or stray, become the Bite
          Of Tiger howling round or hissing Snake,
          Or Crocodile that eyed them from the Lake:
          Or raving Mad, or in despair Self-slain:
          Or slaying one another for a Grain:—       Till of the mighty Host that fledged the Dome
          Of Heav'n and Floor of Earth on leaving Home,
          A Handfull reach'd and scrambled up the Knees
          Of Káf whose Feet dip in the Seven Seas;
          And of the few that up his Forest-sides
          Of Light and Darkness where The Presence hides,
          But Thirty—thirty desperate draggled Things,
          Half-dead, with scarce a Feather on their Wings,
          Stunn'd, blinded, deafen'd with the Crash and Craze
          Of Rock and Sea collapsing in a Blaze
          That struck the Sun to Cinder—fell upon
          The Threshold of the Everlasting One,
          With but enough of Life in each to cry,
          On That which all absorb'd—                                              And suddenly
          Forth flash'd a wingèd Harbinger of Flame
          And Tongue of Fire, and 'Who?' and 'Whence they came?'
          And 'Why?' demanded. And the Tájidár
          For all the Thirty answer'd him—'We are
          Those Fractions of the Sum of Being, far
          Dis-spent and foul disfigured, that once more
          Strike for Admission at the Treasury Door.'       To whom the Angel answer'd—'Know ye not
          That He you seek recks little who or what
          Of Quantity and Kind—himself the Fount
          Of Being Universal needs no Count
          Of all the Drops o'erflowing from his Urn,
          In what Degree they issue or return?'       Then cried the Spokesman, 'Be it even so:
          Let us but see the Fount from which we flow,
          And, seeing, lose Ourselves therein!' And, Lo!
          Before the Word was utter'd, or the Tongue
          Of Fire replied, or Portal open flung,
          They were within—they were before the Throne ,
          Before the Majesty that sat thereon,
          But wrapt in so insufferable a Blaze
          Of Glory as beat down their baffled Gaze,
          Which, downward dropping, fell upon a Scroll
          That, Lightning-like, flash'd back on each the whole
          Past half-forgotten Story of his Soul:
          Like that which Yúsuf in his Glory gave
          His Brethren as some Writing he would have
          Interpreted; and at a Glance, behold
          Their own Indenture for their Brother sold!
          And so with these poor Thirty: who, abasht
          In Memory all laid bare and Conscience lasht,
          By full Confession and Self-loathing flung
          The Rags of carnal Self that round them clung;
          And, their old selves self-knowledged and self-loathed,
          And in the Soul's Integrity re-clothed,
          Once more they ventured from the Dust to raise
          Their Eyes—up to the Throne—into the Blaze
          And in the Centre of the Glory there
          Beheld the Figure of—Themselves—as 'twere
          Transfigured—looking to Themselves, beheld
          The Figure on the Throne en-miracled,
          Until their Eyes themselves and That between
          Did hesitate which Sëer was, which Seen;
          They That, That They: Another, yet the Same;
          Dividual, yet One: from whom there came
          A Voice of awful Answer, scarce discern'd
          From which to Aspiration whose return'd
          They scarcely knew; as when some Man apart
          Answers aloud the Question in his Heart—
          'The Sun of my Perfection is a Glass
          Wherein from Seeing into Being pass
          All who, reflecting as reflected see
          Themselves in Me, and Me in Them: not Me,
          But all of Me that a contracted Eye
          Is comprehensive of Infinity:
          Nor yet Themselves: no Selves, but of The All
          Fractions, from which they split and whither fall.
          As Water lifted from the Deep, again
          Falls back in individual Drops of Rain
          Then melts into the Universal Main.
          All you have been, and seen, and done, and thought,
          Not You but I, have seen and been and wrought:
          I was the Sin that from Myself rebell'd:
          I the Remorse that tow'rd Myself compell'd:
          I was the Tájidár who led the Track:
          I was the little Briar that pull'd you back:
          Sin and Contrition—Retribution owed,
          And cancell'd—Pilgrim, Pilgrimage, and Road,
          Was but Myself toward Myself: and Your
          Arrival but Myself at my own Door:
          Who in your Fraction of Myself behold
          Myself within the Mirror Myself hold
          To see Myself in, and each part of Me
          That sees himself, though drown'd, shall ever see.
          Come you lost Atoms to your Centre draw,
          And be the Eternal Mirror that you saw:
          Rays that have wander'd into Darkness wide
          Return, and back into your Sun subside."—       This was the Parliament of Birds: and this
          The Story, of the Host who went amiss,
          And of the Few that better Upshot found;
          Which being now recounted, Lo, the Ground
          Of Speech fails underfoot: But this to tell—
          Their Road is thine—Follow—and Fare thee well.

    THE TWO GENERALS

    I. LUCIUS ÆMILIUS PAULLUS.

                With what success, Quirites, I have served
                The Commonwealth, and, in the very hour
                Of Glory, what a double Thunderbolt
                From Heav'n has struck upon my private roof,
                Rome needs not to be told, who lately saw
                So close together treading through her streets
                My Triumph, and the Funeral of my Sons.
                Yet bear with me while, in a few brief words,
                And uninvidious spirit, I compare
              Beside the fulness of the general Joy
              My single Destitution.                                                  When the time
              For leaving Italy was come, the Ships
              With all their Armament and men complete,
              As the Sun rose I left Brundusium:
              With all my Ships before that Sun was down
              I made Corcyra: thence, within five days
              To Delphi: where, Lustration to the God
              Made for myself, the Army, and the Fleet,
              In five days more I reach'd the Roman Camp;
              Took the Command; redress'd what was amiss:
              And, for King Perseus would not forth to fight,
              And, for his Camp's strength, forth could not be forced,
              I slipp'd beside him through the Mountain-pass
              To Pydna; whither when himself forced back,
              And fight he must, I fought, I routed him:
              And all the War that, swelling for four years,
              Consul to Consul handed over worse
              Than from his Predecessor he took up,
              In fifteen days victoriously I closed.
              Nor stay'd my Fortune here. Upon Success
              Success came rolling: with their Army lost,
              The Macedonian Cities all gave in;
              Into my hands the Royal Treasure then—
              And, by and by, the King's self and his Sons,
              As by the very finger of the Gods
              Betray'd, whose Temple they had fled to—fell.
              And now my swollen Fortune to myself
              Became suspicious: I began to dread
              The seas that were to carry such a freight
              Of Conquest, and of Conquerors. But when
              With all-propitious Wind and Wave we reach'd
              Italian Earth again, and all was done
              That was to be, and nothing furthermore
              To deprecate or pray for—still I pray'd;
              That, whereas human Fortune, having touch'd
              The destined height it may not rise beyond,
              Forthwith begins as fatal a decline,
              Its Fall might but myself and mine involve,
              Swerving beside my Country. Be it so!
              By my sole sacrifice may jealous Fate
              Absolve the Public; and by such a Triumph
              As, in derision of all Human Glory,
              Began and closed with those two Funerals.
              Yes, at that hour were Perseus and myself
              Together two notorious monuments
              Standing of Human Instability:
              He that was late so absolute a King,
              Now Bondsman, and his Sons along with him
              Still living Trophies of my Conquest led;
              While I, the Conqueror, scarce had turn'd my face
              From one still unextinguisht Funeral,
              And from my Triumph to the Capitol
              Return—return to close the dying Eyes
              Of the last Son I yet might call my own,
              Last of all those who should have borne my name
              To after Ages down. For ev'n as one
              Presuming on a rich Posterity,
              And blind to Fate, my two surviving Sons
              Into two noble Families of Rome
              I had adopted—
              And Paullus is the last of all his Name.

    II. SIR CHARLES NAPIER
    (Writing home after the Battle of Meeanee)

              Leaving the Battle to be fought again
              Over the wine with all our friends at home,
              I needs must tell, before my letter close,
              Of one result that you will like to hear.
     bsp;         The Officers who under my command
              Headed and led the British Troops engaged
              In this last Battle that decides the War,
              Resolved to celebrate the Victory
              With those substantial Honours that, you know,
              So much good English work begins and ends with.
              Resolved by one and all, the day was named;
              One mighty Tent, with 'room and verge enough'
              To hold us all, of many Tents made up
              Under the very walls of Hydrabad,
              And then and there were they to do me honour.
              Some of them grizzled Veterans like myself:
              Some scorcht with Indian Sun and Service; some
              With unrecover'd wound or sickness pale;
              And some upon whose boyish cheek the rose
              They brought with them from England scarce had faded.
              Imagine these in all varieties
              Of Uniform, Horse, Foot, Artillery,
              Ranged down the gaily decorated Tent,
              Each with an Indian servant at his back,
              Whose dusky feature, Oriental garb,
              And still, but supple, posture of respect
              Served as a foil of contrast to the lines
              Of animated English Officers.
            Over our heads our own victorious Colours
            Festoon'd with those wrencht from the Indian hung,
            While through the openings of the tent were seen
            Darkling the castle walls of Hydrabad;
            And, further yet, the monumental Towers
            Of the Kalloras and Talpoors; and yet
            Beyond, and last,—the Field of Meeanee.
            Yes, there in Triumph as upon the tombs
            Of two extinguisht Dynasties we sate,
            Beside the field of blood we quench'd them in.
            And I, chief Actor in that Scene of Death,
            And foremost in the passing Triumph—I,
            Veteran in Service as in years, though now
            First call'd to play the General—I myself
            So swiftly disappearing from the stage
            Of all this world's transaction!—As I sate,
            My thoughts reverted to that setting Sun
            That was to rise on our victorious march;
            When from a hillock by my tent alone
            I look'd down over twenty thousand Men
            Husht in the field before me, like a Fire
            Prepared, and waiting but my breath to blaze.
            And now, methought, the Work is done; is done,
            And well; for those who died, and those who live
            To celebrate our common Glory, well;
            And, looking round, I whisper'd to myself—
            'These are my Children—these whom I have led
            Safe through the Vale of Death to Victory,
            And in a righteous cause; righteous, I say,
            As for our Country's welfare, so for this,
            Where from henceforth Peace, Order, Industry,
            Blasted and trampled under heretofore
            By every lawless Ruffian of the Soil,
            Shall now strike root, and'—I was running on
            With all that was to be, when suddenly
            My Name was call'd; the glass was fill'd; all rose;
            And, as they pledged me cheer on cheer, the Cannon
            Roar'd it abroad, with each successive burst
            Of Thunder lighting up the banks now dark
            Of Indus, which at Inundation-height,
            Beside the Tent we revell'd in roll'd down
            Audibly growling—'But a hand-breadth higher,
            And whose the Land you boast as all your own!'

    BREDFIELD HALL

                Lo, an English mansion founded
                   In the elder James's reign,
                Quaint and stately, and surrounded
                   With a pastoral domain.
     bsp;           With well-timber'd lawn and gardens
                   And with many a pleasant mead,
                Skirted by the lofty coverts
                   Where the hare and pheasant feed.
     bsp;           Flank'd it is with goodly stables,
                 Shelter'd by coeval trees:
              So it lifts its honest gables
                 Toward the distant German seas;           Where it once discern'd the smoke
                 Of old sea-battles far away:
              Saw victorious Nelson's topmasts
                 Anchoring in Hollesley Bay.
              But whatever storm might riot,
                 Cannon roar, and trumpet ring,
              Still amid these meadows quiet
                 Did the yearly violet spring:           Still Heaven's starry hand suspended
                 That light balance of the dew,
              That each night on earth descended,
                 And each morning rose anew:           And the ancient house stood rearing
                 Undisturb'd her chimneys high,
              And her gilded vanes still veering
                 Toward each quarter of the sky:           While like wave to wave succeeding
                 Through the world of joy and strife,
              Household after household speeding
                 Handed on the torch of life:           First, sir Knight in ruff and doublet,
                 Arm in arm with stately dame;
              Then the Cavaliers indignant
                 For their monarch brought to shame:           Languid beauties limn'd by Lely;
                 Full-wigg'd Justice of Queen Anne:
              Tory squires who tippled freely;
                 And the modern Gentleman:
              Here they lived, and here they greeted,
                 Maids and matrons, sons and sires,
              Wandering in its walks, or seated
                 Round its hospitable fires:           Oft their silken dresses floated
                 Gleaming through the pleasure ground:
              Oft dash'd by the scarlet-coated
                 Hunter, horse, and dappled hound.
     bsp;         Till the Bell that not in vain
                 Had summon'd them to weekly prayer,
              Call'd them one by one again
                 To the church—and left them there!
              They with all their loves and passions,
                 Compliment, and song, and jest,
              Politics, and sports, and fashions,
                 Merged in everlasting rest!
              So they pass—while thou, old Mansion,
                 Markest with unalter'd face
              How like the foliage of thy summers
                 Race of man succeeds to race.
     bsp;         To most thou stand'st a record sad,
                 But all the sunshine of the year
              Could not make thine aspect glad
                 To one whose youth is buried here.
              In thine ancient rooms and gardens
                 Buried—and his own no more
              Than the youth of those old owners,
                 Dead two centuries before.
     bsp;         Unto him the fields around thee
                 Darken with the days gone by:
              O'er the solemn woods that bound thee
                 Ancient sunsets seem to die.
     bsp;         Sighs the selfsame breeze of morning
                 Through the cypress as of old;
              Ever at the Spring's returning
                 One same crocus breaks the mould.
     bsp;         Still though 'scaping Time's more savage
                 Handywork this pile appears,
              It has not escaped the ravage
                 Of the undermining years.
     bsp;         And though each succeeding master,
                 Grumbling at the cost to pay,
              Did with coat of paint and plaster
                 Hide the wrinkles of decay;           Yet the secret worm ne'er ceases,
                 Nor the mouse behind the wall;
              Heart of oak will come to pieces,
                 And farewell to Bredfield Hall!

    CHRONOMOROS


    In all the actions that a Man performs, some part of his life passeth. We die with doing that, for which only our sliding life was granted. Nay, though we do nothing, Time keeps his constant pace, and flies as fast in idlenesse, as in employment. Whether we play or labour, or sleep, or dance, or study, THE SUNNE POSTETH, AND THE SAND RUNNES.

    —Owen Felltham.

                Wearied with hearing folks cry,
                That Time would incessantly fly,
                Said I to myself, 'I don't see
                Why Time should not wait upon me;
                I will not be carried away,
                Whether I like it, or nay:'—
                   But ere I go on with my strain,
                   Pray turn me that hour-glass again!
                I said, 'I will read, and will write,
              And labour all day, and all night,
              And Time will so heavily load,
              That he cannot but wait on the road;'—
              But I found, that, balloon-like in size,
              The more fill'd, the faster he flies;
                 And I could not the trial maintain,
                 Without turning the hour-glass again!
              Then said I, 'If Time has so flown
              When laden, I'll leave him alone;
              And I think that he cannot but stay,
              When he's nothing to carry away!'
              So I sat, folding my hands,
              Watching the mystical sands,
                 As they fell, grain after grain,
                 Till I turn'd up the hour-glass again!
              Then I cried, in a rage, 'Time shall stand!'
              The hour-glass I smash'd with my hand,
              My watch into atoms I broke
              And the sun-dial hid with a cloak!
              'Now,' I shouted aloud, 'Time is done!'
              When suddenly, down went the Sun;
                 And I found to my cost and my pain,
                 I might buy a new hour-glass again!
              Whether we wake, or we sleep,
              Whether we carol, or weep,
              The Sun, with his Planets in chime,
              Marketh the going of Time;
              But Time, in a still better trim,
              Marketh the going of him:
                 One link in an infinite chain,
                 Is this turning the hour-glass again!
              The robes of the Day and the Night,
              Are not wove of mere darkness and light;
              We read that, at Joshua's will,
              The Sun for a Time once stood still!
              So that Time by his measure to try,
              Is Petitio Principii!
                 Time's Scythe is going amain,
                 Though he turn not his hour-glass again!
              And yet, after all, what is Time?
              Renowned in Reason, and Rhyme,
              A Phantom, a Name, a Notion,
              That measures Duration or Motion?
              Or but an apt term in the lease
              Of Beings, who know they must cease?
                 The hand utters more than the brain,
                 When turning the hour-glass again!
              The King in a carriage may ride,
              And the Beggar may crawl at his side;
              But, in the general race,
              They are travelling all the same pace,
              And houses, and trees, and high-way,
              Are in the same gallop as they:
                 We mark our steps in the train,
                 When turning the hour-glass again!
              People complain, with a sigh,
              How terribly Chroniclers lie;
              But there is one pretty right,
              Heard in the dead of the night,
              Calling aloud to the people,
              Out of St. Dunstan's Steeple,
                 Telling them under the vane,
                 To turn their hour-glasses again!
    MORAL.
              Masters! we live here for ever,
              Like so many fish in a river;
              We may mope, tumble, or glide,
              And eat one another beside;
              But, whithersoever we go,
              The River will flow, flow, flow!
                 And now, that I've ended my strain,
                 Pray turn me that hour-glass again!

    VIRGIL'S GARDEN
    Laid out à la Delille.


    'There is more pleasantness in the little platform of a Garden which he gives us about the middle of this Book' ('Georgick' IV. 115-148) 'than in all the spacious Walks and Waterfalls of Monsieur Rapin.'—Dryden; two of whose lines are here marked by inverted commas.
     bsp;           But that, my destined voyage almost done,
                I think to slacken sail and shoreward run,
                I would enlarge on that peculiar care
                Which makes the Garden bloom, the Orchard bear,
                Pampers the Melon into girth, and blows
                Twice to one summer the Calabrian Rose:
                Nor many a shrub with flower and berries hung,
                Nor Myrtle of the seashore leave unsung.
     bsp;           'For where the Tower of old Tarentum stands,
              And dark Galesus soaks the yellow sands,'
              I mind me of an old Corycian swain,
              Who from a plot of disregarded plain,
              That neither Corn, nor Vine, nor Olive grew,
              Yet such a store of garden-produce drew
              That made him rich in heart as Kings with all
              Their wealth, when he returned at even-fall,
              And from the conquest of the barren ground
              His table with unpurchased plenty crown'd.
              For him the Rose first open'd; his, somehow,
              The first ripe Apple redden'd on the bough;
              Nay, even when melancholy Winter still
              Congeal'd the glebe, and check'd the wandering rill,
              The sturdy veteran might abroad be seen,
              With some first slip of unexpected green,
              Upbraiding Nature with her tardy Spring,
              And those south winds so late upon the wing.
              He sow'd the seed; and, under Sun and Shower,
              Up came the Leaf, and after it the Flower,
              From which no busier bees than his derived
              More, or more honey for their Master hived:
              Under his skilful hand no savage root
              But sure to thrive with its adopted shoot;
              No sapling but, transplanted, sure to grow,
              Sizable standards set in even row;
              Some for their annual crop of fruit, and some
              For longer service in the years to come;
              While his young Plane already welcome made
              The guest who came to drink beneath the shade.
              But, by the stern conditions of my song
              Compell'd to leave where I would linger long,
              To other bards the Garden I resign
              Who with more leisure step shall follow mine.

    FROM PETRARCH


    (Se la mia vita dall' aspro tormento.)
                If it be destined that my Life, from thine
                   Divided, yet with thine shall linger on
                Till, in the later twilight of Decline,
                   I may behold those Eyes, their lustre gone;
                When the gold tresses that enrich thy brow
                   Shall all be faded into silver-gray,
                From which the wreaths that well bedeck them now
                   For many a Summer shall have fall'n away:
                Then should I dare to whisper in your ears
                 The pent-up Passion of so long ago,
              That Love which hath survived the wreck of years
                 Hath little else to pray for, or bestow,
              Thou wilt not to the broken heart deny
              The boon of one too-late relenting Sigh.

    OCCASIONAL VERSES


    TO A LADY SINGING.

                   Canst thou, my Clora, declare,
                      After thy sweet song dieth
                   Into the wild summer air,
                      Whither it falleth or flieth?
                Soon would my answer be noted,
                Wert thou but sage as sweet throated.
     bsp;              Melody, dying away,
                      Into the dark sky closes,
                   Like the good soul from her clay
                    Like the fair odour of roses:
              Therefore thou now art behind it,
              But thou shalt follow, and find it.
     bsp;            Nothing can utterly die;
                    Music, aloft upspringing,
                 Turns to pure atoms of sky
                    Each golden note of thy singing:
              And that to which morning did listen
              At eve in a Rainbow may glisten.
     bsp;            Beauty, when laid in the grave,
                    Feedeth the lily beside her,
                 Therefore the soul cannot have
                    Station or honour denied her;
              She will not better her essence,
              But wear a crown in God's presence.

    ON ANNE ALLEN.


    I
                The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,
                And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree—
                   Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—
                Heaping them up before her Father's door
                When I saw her whom I shall see no more—
                   We cannot bribe thee, Death.
    2
                She went abroad the falling leaves among,
                She saw the merry season fade, and sung
                   Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—
              Freely she wander'd in the leafless wood,
              And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good,
                 She knew thee not, O Death.
    3
              She bound her shining hair across her brow,
              She went into the garden fading now;
                 Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—
              And if one sigh'd to think that it was sere,
              She smiled to think that it would bloom next year:
                 She fear'd thee not, O Death.
    4
              Blooming she came back to the cheerful room
              With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom,
                 Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—
              A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,
              And placed the fairest at her Father's side—
                 She cannot charm thee, Death.
    5
              Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;
              We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall;—
                 Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—
              We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,
              As she went singing softly up the stair—
                 No voice can charm thee, Death.
    6
              Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,
              That made sweet music of the winter wind?
                 Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—
              Idly they gaze upon her empty place,
              Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face;—
                 She is with thee, O Death

    TO A VIOLET.


                   Fair violet! sweet saint!
                      Answer us—Whither art thou gone?
                   Ever thou wert so still, and faint,
                      And fearing to be look'd upon.
                   We cannot say that one hath died,
                   Who wont to live so unespied,
                But crept away unto a stiller spot,
                Where men may stir the grass, and find thee not.