A BALLAD OF THE FALL OF KNOSSOS

Is it a whisper that runs through the galleries?

Is it a rustle that stirs in the halls?

Is it of mortals, or things that are otherwise

This sound that so haltingly, dreadfully falls,

Pauses, and hurries, and falls?

No moon, and no torches; not even a glimmer

To pin-prick the darkness that weighs like a sin,

And nothing is breathing, and nothing is stirring,

And hushed are the small owls without, and within

The mice to their holes have run in.

It is not the step of a foot on the pavement;

It is not the brush of a wing through the air;

It is not a passing, it is not a presence,

But the ghost of the fate that this palace must bear,

Of the ruin of Knossos goes there.

For on such a night, when the moon is dark,

And all of the stars are dumb,

With a sudden flare by the sea-ward gate

Shall the doom of Knossos come;

For a cry will shatter the brooding hush,

And the crickets and mice shall wake

To clatter and clash and shout and cry,

And the stumble of frenzied feet going by

Death's stride will overtake.

For into the glare of a new-lit torch

That shakes in a shaking grasp,

Sweat-streaked, wild-eyed, and dark with blood

Shall a runner break, and gasp

Of a burning harbour, of silent ships,

Of men sprung out of the night —

Is it men or devils?— He moans, and reels

Shoulder to wall, and a red stain steals

Down the frescoes gay and bright.

And hard on the word they hear approach

The surge of the battle near,

And to whistle of arrows, and clang of bronze

The palace awakes in fear.

Light! Light! and torches, like waking eyes

Leap from each darkened door;

And the guard at the sea-ward gate go down

In the vast black sea of men, and drown,

While sweeps the torrent o'er.

What door shall hold, or what walls withstand

The roll of a full spring-tide,

With an on-shore wind? And the gates of bronze

Ring, rock, and are flung aside;

And a myriad unknown raiders burst

Into the hall of the King,

Where Minos on his carved, stone seat

Beheld the nations at his feet,

Watched each its tribute bring.

Minos is slain; his guards are slain;

Which of his sons shall live

In this pillared Hall of the Double Axe

The word of the Kings to give?

Which of his sons? Shall they know his sons

In this sudden terror sprung

On sleeping men? Half-armed they stand,

Foot pressed to foot, hand tense to hand,

And muscles iron-strung.

The flame of the torches in the wind

Of their struggle blackens the wall,

And the floor is sticky with blood, and heaped

With the bodies of those that fall.

What if a son of Minos live?

In that horror of blood and gloom,

What of the noble, what of the brave?

Better to die, than endure as a slave

The days after Knossos’ doom.

But above the scuffle of sandalled feet,

And the breath of men hard-pressed,

And the clash of bronze, and the gasp and thud

As the point goes through the breast,

And above the startled hoot of owls,

And the rattle of shield and spear,

The wailing voices of women rise

As their men are stricken before their eyes

And they huddle together in fear.

Slow comes the dawning in the East;

Pale light on the earth is shed,

And cool and dewy blows the wind

Over the writhen dead;

Pale light, which fades in the growing glare

Of the flames that swirl and leap

Through corridor, and bower, and hall,

On carven pillar and painted wall;

The flames that like sickles reap

A barren harvest of kingly things,

To be bound in ashy sheaves,

While driven forth by the work of his hands,

Stumbles the last of the thieves.

Behind him is fire, ruin, and death,

Before him the kine-sweet morn,

But vases of silver and cups of gold

And hoarded treasures fashioned of old

On his blood-stained back are borne.

Is it the night-wind alone that blows shuddering

Down the dim corridors, tangled with weeds;

Is it a bat's wing, or is it an owl's wing

That silently passes, as thistledown seeds,

In the Hall, where the small owlet breeds?

Here do the moonbeams come, slithering, wandering

Over the faded, pale frescoes that stand

Faint and remote on the walls that are mouldering,

Crowned with a King's crown, or flowers in hand,

— Pale ghosts of a gaily-dressed band.

Faintly they gaze on the wide desolation;

Faintly they smile when the white moonbeams play

Over the dust of the throne-room of Minos,

Over the pavements where small creatures stray,

The humble small things of a day.

But there are other nights, moonless and starless,

When no moth flutters, no bat flits, owl calls,

Something is stirring, something is rustling,

Something that is not of mortals befalls

In galleries, cellars, and halls.

Soundless and viewless, a strange ghostly happening,

Life, long since ashes, and flames, long since dead;

For the Angel of Time goes relentlessly, steadily

Over dark places that mankind has fled;

And the dust is not stirred by that tread.