A STORY OF DOOM.

Niloiya said to Noah, “What aileth thee,

My master, unto whom is my desire,

The father of my sons?” He answered her,

“Mother of many children, I have heard

The Voice again.” “Ah, me!” she saith, “ah, me!

What spake it?” and with that Niloiya sighed.

This when the Master-builder heard, his heart

Was sad in him, the while he sat at home

And rested after toil. The steady rap

O’ the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale

Did seem to mock him; but her distaff down

Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went,

Parted the purple covering seemly hung

Before it, and let in the crimson light

Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth,—

Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark

Was a-preparing; where the dew distilled

All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees,

Upon the gliding river; where the palm,

The almug, and the gophir shot their heads

Into the crimson brede that dyed the world:

And lo! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge —

The ship, his glory and his grief,— too vast

For that still river's floating,— building far

From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells

Of shepherd kings.

Niloiya spake again:

“What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man?”

He, laboring with his thought that troubled him,

Spoke on behalf of God: “Behold,” said he,

“A little handful of unlovely dust

He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when

He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm,

And with His breath awoke a living soul.

“Shall not the Fashioner command His work?

And who am I, that, if He whisper,‘ Rise,

Go forth upon Mine errand,’ should reply,

‘ Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons,—

I love not scorning: I beseech Thee, God,

Have me excused.’”

She answered him, “Tell on.”

And he continuing, reasoned with his soul:

“What though I,— like some goodly lama sunk

In meadow grass, eating her way at ease,

Unseen of them that pass, and asking not

A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers

That nod above her head,— should lay me down,

And willingly forget this high behest,

There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore,

Though I went forth to cry against the doom,

Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down:

It hangeth balanced over us; she crieth,

And it shall fall. O! as for me, my life

Is bitter, looking onward, for I know

That in the fulness of the time shall dawn

That day: my preaching shall not bring forth fruit,

Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float

Upon the abhorréd sea, that mankind hate,

With thee and thine.”

She answered: “God forbid!

For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep

They dread, and at the last will surely turn

To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive.

And chide the waters back to their abyss,

To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed.

Sir, I am much afraid: I would not hear

Of riding on the waters: look you, sir,

Better it were to die with you by hand

Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me!

Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet,

Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea.”

He saith again: “I pray thee, woman, peace,

For thou wilt enter, when that day appears,

The fateful ship.”

“My lord,” quoth she, “I will.

But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure

The Master calleth; for the time is long

That thou hast warned the world: thou art but here

Three days; the song of welcoming but now

Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad;

And wilt thou go again? Husband, I say,

Be sure who‘ t is that calleth; O, be sure,

Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night,

Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss,

Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love,

And watchful of thee till the moon went down.

“She never loved me since I went with thee

To sacrifice among the hills: she smelt

The holy smoke, and could no more divine

Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up;

It had a snake with a red comb of fire

Twisted about its waist,— the doggish head

Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me.

‘ This woman might be wiser,’ quoth the ghost;

‘ Shall there be husbands for her found below,

When she comes down to us? O, fool! O, fool!

She must not let her man go forth, to leave

Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn,

A harvest for himself.’ With that they passed.”

He said, “My crystal drop of perfectness,

I pity thee; it was an evil ghost:

Thou wilt not heed the counsel?” “I will not,”

Quoth she; “I am loyal to the Highest. Him

I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best.

Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?”

“God add,” said he, “unto thy much yet more,

As I do think thou art.” “And think you, sir,”

Niloiya saith, “that I have reached the prime?”

He answering, “Nay, not yet.” “I would‘ t were so,”

She plaineth, “for the daughters mock at me:

Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore

She pineth for the master. Look you, sir,

They reach but to the knee. But thou art come,

And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all

My supper that I set, and afterward

Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way;

Else shall I be despised as Adam was,

Who compassed not the learning of his sons,

But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head

And ponder, following of great Isha's feet,

When she would walk with her fair brow upraised,

Scorning the children that she bare to him.”

“Ay,” quoth the Master; “but they did amiss

When they despised their father: knowest thou that?”

“Sure he was foolisher,” Niloiya saith,

“Than any that came after. Furthermore,

He had not heart nor courage for to rule:

He let the mastery fall from his slack hand.

Had not our glorious mother still borne up

His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart,

And listened, when the fit came over him

To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk

Into the slave of slaves.”

“Nay, thou must think

How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman,

And looked in hope among the tribes for one

To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once

Waking, he found at his left side, and knew

The deep delight of speech.” So Noah, and thus

Added, “And therefore was his loss the more;

For though the creatures he had singled out

His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword

And followed after him,— shall bleat of lamb

Console one for the foregone talk of God?

Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog,

Fawning upon him, make his heart forget

At such a time, and such a time, to have heard

What he shall hear no more?

“O, as for him,

It was for this that he full oft would stop,

And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed,

Sad muttering, Woman! we reproach thee not;

Though thou didst eat mine immortality;

Earth, be not sorry; I was free to choose.

Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn.

Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up

From his contentment with the lower things?

Was she not somewhat that he could not rule

Beyond the action, that he could not have

By the mere holding, and that still aspired

And drew him after her? So, when deceived

She fell by great desire to rise, he fell

By loss of upward drawing, when she took

An evil tongue to be her counsellor:

‘ Death is not as the death of lower things,

Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven,

A change to being as gods,’ — he from her hand,

Upon reflection, took of death that hour,

And ate it ( not the death that she had dared );

He ate it knowing. Then divisions came.

She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way,

Too venturesome, among the farther stars,

And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes

To find the path to heaven; in bitter wise

Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he,

Once having felt her upward drawing, longed,

And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored,

Albeit she drew no more.”

“Sir, ye speak well,”

Niloiya saith, “but yet the mother sits

Higher than Adam. He did understand

Discourse of birds and all four-footed things,

But she had knowledge of the many tribes

Of angels and their tongues; their playful ways

And greetings when they met. Was she not wise?

They say she knew much that she never told,

And had a voice that called to her as thou.”

“Nay,” quoth the Master-shipwright, “who am I

That I should answer? As for me, poor man,

Here is my trouble:‘ if there be a Voice,’

At first I cried,‘ let me behold the mouth

That uttereth it,’ Thereon it held its peace.

But afterward, I, journeying up the hills,

Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen

Across some clear abyss; and I did stop,

And ask of all my company,‘ What cheer?

If there be spirits abroad that call to us,

Sirs, hold your peace and hear,’ So they gave heed,

And one man said,‘ It is the small ground-doves

That peck upon the stony hillocks': one,

‘ It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp

That cheweth in his dream': and one,‘ My lord,

It is the ghost of him that yesternight

We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife

To thy great father, when he peaceably

Did send to take her,’ Then I answered,‘ Pass,’

And they went on; and I did lay mine ear

Close to the earth; but there came up therefrom

No sound, nor any speech; I waited long.

And in the saying,‘ I will mount my beast

And on,’ I was as one that in a trance

Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw

Great waters and a ship; and somewhat spake,

‘ Lo, this shall be; let him that heareth it,

And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind,

For I will drown the world,’”

Niloiya saith,

“Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon?”

The master, he replieth, “Ay, at first,

That same was all; but many days went by,

While I did reason with my heart and hope

For more, and struggle to remain, and think.

‘ Let me be certain’; and so think again,

‘ The counsel is but dark; would I had more!

When I have more to guide me, I will go,’

And afterward, when reasoned on too much,

It seemed remoter, then I only said,

‘ O, would I had the same again’; and still

I had it not.

“Then at the last I cried,

‘ If the unseen be silent, I will speak

And certify my meaning to myself.

Say that He spoke, then He will make that good

Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best

To go, and do His bidding. All the earth

Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry

When the doom falls, “Thou God art hard on us;

We knew not Thou wert angry. O! we are lost,

Only for lack of being warned.”

“‘ But say

That He spoke not, and merely it befell

That I being weary had a dream. Why, so

He could not suffer damage; when the time

Was past, and that I threatened had not come,

Men would cry out on me, haply me kill,

For troubling their content. They would not swear,

“God, that did send this man, is proved untrue,”

But rather, “Let him die; he lied to us;

God never sent him.” Only Thou, great King,

Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave

The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again,

I go in gladness; if Thou wilt not speak,

Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less

Shall go, because I have believed, what time

I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands

With memory of believing,’ Then I washed,

And did array me in the sacred gown,

And take a lamb.”

“Ay, sir,” Niloiya sighed,

“I following, and I knew not anything

Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms,

We, moving up among the silent hills,

Paused in a grove to rest; and many slaves

Came near to make obeisance, and to bring

Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire.

Then in their hearing thou didst say to me,

‘ Behold, I know thy good fidelity,

And theirs that are about us; they would guard

The mountain passes, if it were my will

Awhile to leave thee’; and the pygmies laughed

For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things;

And put their heads down, as their manner is,

To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept;

Sir, I could weep now; ye did ill to go

If that was all your bidding; I had thought

God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go.”

Then said the son of Lamech, “Afterward,

When I had left thee, He whom I had served

Met with me in the visions of the night,

To comfort me for that I had withdrawn

From thy dear company. He sware to me

That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch

The bordering of mine outmost field. I say,

When I obeyed, He made His matters plain.

With whom could I have left thee, but with them,

Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves?”

She said, “I love not pygmies; they are naught.”

And he, “Who made them pygmies?” Then she pushed

Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes,

And answered, wondering, “Sir, my mothers did,

Ye know it.” And he drew her near to sit

Beside him on the settle, answering, “Ay.”

And they went on to talk as writ below,

If any one shall read:

“Thy mother did,

And they that went before her. Thinkest thou

That they did well?”

“They had been overcome;

And when the angered conquerors drave them out,

Behoved them find some other way to rule,—

They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye

Been cunning in dominion, among beasts

To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake

Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice?

What harm if coveting a race of men

That could but serve, they sought among their thralls,

Such as were low of stature, men and maids;

Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind?

Did they not spend much gear to gather out

Such as I tell of, and for matching them

One with another for a thousand years?

What harm, then, if there came of it a race,

Inferior in their wits, and in their size,

And well content to serve?”

“‘ What harm?’ thou sayest.

My wife doth ask,‘ What harm?'”

“Your pardon, sir.

I do remember that there came one day,

Two of the grave old angels that God made,

When first He invented life ( right old they were,

And plain, and venerable ); and they said,

Rebuking of my mother as with hers

She sat,‘ Ye do not well, you wives of men,

To match your wit against the Maker's will,

And for your benefit to lower the stamp

Of His fair image, which He set at first

Upon man's goodly frame; ye do not well

To treat his likeness even as ye treat

The bird and beast that perish.’”

“Said they aught

To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair?”

“How know I?‘ T was a slave that told it me.

My mother was full old when I was born,

And that was in her youth. What think you, sir?

Did not the giants likewise ill?”

“To that

I have no answer ready. If a man,

When each one is against his fellow, rule,

Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved,

Because, for size and strength, he standeth first,

He will thereof be glad; and if he say,

‘ I will to wife choose me a stately maid,

And leave a goodly offspring’;‘ sooth, I think,

He sinneth not; for good to him and his

He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault

Was, that for ill to others, they did plot

To make them weak and small.”

“But yet they steal

Or take in war the strongest maids, and such

As are of highest stature; ay, and oft

They fight among themselves for that same cause.

And they are proud against the King of heaven:

They hope in course of ages they shall come

To be as strong as He.”

The Master said,

“I will not hear thee talk thereof; my heart

Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife,

I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee,

And bid that they prepare the sleeping place.

O would that I might rest! I fain would rest,

And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world

My never-heeded tale!”

With that she called.

The moon was up, and some few stars were out,

While heavy at the heart he walked abroad

To meditate before his sleep. And yet

Niloiya pondered, “Shall my master go?

And will my master go? What‘ vaileth it,

That he doth spend himself, over the waste

A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk,

That mock his warning? O, what‘ vaileth it,

That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark,

Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me,

Laugh? O my heart! I would the Voice were stilled.

Is not he happy? Who, of all the earth,

Obeyed like to me? Have not I learned

From his dear mouth to utter seemly words,

And lay the powers my mother gave me by?

Have I made offerings to the dragon? Nay,

And I am faithful, when he leaveth me

Lonely betwixt the peakéd mountain tops

In this long valley, where no stranger foot

Can come without my will. He shall not go.

Not yet, not yet! But three days — only three —

Beside me, and a muttering on the third,

‘ I have heard the Voice again.’ Be dull, O dull,

Mind and remembrance! Mother, ye did ill;

‘ T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use.

Why, O dark mother! opened ye the way?”

Yet when he entered, and did lay aside

His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe

Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun

Went down; forgetful of her mother's craft,

She lovely and submiss did mourn to him:

“Thou wilt not go,— I pray thee, do not go,

Till thou hast seen thy children.” And he said,

“I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed:

To-morrow it is given me by the Voice

Upon a four days’ journey to proceed,

And follow down the river, till its waves

Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells.

“‘ There,’ quoth the Unrevealed,‘ we shall meet,

And I will counsel thee; and thou shalt turn

And rest thee with the mother, and with them

She bare.’ Now, therefore, when the morn appears,

Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves,

And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car

With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands;

Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck

Thy locks with gold; and while the hollow vale

I thread beside yon river, go thou forth

Atween the mountains to my father's house,

And let thy slaves make all obeisance due,

And take and lay an offering at his feet.

Then light, and cry to him,‘ Great king, the son

Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent

To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.’”

“Sir,” quoth the woman, “I will do this thing,

So thou keep faith with me, and yet return.

But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide,

Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee,

And drive thee on?”

He saith, “It will keep faith.

Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought,

And lovingly it answered. I shall rest,

And dwell with thee till after my three sons

Come from the chase.” She said, “I let them forth

In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few.

The giant elephants be cunning folk;

They lie in ambush, and will draw men on

To follow,— then will turn and tread them down.”

“Thy father's house unwisely planned,” said he,

“To drive them down upon the growing corn

Of them that were their foes; for now, behold,

They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay

Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound

The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash;

Or wallowing in the waters foul them; nay,

Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood

Their cities; or, assailed and falling, shake

The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men,

Over the hairy terror piling stones

Or earth, prevail to cover it.”

She said,

“Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft

I would my sons were home; but now so well

Methinks it is with me, that I am fain

To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell

With me till after they return, and thou

Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then,— ah, me!

I must sit joyless in my place; bereft,

As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves,

And dark as nights that have no moon.”

She spake:

The hope o’ the world did hearken, but reply

Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks

As she lay sobbing; and the quietness

Of night began to comfort her, the fall

Of far-off waters, and the wingéd wind

That went among the trees. The patient hand,

Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her,

Until she said, “What wilt thou? Nay, I know.

I therefore answer what thou utterest not.

Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own will

Consentest to depart. What more? Ay, this:

I do avow that He which calleth thee,

Hath right to call; and I do swear, the Voice

Shall have no let of me, to do Its will.”