BOOK I.

In February, when the dawn was slow,

And winds lay still, I gazed upon the fields

Which stretched before me, lifeless, and the stream

Which laboured in the distance to the sea,

Sullen and cold. No force of fancy took

My thought to bloomy June, when all the land

Lay deep in crested grass, and through the dew

The landrail brushed, and the lush banks were set

With strawberries, and the hot noise of bees

Lulled the bright flowers. Rather I seemed to move

Thro’ that weird land, Hellenic fancy feigned,

Beyond the fabled river and the bark

Of Charon; and forthwith on every side

Rose the thin throng of ghosts.

First thro’ the gloom

Of a dark grove I strayed — a sluggish wood,

Where scarce the faint fires of the setting stars,

Or some cold gleam of half-discovered dawn,

Might pierce the darkling pines. A twilight drear

Brooded o'er all the depths, and filled the dank

And sunken hollows of the rocks with shapes

Of terror,— beckoning hands and noiseless feet

Flitting from shade to shade, wide eyes that stared

With horror, and dumb mouths which seemed to cry,

Yet cried not. An ineffable despair

Hung over them and that dark world and took

The gazer captive, and a mingled pang

Of grief and anger, grown to fierce revolt

And hatred of the Invisible Force which holds

The issue of our lives and binds us fast

Within the net of Fate; as the fisher takes

The little quivering sea-things from the sea

And flings them gasping on the beach to die

Then spreads his net for more. And then again

I knew myself and those, creatures who lie

Safe in the strong grasp of Unchanging Law,

Encompassed round by hands unseen, and chains

Which do support the feeble life that else

Were spent on barren space; and thus I came

To look with less of horror, more of thought,

And bore to see the sight of pain that yet

Should grow to healing, when the concrete stain

Of life and act were purged, and the cleansed soul,

Renewed by the slow wear and waste of time,

Soared after aeons of days.

They seemed alone,

Those prisoners, thro’ all time. Each soul shut fast

In its own jail of woe, apart, alone,

For evermore alone; no thought of kin,

Or kindly human glance, or fellowship

Of suffering or of sin, made light the load

Of solitary pain. Ay, though they walked

Together, or were prisoned in one cell

With the partners of their wrong, or with strange souls

Which the same Furies tore, they knew them not,

But suffered still alone; as in that shape

Of hell fools build on earth, where hopeless sin

Rots slow in solitude, nor sees the face

Of men, nor hears the sound of speech, nor feels

The touch of human hand, but broods a ghost,

Hating the bare blank cell — the other self,

Which brought it thither — hating man and God,

And all that is or has been.

A great fear

And pity froze my blood, who seemed to see

A half-remembered form.

An Eastern King

It was who lay in pain. He wore a crown

Upon his aching brow, and his white robe

Was jewelled with fair gems of price, the signs

Of pomp and honour and all luxury,

Which might prevent desire. But as I looked

There came a hunger in the gloating eyes,

A quenchless thirst upon the parching lips,

And such unsatisfied strainings in the hands

Stretched idly forth on what I could not see,

Some fatal food of fancy; that I knew

The undying worm of sense, which frets and gnaws

The unsatisfied stained soul.

Seeing me, he said:

“What? And art thou too damned as I? Dost know

This thirst as I, and see as I the cool

Lymph drawn from thee and mock thy lips; and parch

For ever in continual thirst; and mark

The fair fruit offered to thy hunger fade

Before thy longing eyes? I thought there was

No other as I thro’ all the weary lengths

Of Time the gods have made, who pined so long

And found fruition mock him.

Long ago,

When I was young on earth,‘ twas a sweet pain

To ride all day in the long chase, and feel

Toil and the summer fire my blood and parch

My lips, while in my father's halls I knew

The cool bath waited, with its marble floor;

And juices from the ripe fruits pressed, and chilled

With snows from far-off peaks; and troops of slaves;

And music and the dance; and fair young forms.

And dalliance, and every joy of sense,

That haunts the dreams of youth, which strength and ease

Corrupt, and vacant hours. Ay, it was sweet

For a while to plunge in these, as fair boys plunge

Naked in summer streams, all veil of shame

Laid by, only the young dear body bathed

And sunk in its delight, while the firm earth,

The soft green pastures gay with innocent flowers,

Or sober harvest fields, show like a dream;

And nought is left, but the young life which floats

Upon the depths of death, to sink, maybe,

And drown in pleasure, or rise at length grown wise

And gain the abandoned shore.

Ah, but at last

The swift desire waxed stronger and more strong,

And feeding on itself, grows tyrannous;

And the parched soul no longer finds delight

In the cool stream of old; nay, this itself,

Smitten by the fire of sense as by a flame,

Holds not its coolness more; and fevered limbs,

Seeking the fresh tides of their youth, may find

No more refreshment, but a cauldron fired

With the fires of nether hell; and a black rage

Usurps the soul, and drives it on to slake

Its thirst with crime and blood.

Longing Desire!

Unsatisfied, sick, impotent Desire!

Oh, I have known it ages long. I knew

Its pain on earth ere yet my life had grown

To its full stature, thro’ the weary years

Of manhood, nay, in age itself; I knew

The quenchless weary thirst, unsatisfied

By all the charms of sense, by wealth and power

And homage; always craving, never quenched —

The undying curse of the soul! The ministers

And agents of my will drave far and wide

Through all the land for me, seeking to find

Fresh pleasures for me, who had spent my sum

Of pleasure, and had power, not even in thought,

Nor faculty to enjoy. They tore apart

The sacred claustral doors of home for me,

Defiled the inviolate hearth for me, laid waste

The flower of humble lives, in hope to heal

The sickly fancies of the king, till rose

A cry of pain from all the land; and I

Grew happier for it, since I held the power

To quench desire in blood.

But even thus

The old pain faded not, but swift again

Revived; and thro’ the sensual dull lengths

Of my seraglios I stalked, and marked

The glitter of the gems, the precious webs

Plundered from every clime by cruel wars

That strewed the sands with corpses; lovely eyes

That looked no look of love, and fired no more

Thoughts of the flesh; rich meats, and fruits, and wines

Grown flat and savourless; and loathed them all,

And only cared for power; content to shed

Rivers of innocent blood, if only thus

I might appease my thirst. Until I grew

A monster gloating over blood and pain.

Ah, weary, weary days, when every sense

Was satisfied, and nothing left to slake

The parched unhappy soul, except to watch

The writhing limbs and mark the slow blood drip,

Drop after drop, as the life ebbed with it;

In a new thrill of lust, till blood itself

Palled on me, and I knew the fiend I was,

Yet cared not — I who was, brief years ago,

Only a careless boy lapt round with ease,

Stretched by the soft and stealing tide of sense

Which now grew red; nor ever dreamed at all

What Furies lurked beneath it, but had shrunk

In indolent horror from the sight of tears

And misery, and felt my inmost soul

Sicken with the thought of blood. There comes a time

When the insatiate brute within the man,

Weary with wallowing in the mire, leaps forth

Devouring, and the cloven satyr-hoof

Grows to the rending claw, and the lewd leer

To the horrible fanged snarl, and the soul sinks

And leaves the man a devil, all his sin

Grown savourless, and yet he longs to sin

And longs in vain for ever.

Yet, methinks,

It was not for the gods to leave me thus.

I stinted not their worship, building shrines

To all of them; the Goddess of Love I served

With hecatombs, letting the fragrant fumes

Of incense and the costly steam ascend

From victims year by year; nay, my own son

Pelops, my best beloved, I gave to them

Offering, as he must offer who would gain

The great gods’ grace, my dearest.

I had gained

Through long and weary orgies that strange sense

Of nothingness and wasted days which blights

The exhausted life, bearing upon its front

Counterfeit knowledge, when the bitter ash

Of Evil, which the sick soul loathes, appears

Like the pure fruit of Wisdom. I had grown

As wizards seem, who mingle sensual rites

And forms impure with murderous spells and dark

Enchantments; till the simple people held

My very weakness wisdom, and believed

That in my blood-stained palace-halls, withdrawn,

I kept the inner mysteries of Zeus

And knew the secret of all Being; who was

A sick and impotent wretch, so sick, so tired,

That even bloodshed palled.

For my stained soul,

Knowing its sin, hastened to purge itself

With every rite and charm which the dark lore

Of priestcraft offered to it. Spells obscene,

The blood of innocent babes, sorceries foul

Muttered at midnight — these could occupy

My weary days; till all my people shrank

To see me, and the mother clasped her child

Who heard the monster pass.

They would not hear.

They listened not — the cold ungrateful gods —

For all my supplications; nay, the more

I sought them were they hidden.

At the last

A dark voice whispered nightly:‘ Thou, poor wretch,

That art so sick and impotent, thyself

The source of all thy misery, the great gods

Ask a more precious gift and excellent

Than alien victims which thou prizest not

And givest without a pang. But shouldst thou take

Thy costliest and fairest offering,

‘ Twere otherwise. The life which thou hast given

Thou mayst recall. Go, offer at the shrine

Thy best beloved Pelops, and appease

Zeus and the averted gods, and know again

The youth and joy of yore.’

Night after night,

While all the halls were still, and the cold stars

Were fading into dawn, I lay awake

Distraught with warring thoughts, my throbbing brain

Filled with that dreadful voice. I had not shrunk

From blood, but this, the strong son of my youth —

How should I dare this thing? And all day long

I would steal from sight of him and men, and fight

Against the dreadful thought, until the voice

Seared all my burning brain, and clamoured,‘ Kill!

Zeus bids thee, and be happy.’ Then I rose

At midnight, when the halls were still, and raised

The arras, and stole soft to where my son

Lay sleeping. For one moment on his face

And stalwart limbs I gazed, and marked the rise

And fall of his young breast, and the soft plume

Which drooped upon his brow, and felt a thrill

Of yearning; but the cold voice urging me

Burned me like fire. Three times I gazed and turned

Irresolute, till last it thundered at me,

‘ Strike, fool! thou art in hell; strike, fool! and lose

The burden of thy chains.’ Then with slow step

I crept as creeps the tiger on the deer,

Raised high my arm, shut close my eyes, and plunged

My dagger in his heart.

And then, with a flash,

The veil fell downward from my life and left

Myself to me — the daily sum of sense —

The long continual trouble of desire —

The stain of blood blotting the stain of lust —

The weary foulness of my days, which wrecked

My heart and brain, and left me at the last

A madman and accursed; and I knew,

Far higher than the sensual slope which held

The gods whom erst I worshipped, a white peak

Of Purity, and a stern voice pealing doom —

Not the mad voice of old — which pierced so deep

Within my life, that with the reeking blade

Wet with the heart's blood of my child I smote

My guilty heart in twain.

Ah! fool, to dream

That the long stain of time might fade and merge

In one poor chrism of blood. They taught of yore,

My priests who flattered me — nor knew at all

The greater God I know, who sits afar

Beyond those earthly shapes, passionless, pure,

And awful as the Dawn — that the gods cared

For costly victims, drinking in the steam

Of sacrifice when the choice hecatombs

Were offered for my wrong. Ah no! there is

No recompense in these, nor any charm

To cleanse the stain of sin, but the long wear

Of suffering, when the soul which seized too much

Of pleasure here, grows righteous by the pain

That doth redress its ill. For what is Right

But equipoise of Nature, alternating

The Too Much and Too Little? Not on earth

The salutary silent forces work

Their final victory, but year on year

Passes, and age on age, and leaves the debt

Unsatisfied, while the o'erburdened soul

Unloads itself in pain.

Therefore it is

I suffer as I suffered ere swift death

Set me not free, no otherwise; and yet

There comes a healing purpose in my pain

I never knew on earth; nor ever here

The once-loved evil grows, only the tale

Of penalties grown greater hourly dwarfs

The accomplished sum of wrong. And yet desire

Pursues me still — sick, impotent desire,

Fiercer than that of earth.

We are ourselves

Our heaven and hell, the joy, the penalty,

The yearning, the fruition. Earth is hell

Or heaven, and yet not only earth; but still,

After the swift soul leaves the gates of death,

The pain grows deeper and less mixed, the joy

Purer and less alloyed, and we are damned

Or blest, as we have lived.”

He ceased, with a wail

Like some complaining wind among the pines

Or pent among the fretful ocean caves,

A sick, sad sound.

Then as I looked, I saw

His eyes glare horribly, his dry parched lips

Open, his weary hands stretch idly forth

As if to clutch the air — infinite pain

And mockery of hope. “Seest thou them now?”

He said. “I thirst, I parch, I famish, yet

They still elude me, fair and tempting fruit

And cooling waters. Now they come again.

See, they are in my grasp, they are at my lips,

Now I shall quench me. Nay, again they fly

And mock me. Seest thou them, or am I shut

From hope for ever, hungering, thirsting still,

A madman and in Hell?”

And as I passed

In horror, his large eyes and straining hands

Froze all my soul with pity.

Then it was

A woman whom I saw: a dark pale Queen,

With passion in her eyes, and fear and pain

Holding her steadfast gaze, like one who sees

Some dreadful deed of wrong worked out and knows

Himself the cause, yet now is powerless

To stay the wrong he would.

Seeing me gaze

In pity on her woe, she turned and spake

With a low wailing voice —

“Thou well mayst gaze

With horror on me, sir, for I am lost;

I have shed the innocent blood, long years ago,

Nay, centuries of pain. I have shed the blood

Of him I loved, and found for recompense

But self-inflicted death and age-long woe,

Which purges not my sin. And yet not I

It was who did it, but the gods, who took

A woman's loveless heart and tortured it

With love as with a fire. It was not I

Who slew my love, but Fate. Fate‘ twas which brought

My love and me together, Fate which barred

The path of blameless love, yet set Love's flame

To burn and smoulder in a hopeless heart,

Where no relief might come.

The King was old,

And I a girl.‘ Tis an old tale which runs

Thro’ the sad ages, and‘ twas mine. He had spent

His sum of love long since, and I — I knew not

A breath of Love as yet. Ah, it is strange

To lose the sense of maidenhood, drink deep

Of life to the very dregs, and yet not know

A flutter of Love's wing. Love takes no thought

For pomp, or palace, or respect of men;

Nor always in the stately marriage bed,

Closed round by silken curtains, laid on down,

Nestles a rosy form; but‘ mid wild flowers

Or desert tents, or in the hind's low cot,

Beneath the aspect of the unconscious stars,

Dwells all night and is blest.

My love, my life!

He was the old man's son, a fair white soul —

Not like the others, whom the fire of youth

Burns like a flame and hurries unrestrained

Thro’ riotous days and nights, but virginal

And pure as any maid. No wandering glance

He deigned for all the maidens young and fair

Who sought their Prince's eye. But evermore,

Upon the high lawns wandering alone,

He dwelt unwed; weaving to Artemis,

Fairest of all Olympian maids, a wreath

From the unpolluted meads, where never herd

Drives his white flock, nor ever scythe has come,

But the bee sails upon unfettered wing

Over the spring-like lawns, and Purity

Waters them with soft dews;and yet he showed

Of all his peers most manly — heart and soul

A very man, tender and true, and strong

And pitiful, and in his limbs and mien

Fair as Apollo's self.

It was at first

In Troezen that I saw him, when he came

To greet his sire. Amid the crowd of youths

He showed a Prince indeed; yet knew I not

Whom‘ twas I saw, nor that I held the place

Which was his mother's, only from the throng

Love, with a barbed dart aiming, pierced my heart

Ere yet I knew what ailed me. Every glance

Fired me; the youthful grace, the tall straight limbs,

The swelling sinewy arms, the large dark eyes

Tender yet full of passion, the thick locks

Tossed from his brow, the lip and cheek which bore

The down of early manhood, seemed to feed

My heart with short-lived joy.

For when he stood

Forth from the throng and knelt before his sire,

Then raised his eyes to mine, I felt the curse

Of Aphrodite burn me, as it burned

My mother before me, and I dared not meet

His innocent, frank young eyes.

Said I then young?

Ay, but not young as mine. For I had known

The secret things of life, which age the soul

In a moment, writing on its front their mark

‘ Too early ripe;’ and he was innocent,

My spouse in fitted years, within whose arms

I had defied the world.

I turned away

Like some white bird that leaves the flock, which sails

High in mid air above the haunts of men,

Feeling some little dart within her breast,

Not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks

Down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt

Unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool,

And pines until the end.

Even from that day

I strove to gain his love. Nay,‘ twas not I,

But the cruel gods who drove me. Day by day

We were together; for in days of old

Women were free, not pent in gilded jails

As afterwards, but free to walk alone,

For good or evil, free. I hardly took

Thought for my spouse, the King. For I had found

My love at last: what matter if it were

A guilty love? Yet love is love indeed,

Stronger than heaven or hell. Day after day

I set myself to tempt him from his proud

And innocent way, for I had spurned aside

Care for the gods or men — all but my love.

What need to tell the tale? Was it a sigh,

A blush, a momentary glance, which brought

Assurance of my triumph? It is long

Since I have lived, I cannot tell; I know

Only the penalty of death and hell

Which followed on my sin. I knew he loved.

It was not wonderful, seeing that we dwelt

A boy and girl together. I was fair,

And Eros fired my eyes and lent my voice

His own soft tremulous tones. But when our souls

Trembled upon the verge, and fancy feigned

His arms around me as we fled alone

To some free land of exile, lo! a scroll:

‘ Dearest, it may not be; I fear the Gods;

We dare not do this wrong. I go from hence

And see thy face no more. Farewell! Forget

The love we may not own; go, seek for both

Forgiveness from the gods.’

When I read the words,

The cruel words, methought my heart stood still,

And when the ebbing life returned I seemed

To have lost all thought of Love. Only Revenge

Dwelt with me still, the fiercer that I knew

My long-prized hope, which came so near success,

Snatched from me and for ever.

When I rose

From my deep swoon, I bade a messenger

Go, seek the King for me. He came and sate

Beside my couch, and all the doors were closed,

And all withdrawn. Then with the liar's art,

And hypocrite tears, and feigned reluctancy,

And all the subtle wiles a woman draws

From the armoury of hate, I did instil

The poison to his soul. Cunning devices,

Feigned sorrow, mention of his son, regrets,

And half confessions — these, with hateful skill

Confused together, drove the old man's soul

To frenzy; and I watched him, with a sneer,

Turn to a dotard thirsting for the life

Of his own child. But how to do the deed,

Yet shed no blood, nor know the people's hate,

Who loved the Prince, I knew not.

Till one day

The old man, looking out upon the sea,

Besought the dread Poseidon to avenge

The treachery of his son. Even as we stood

Gazing upon the breathless blue, a cloud

Rose from the deep, a little fleecy cloud,

Which sudden grew and grew, and turned the blue

To purple; and a swift wind rose and sang

Higher and higher, and the wine-dark sea

Grew ruffled, and within the circling bay

The tiny ripples, stealing up the sand,

Plunged loud with manes of foam, until they swelled

To misty surges thundering on the shore.

Then at the old man's elbow as I stood,

A deep dark thought, sent by the powers of ill,

Answering, as now I know, my own black hate

And not my poor dupe's anger, fired my soul

And bade me speak.‘ The god has heard thy prayer,’

I whispered;‘ See the surge which wakes and swells

To fury; well I know what things shall be.

It is Poseidon's voice sounds in the storm

And sends thy vengeance. Young Hippolytus

Loves, as thou knowest, on the yellow sand,

Hard by the rippled margin of the wave,

To urge his flying steeds. Bid him go forth —

He will obey — and see what recompense

The god will send his wrong.’

In the old man's eyes

A watery gleam of malice played awhile —

I hated him for it — and he bade his son

Drive forth his chariot on the sand, and yoke

His three young fiery steeds.

And still the storm

Blew fiercer and more fierce, and the white crests

Plunged on the strand, and the high promontories

Resounded counter-stricken, and a mist

Of foam, blown landward, hid the sounding shore.

Then saw I him come forth and bid them yoke

His untamed colts. I had not seen his face

Since that last day, but, seeing him, I felt

The old love spring anew, yet mixed with hate —

A storm of warring passions. Tho’ I knew

What end should come, yet would I speak no word

That might avert it. The old man looked forth;

I think he had well-nigh forgotten all

The wrong he fancied and the doom he prayed,

All but the father's pride in the strong son,

Who was so young and bold. I saw a smile

Upon the dotard's face, when now the steeds

Were harnessed and the chariot, on the sand

Along the circling margin of the bay,

Flew, swift as light. A sudden gleam of sun

Flashed on the silver harness as it went,

Burned on the brazen axles of the wheels,

And on the golden fillets of the Prince

Doubled the gold. Sometimes a larger wave

Would dash in mist around him, and in fear

The rearing coursers plunged, and then again

The strong young arm constrained them, and they flashed

To where the wave-worn foreland ends the bay.

And then he turned his chariot, a bright speck

Now seen, now hidden, but always, tho’ the surge

Broke round it, safe; emerging like a star

From the white clouds of foam. And as I watched,

Speaking no word, and breathing scarce a breath,

I saw the firm limbs strongly set apart

Upon the chariot, and the reins held high,

And the proud head bent forward, with long locks

Streaming behind, as nearer and more near

The swift team rushed — until, with a half joy,

It seemed as if my love might yet elude

The slow sure anger of the god, dull wrath

Swayed by a woman's lie.

But on the verge,

As I cast my eyes, a vast and purple wall

Swelled swiftly towards the land; the lesser waves

Sank as it came, and to its toppling crest

The spume-flecked waters, from the strand drawn back,

Left dry the yellow shore. Onward it came,

Hoarse, capped with breaking foam, lurid, immense,

Rearing its dreadful height. The chariot sped

Nearer and nearer. I could see my love

With the light of victory in his eyes, the smile

Of daring on his lips: so near he came

To where the marble palace-wall confined

The narrow strip of beach — his brave young eyes

Fixed steadfast on the goal, in the pride of life,

Without a thought of death. I strove to cry,

But terror choked my breath. Then, like a bull

Upon the windy level of the plain

Lashing himself to rage, the furious wave,

Poising itself a moment, tossing high

Its wind-vexed crest, dashed downward on the strand

With a stamp, with a rush, with a roar.

And when I looked,

The shore, the fields, the plain, were one white sea

Of churning, seething foam — chariot and steeds

Gone, and my darling on the wave's white crest

Tossed high, whirled down, beaten, and bruised, and flung,

Dying upon the marble.

My great love

Sprang up redoubled, and cast out my hate

And spurned all thought of fear; and down the stair

I hurried, and upon the bleeding form

I threw myself, and raised his head, and clasped

His body to mine, and kissed him on the lips,

And in his dying ear confessed my wrong,

And saw the horror in his dying eyes

And knew that I was damned. And when he breathed

His last pure breath, I rose and slowly spake —

Turned to a Fury now by love and pain —

To the old man who knelt, while all the throng

Could hear my secret:‘ See, thou fool, I am

The murderess of thy son, and thou my dupe,

Thou and thy gods. See, he was innocent;

I murdered him for love. I scorn ye all,

Thee and thy gods together, who are deceived

By a woman's lying tongue! Oh, doting fool,

To hate thy own! And ye, false powers, which punish

The innocent, and let the guilty soul

Escape unscathed, I hate ye all — I curse,

I loathe you!’

Then I stooped and kissed my love,

And left them in amaze; and up the stair

Swept slowly to my chamber, and therein,

Hating my life and cursing men and gods,

I did myself to death.

But even here,

I find my punishment. Oh, dreadful doom

Of souls like mine! To see their evil done

Always before their eyes, the one dread scene

Of horror. See, the dark wave on the verge

Towers horrible, and he —— Oh, Love, my Love!

Safety is near! quick! quicker! urge them on!

Thou wilt‘ scape it yet!— Nay, nay, it bursts on him!

I have shed the innocent blood! Oh, dreadful gaze

Within his glazing eyes! Hide them, ye gods!

Hide them! I cannot bear them. Quick! a dagger!

I will lose their glare in death. Nay, die I cannot;

I must endure and live — Death brings not peace

To the lost souls in Hell.”

And her eyes stared,

Rounded with horror, and she stooped and gazed

So eagerly, and pressed her fevered hands

Upon her trembling forehead with such pain

As drives the gazer mad.

Then as I passed,

I marked against the hardly dawning sky

A toilsome figure standing, bent and strained,

Before a rocky mass, which with great pain

And agony of labour it would thrust

Up a steep hill. But when upon the crest

It poised a moment, then I held my breath

With dread, for, lo! the poor feet seemed to clutch

The hillside as in fear, and the poor hands

With hopeless fingers pressed into the stone

In agony, and the limbs stiffened, and a cry

Like some strong swimmer's, whom the mightier stream

Sweeps downward, and he sees his children's eyes

Upon the bank; broke from him; and at last,

After long struggles of despair, the limbs

Relaxed, and as I closed my fearful eyes,

Seeing the inevitable doom — a crash,

A horrible thunderous noise, as down the steep

The shameless fragment leapt. From crag to crag

It bounded ever swifter, striking fire

And wrapt in smoke, as to the lowest depths

Of the vale it tore, and seemed to take with it

The miserable form whose painful gaze

I caught, as with the great rock whirled and dashed

Downward, and marking every crag with gore

And long gray hairs, it plunged, yet living still,

To the black hollow; and then a silence came

More dreadful than the noise, and a low groan

Was all that I could hear.

When to the foot

Of the dark steep I hurried, half in hope

To find the victim dead — not recognizing

The undying life of Hell — I seemed to see

An aged man, bruised, bleeding, with gray hairs,

And eyes from which the cunning leer of greed

Was scarcely yet gone out.

A crafty voice

It was that answered me, the voice of guile

Part purified by pain:

“There comes not death

To those who live in Hell, nor hardly pause

Of suffering longer than may serve to make

The pain renewed, more piercing. Long ago,

I thought that I had cheated Death, and now

I seek him; but he comes not, nor know I

If ever he will hear me. Whence art thou?

Comest thou from earthly air, or whence? What power

Has brought thee hither? For I know indeed

Thou art not lost as I; for never here

I look upon a human face, nor see

The ghosts who doubtless here on every side

Suffer a common pain, only at times

I hear the echo of a shriek far off,

Like some faint ghost of woe which fills the pause

And interval of suffering; but from whom

The voice may come, or whence, I know not, only

The air teems with vague pain, which doth distract

The ear when for a moment comes surcease

Of agony, and the sense of effort spent

In vain and fruitless labour, and the pang

Of long-deferred defeat, which waits and takes

The world-worn heart, and maddens it when all —

Heaven, conscience, happiness, are staked and lost

For gains which still elude it.

Yet‘ twas sweet,

A King in early youth, when pleasure is sweet,

To live the fair successful years, and know

The envy and respect of men. I cared

For none of youth's delights: the dance, the song,

Allured me not; the smooth soft ways of sense

Tempted me not at all. I could despise

The follies that I shared not, spending all

The long laborious days in toilsome schemes

To compass honour and wealth, and, as I grew

In name and fame, finding my hoarded gains

Transmuted into Power. The seas were white

With laden argosies, and all were mine.

The sheltering moles defied the wintry storms,

And all were mine. The marble aqueducts,

The costly bridges, all were mine. Fair roads

Wound round and round the hills — my work. The gods

Alone I heeded not, nor cared at all

For aught but that my eyes and ears might take,

Spurning invisible things, nor built I to them

Temple or shrine, wrapt up in life, set round

With earthly blessings like a god. I rose

To such excess of weal and fame and pride,

My people held me god-like. I grew drunk

With too great power, scoffing at men and gods,

Careless of both, but not averse to fling

To those too weak themselves, what benefits

My larger wisdom spurned.

Then suddenly

I knew the pain of failure. Summer storms

Sucked down my fleets even within sight of port.

A grievous blight wasted the harvest-fields,

Mocking my hopes of gain. Wars came and drained

My store, and I grew needy, knowing now

The hell of stronger souls, the loss of power

Wherein they exulted once. There comes no pain

Deeper than to have known delight of power,

And then to lose it all. But I, I would not

Sit tame beneath defeat, trimming my sails

To wait the breeze of Fortune — fickle breath

Which perhaps might breathe no more — but chose instead

By rash conceit and bolder enterprise

To win her aid again. I had no thought

Of selfish gain, only to be and act

As a god to those, feeding my sum of pride

With acted good.

But evermore defeat

Dogged me, and evermore my people grew

To doubt me, seeing no more the wealth, the force,

Which once they worshipped. Then the lust of power

Loved, not for sake of others, but itself,

Grew on me, and the pride which can dare all,

Save failure only, seized me. Evil finds

Its ready chance. There were rich argosies

Upon the seas: I sank them, ship and crew,

In the unbetraying ocean. Wayfarers

Crossing the passes with rich merchandise

My creatures, hid behind the crags, o'erwhelmed

With rocks hurled downward. Yet I spent my gains

For the public weal, not otherwise; and they,

The careless people, took the piteous spoils

Which cost the lives of many, and a man's soul,

And blessed the giver. Empty venal blessings,

Which sting more deep than curses!

For awhile

I was content with this, but at the last

A great contempt and hatred of them took me,

The base, vile churls! Why should I stain my soul

For such as those — dogs that would fawn and lick

The hand that fed them, but, if food should fail,

Would turn and rend me? I would none of them;

I would grow rich and happy, being indeed

Godlike in brain to such. So with all craft,

And guile, and violence I enriched me, loading

My treasuries with gold. My deep-laid schemes

Of gain engrossed the long laborious days,

Stretched far into the night. Enjoy, I might not,

Seeing it was all to do, and life so brief

That ere a man might gain the goal he would,

Lo! Age, and with it Death, and so an end!

For all the tales of the indignant gods,

What were they but the priests’? I had myself

Broken all oaths; long time deceived and ruined

With every phase of fraud the pious fools

Whom oath-sworn Justice bound; battened on blood

And what was I the worse? How should the gods

Bear rule if I were happy? Death alone

Was certain. Therefore must I haste to heap

Treasure sufficient for my need, and then

Enjoy the gathered good.

But gradually

There came — not great disasters which might crush

All hope, but petty checks which did decrease

My store, and left my labour vain, and me

Unwilling to enjoy; and gradually

I felt the chill approach of age, which stole

Higher and higher on me, till the life,

As in a paralytic, left my limbs

And heart, and mounted upwards to my brain,

Its last resort, and rested there awhile

Ere it should spread its wings. But even thus,

Tho’ powerless to enjoy, the insatiate greed

And thirst of power sustained me, and supplied

Life's spark with some scant fuel, till it seemed,

Year after year, as if I could not die,

Holding so fast to life. I grew so old

That all the comrades of my youth, my prime,

My age, were gone, and I was left alone

With those who knew me not, bereft of all

Except my master passion — an old man

Forlorn, forgotten of the gods and Death.

So all the people, seeing me grow old

And prosperous, held me wise, and spread abroad

Strange fables, growing day by day more strange —

How I deceived the very gods. They thought

That I was blest, remembering not the wear

Of anxious thought, the growing sum of pain,

The failing ear and eye, the slower limbs,

Whose briefer name is Age: and yet I trow

I was not all unhappy, though I knew

It was too late to enjoy, and though my store

Increased not as my greed — nay, even sunk down

A little, year by year. Till, last of all,

When now my time was come and I had grown

A little tired of living, a trivial hurt

Laid me upon my bed; and as I mused

On my long life and all its villanies,

The wickedness I did, the blood I shed,

The guile, the frauds of years — they came with news,

One now, and now another; how my schemes

Were crushed, my enterprises lost, my toil

And labour all in vain. Day after day

They brought these tidings, while I longed to rise

And stay the tide of ill, and raved to know

I could not. At the last the added sum

Of evil, like yon great rock poised awhile

Uncertain, gathered into one, o'erwhelmed

My feeble strength, and left me ruined and lost,

And showed me all I was, and all the depth

And folly of my sin, and racked my brain,

And sank me in despair and misery,

And broke my heart and slew me.

Therefore‘ tis

I spend the long, long centuries which have come

Between me and my sin, in such dread tasks

As that thou sawest. In the soul I sinned:

In body and soul I suffer. What I bade

My minions do to others, that of woe

I bear myself; and in the pause of ill,

As now, I know again the bitter pang

Of failure, which of old pierced thro’ my soul

And left me to despair. The pain of mind

Is fiercer far than any bodily ill,

And both are mine — the pang of torture-pain

Always recurring; and, far worse, the pang

Of consciousness of black sins sinned in vain —

The doom of constant failure.

Will, fierce Will!

Thou parent of unrest and toil and woe,

Measureless effort! growing day by day

To force strong souls along the giddy steep

That slopes to the pit of Hell, where effort serves

Only to speed destruction! Yet I know

Thou art not, as some hold, the primal curse

Which doth condemn us; since thou bearest in thee

No power to satisfy thyself; but rather,

The spring of act, whereby in earth and heaven

Both men and gods do breathe and live and are,

Since Life is Act and not to Do is Death —

I do not blame thee: but to work in vain

Is bitterest penalty: to find at last

The soul all fouled with sin and stained with blood

In vain; ah, this is hell indeed — the hell

Of lost and striving souls!”

Then as I passed,

The halting figure bent itself again

To the old task, and up the rugged steep

Thrust the great rock with groanings. Horror chained

My parting footsteps, like a nightmare dream

Which holds us that we flee not, with wide eyes

That loathe to see, yet cannot choose but gaze

Till all be done. Slowly, with dreadful toil

And struggle and strain, and bleeding hands and knees,

And more than mortal strength, against the hill

He pressed, the wretched one! till with long pain

He trembled on the summit, a gaunt form,

With that great rock above him, poised and strained,

Now gaining, now receding, now in act

To win the summit, now borne down again,

And then the inevitable crash — the mass

Leaping from crag to crag. But ere it ceased

In dreadful silence, and the low groan came,

My limbs were loosed with one convulsive bound;

I hid my face within my hands, and fled,

Surfeit with horror.

Then it was again

A woman whom I saw, pitiless, stern,

Bearing the brand of blood — a lithe dark form,

And cruel eyes which glared beneath the gems

That argued her a Queen, and on her side

An ancient stain of gore, which did befoul

Her royal robe. A murderess in thought

And dreadful act, who took within the toils

Her kingly Lord, and slew him of old time

After burnt Troy. I had no time to speak

When she shrieked thus:

“It doth repent me not

I would‘ twere yet to do, and I would do it

Again a thousand times, if the shed blood

Might for one hour restore me to the kisses

Of my AEgisthus. Oh, he was divine,

My hero, with the godlike locks and eyes

Of Eros’ self! What boots it that they prate

Of wifely duty, love of spouse or child,

Honour or pity, when the swift fire takes

A woman's heart, and burns it out, and leaps

With fierce forked tongue around it, till it lies

In ashes, a dead heart, nor aught remains

Of old affections, naught but the new flame

Which is unquenched desire?

It did not come,

My blessing, all at once, but the slow fruit

Of solitude and midnight loneliness,

And weary waiting for the tardy news

Of taken Troy. Long years I sate alone,

Widowed, within my palace, while my Lord

Was over seas, waging the accursed war,

First of the file of Kings. Year after year

Came false report, or harder, no report

Of the great fleet. The summers waxed and waned,

The wintry surges smote the sounding shores,

And yet there came no end of it. They brought

Now hopeless failure, now great victories;

And all alike were false, all but delay

And hope deferred, which cometh not, but breaks

The heart which suffering wrings not.

So I bore

Long time the solitary years, and sought

To solace the dull days with motherly cares

For those my Lord had left me. My firstborn,

Iphigeneia, sailed at first with him

Upon that fatal voyage, but the young

Orestes and Electra stayed with me —

Not dear as she was, for the firstborn takes

The mother's heart, and, with the milk it draws

From the mother's virgin breast, drains all the love

It bore, ay, even tho’ the sire be dear;

Much more, then, when he is a King indeed,

Mighty in war and council, but too high

To stoop to a woman's love. But she was gone,

Nor heard I tidings of her, knowing not

If yet she walked the earth, nor if she bare

The load of children, even as I had borne

Her in my opening girlhood, when I leapt

From child to Queen, but never loved the King.

Thus the slow years rolled onward, till at last

There came a dreadful rumour —‘ She is dead,

Thy daughter, years ago. The cruel priests

Clamoured for blood; the stern cold Kings stood round

Without a tear, and he, her sire, with them,

To see a virgin bleed. They cut with knives

The taper girlish throat; they watched the blood

Drip slowly on the sand, and the young life

Meek as a lamb come to the sacrifice

To appease the angry gods.’ And he, the King,

Her father, stood by too, and saw them do it,

The wickedness, breathing no word of wrath,

Till all was done! The cowards! the dull cowards!

I would some black storm, bursting suddenly,

Had whelmed them and their fleets, ere yet they dared

To waste an innocent life!

I had gone mad,

I know it, but for him, my love, my dear,

My fair sweet love. He came to comfort me

With words of friendship, holding that my Lord

Was bound, perhaps, to let her die —‘ The gods

Were ofttimes hard to appease — or was it indeed

The priests who asked it? Were there any gods?

Or only phantoms, creatures of the brain,

Born of the fears of men, the greed of priests,

Useful to govern women? Had he been

Lord of the fleet, not all the soothsayers

Who ever frighted cowards should have brought

His soul to such black depths.’ I hearkening to him

As‘ twere my own thought grown articulate,

Found my grief turn to hate, and hate to love —

Hate of my Lord, love of the voice which spoke

Such dear and comfortable words. And thus,

Love to a storm of passion growing, swept

My wounded soul and dried my tears, as dries

The hot sirocco all the bitter pools

Of salt among the sand. I never knew

True love before; I was a child, no more,

When the King cast his eyes on me. What is it

To have borne the weight of offspring‘ neath the zone,

If Love be not their sire; or live long years

Of commerce, not of love? Better a day

Of Passion than the long unlovely years

Of wifely duty, when Love cometh not

To wake the barren days!

And yet at first

I hesitated long, nor would embrace

The blessing that was mine. We are hedged round,

We women, by such close-drawn ordinances,

Set round us by our tyrants, that we fear

To overstep a hand's breadth the dull bounds

Of custom; but at last Love, waking in me,

Burst all my chains asunder, and I lived

For naught but Love.

My son, the young Orestes,

I sent far off; my girl Electra only

Remained, too young to doubt me, and I knew

At last what‘ twas to live.

So the swift years

Fleeted and found me happy, till the dark

Ill-omened day when Rumour, thousand-tongued,

Whispered of taken Troy; and from my dream

Of happiness, sudden I woke, and knew

The coming retribution. We had grown

Too loving for concealment, and our tale

Of mutual love was bruited far and wide

Through Argos. All the gossips bruited it,

And were all tongue to tell it to the King

When he should come. And should the cold proud Lord

I never loved, the murderer of my girl,

Come‘ twixt my love and me? A swift resolve

Flashed through me pondering on it: Love for Love

And Blood for Blood — the simple golden rule

Taught by the elder gods.

When I had taken

My fixed resolve, I grew impatient for it,

Counting the laggard days. Oh, it was sweet

To simulate the yearning of a wife

Long parted from her Lord, and mock the fools

Who dogged each look and word, and but for fear

Had torn me from my throne — the pies, the jays,

The impotent chatterers, who thought by words

To stay me in the act!‘ Twas sweet to mock them

And read distrust within their eyes, when I,

Knowing my purpose, bade them quick prepare

All fitting honours for the King, and knew

They dared not disobey — oh,‘ twas enough

To wing the slow-paced hours.

But when at last

I saw his sails upon the verge, and then

The sea-worn ship, and marked his face grown old,

The body a little bent, which was so straight,

The thin gray hairs which were the raven locks

Of manhood when he went, I felt a moment

I could not do the deed. But when I saw

The beautiful sad woman come with him,

The future in her eyes, and her sad voice

Proclaimed the tale of doom, two thoughts at once

Assailed me, bidding me despatch with a blow

Him and his mistress, making sure the will

Of fate, and my revenge.

Oh, it was strange

To see all happen as we planned; as‘ twere

Some drama oft rehearsed, wherein each step,

Each word, is so prepared, the poorest player

Knows his turn come to do — the solemn landing —

The ride to the palace gate — the courtesies

Of welcome — the mute crowds without — the bath

Prepared within — the precious circling folds

Of tissue stretched around him, shutting out

The gaze, and folding helpless like a net

The mighty limbs — the battle-axe laid down

Against the wall, and I, his wife and Queen,

Alone with him, waiting and watching still,

Till the woman shrieked without. Then with swift step

I seized the axe, and struck him as he lay

Helpless, once, twice, and thrice — once for my girl,

Once for my love, once for the woman, and all

For Fate and my Revenge!

He gave a groan,

Once only, as I thought he might; and then

No sound but the quick gurgling of the blood,

As it flowed from him in streams, and turned the pure

And limpid water of the bath to red —

I had not looked for that — it flowed and flowed,

And seemed to madden me to look on it,

Until my love with hands bloody as mine,

But with the woman's blood, rushed in, and eyes

Rounded with horror; and we turned to go,

And left the dead alone.

But happiness

Still mocked me, and a doubt unknown before

Came on me, and amid the silken shows

And luxury of power I seemed to see

Another answer to my riddle of life

Than that I gave myself, and it was‘ murder;’

And in my people's sullen mien and eyes,

‘ Murder;’ and in the mirror, when I looked,

‘ Murder’ glared out, and terror lest my son

Returning, grown to manhood, should avenge

His father's blood. For somehow, as‘ twould seem,

The gods, if gods there be, or the stern Fate

Which doth direct our little lives, do filch

Our happiness — though bright with Love's own ray,

There comes a cloud which veils it. Yet, indeed,

My days were happy. I repent me not;

I would wade through seas of blood to know again

Those fierce delights once more.

But my young girl

Electra, grown to woman, turned from me

Her modest maiden eyes, nor loved to set

Her kiss upon my cheek, but, all distraught

With secret care, hid her from all the pomps

And revelries which did befit her youth,

Walking alone; and often at the tomb

Of her lost sire they found her, pouring out

Libations to the dead. And evermore

I did bethink me of my son Orestes,

Who now should be a man; and yearned sometimes

To see his face, yet feared lest from his eyes

His father's soul should smite me.

So I lived

Happy and yet unquiet — a stern voice

Speaking of doom, which long time softer notes

Of careless weal, the music that doth spring

From the fair harmonies of life and love,

Would drown in their own concord. This at times

Nay, day by day, stronger and dreadfuller,

With dominant accent, marred the sounds of joy

By one prevailing discord. So at length

I came to lose the Present in the dread

Of what might come; the penalty that waits

Upon successful sin; who, having sinned,

Had missed my sin's reward.

Until one day

I, looking from my palace casement, saw

A humble suppliant, clad in pilgrim garb,

Approach the marble stair. A sudden throb

Thrilled thro’ me, and the mother's heart went forth

Thro’ all disguise of garb and rank and years,

Knowing my son. How fair he was, how tall

And vigorous, my boy! What strong straight limbs

And noble port! How beautiful the shade

Of manhood on his lip! I longed to burst

From my chamber down, yearning to throw myself

Upon his neck within the palace court,

Before the guards — spurning my queenly rank,

All but my motherhood. And then a chill

Of doubt o'erspread me, knowing what a gulf

Fate set between our lives, impassable

As that great gulf which yawns‘ twixt life and death

And‘ twixt this Hell and Heaven. I shrank back,

And turned to think a moment, half in fear,

And half in pain; dividing the swift mind,

Yet all in love.

Then came a cry, a groan,

From the inner court, the clash of swords, the fall

Of a body on the pavement; and one cried,

‘ The King is dead, slain by the young Orestes,

Who cometh hither.’ With the word, the door

Flew open, and my son stood straight before me,

His drawn sword dripping blood. Oh, he was fair

And terrible to see, when from his limbs,

The suppliant's mantle fallen, left the mail

And arms of a young warrior. Love and Hate,

Which are the offspring of a common sire,

Strove for the mastery, till within his eyes

I saw his father's ghost glare unappeased

From out Love's casements.

Then I knew my fate

And his — mine to be slain by my son's hand,

And his to slay me, since the Furies drave

Our lives to one destruction; and I took

His point within my breast.

But I praise not

The selfish, careless gods who wrecked our lives,

Making the King the murderer of his girl,

And me his murderess; making my son

The murderer of his mother and her love —

A mystery of blood!— I curse them all,

The careless Forces, sitting far withdrawn

Upon the heights of Space, taking men's lives

For playthings, and deriding as in sport

Our happiness and woe — I curse them all.

We have a right to joy; we have a right,

I say, as they have. Let them stand confessed

The puppets that they are — too weak to give

The good they feign to love, since Fate, too strong

For them as us, beyond their painted sky,

Sits and derides them, too. I curse Fate too,

The deaf blind Fury, taking human souls

And crushing them, as a dull fretful child

Crushes its toys and knows not with what skill

Those feeble forms are feigned.

I curse, I loathe,

I spit on them. It doth repent me not.

I would‘ twere yet to do. I have lived my life.

I have loved. See, there he lies within the bath,

And thus I smite him! thus! Didst hear him groan?

Oh, vengeance, thou art sweet! What, living still?

Ah me! we cannot die! Come, torture me,

Ye Furies — for I love not soothing words —

As once ye did my son. Ye miserable

Blind ministers of Hell, I do defy you;

Not all your torments can undo the Past

Of Passion and of Love!”

Even as she spake

There came a viewless trouble in the air,

Which took her, and a sweep of wings unseen,

And terrible sounds, which swooped on her and hushed

Her voice, and seemed to occupy her soul

With horror and despair; and as she passed

I marked her agonized eyes.

But as I went,

Full many a dreadful shape of lonely pain

I saw. What need to tell them? We are filled

Who live to-day with a more present sense

Of the great love of God, than those of old

Who, groping in the dawn of Knowledge, saw

Only dark shadows of the Unknown; or he,

First-born of modern singers, who swept deep

His awful lyre, and woke the voice of song,

Dumb for long centuries of pain. We dread

To dwell on those long agonies its sin

Brings on the offending soul; who hold a creed

Of deeper Pity, knowing what chains of ill

Bind round our petty lives. Each phase of woe,

Suffering, and torture which the gloomy thought

Of bigots feigns for others — all were there.

One there was stretched upon a rolling wheel,

Which was the barren round of sense, that still

Returned upon itself and broke the limbs

Bound to it day and night. Others I saw

Doomed, with unceasing toil, to fill the urns

Whose precious waters sank ere they could slake

Their burning thirst. Another shapeless soul,

Full of revolts and hates and tyrannous force,

The weight of earth, which was its earth-born taint,

Pressed groaning down, while with fierce beak and claw

The vulture of remorse, piercing his breast,

Preyed on his heart. For others, overhead,

Great crags of rock impending seemed to fall,

But fell not nor brought peace. I felt my soul

Blunted with horrors, yearning to escape

To where, upon the limits of the wood,

Some scanty twilight grew.

But ere I passed

From those grim shades a deep voice sounded near,

A voice without a form.

“There is an end

Of all things that thou seest! There is an end

Of Wrong and Death and Hell! When the long wear

Of Time and Suffering has effaced the stain

Ingrown upon the soul, and the cleansed spirit,

Long ages floating on the wandering winds

Or rolling deeps of Space, renews itself

And doth regain its dwelling, and, once more

Blent with the general order, floats anew

Upon the stream of Things,and comes at length,

After new deaths, to that dim waiting-place

Thou next shalt see, and with the justified

White souls awaits the End; or, snatched at once,

If Fate so will, to the pure sphere itself,

Lives and is blest, and works the Eternal Work

Whose name and end is Love! There is an end

Of Wrong and Death and Hell!”

Even as I heard,

I passed from out the shadow of Death and Pain,

Crying, “There is an end!”