Chapter VII: A Troth for Eternity 141 (2)

And, with the breath of many a fanning plume,
That wonder of her hair that was like wine--
Of mingled fires and purples that consume,
Moved all its mystery of threads most fine--

Moved like some threaded instrument that thrills,
Played on with unseen kisses in the air
Weaving a music from it, working spells
We feel and know not of--so moved her hair:

And under saffron canopies all bright
With clash of lights, e’en to the amber prow,
Crept like enchantments subtle passing sight,
Fragrance and siren music soft and slow.

Amid the thousand viands of the feast,
And Nile fruits piled in panniers, where they vied
With palm-tree dates and melons of the East,
She waited for Marc Antony and sighed.

--Where tarries he?--What gift doth he invent
For costly greeting?--How with look or smile,
Out of love treasures not already spent
Prepares he now her fondness to beguile?

--But lo, he came between the whiles she sighed;
Scarce the wave murmurs troubling,--lo, most dear,
His galley, with the oars all softly plied,
Warned her with music distant, and drew near.

And on that night--for present,--he did bring
A pearl; and gave it her with kissing sweet:
“Would half the Roman empires were this thing,”
He said, “that I might lay them at your feet.”

Fairly then moved the magic all arrayed
About that fragrant feast; in every part
The soft Egyptian spells did lend their aid
To work some strange enamouring of the heart.

It was her whim to show him on that night
All she was queen of; like a perfect dream,
Wherein there should be gathered in one sight
The gold of many lives, as it might seem

Spent and lived through at once,--so she made pass
A splendid pageantry of all her East
Beauteous and captive,--so she did amass
The richness of each land in that one feast.

More jewelries than one could name or know,
Set in a thousand trinkets or in crowns
Each one a sovereignty, in glittering row
Numbered the suppliant lands and all her thrones.

And fairest handmaidens in gracious rank,
Their captive arms enchained with links of gold,
Knelt and poured forth the purple wine she drank,
Or served her there in postures manifold.

And beaded women of a yellow Ind
Stood at the couch, with bended hand to ply
Great silver feathered fans wherein the wind
Gat all the choicest fumes of Araby.

There in the midst, of shape uncouth and hard,
Juggled his arts some Ethiopian churl;
Changing fierce natures of the spotted pard
Or serpents of the Nile that creep and curl.

And many a minstrelsy of voice and string,
Twining sweet sounds like tendrils delicate,
Seemed to ensnare the moments--seemed to cling
Upon their pleasure all interminate.

But now at length she made them serve her wine
In the most precious goblet,--wine that shed
Great fragrance, in a goblet fair with shine
Of jewels: so they poured the wine out red:

And lo, to mark that more than any feast
And honour Antony,--or for mere pride
To do so proud a vanity, at least
The proudest, vainest, woman ever tried--

She took the unmatched pearl, and, taking, laughed;
And when they served her now that wine of worth
She cast it gleaming in; then with the draught
Mingling she drank it in their midst with mirth.

And all that while upon the ocean high,
The golden galley, heavy in its light,
Ruled the hoarse sea-sounds with its revelry--
Changing afar the purples of the night!

IV.

CLEOPATRA.

2.

When Cleopatra saw ’twas time to yield
Even that love, to smite nor be afraid,
Since love shared loss,--yea, when the thing was sealed,
And all the trust of Antony betrayed;

And when, before his eyes and in full sight
Of the still striving ships, that gleaming line
Of galleys decked for no rude field of fight
Fled fair and unashamed in the sunshine;

Then, surely, he fell down as one but blind
Through sudden fallen darkness, even to grope
If haply some least broken he might find
Of all the broken ends of life and hope.

Well, out of all his fates now was there none
But Death, the utter end; and for no sake,
Save for some last love-look beneath the sun,
Had he delayed that end of all to take!

But now, because love--armed indeed of him
With utter rule of all his destinies--
Had chosen even to slay him for a whim,
And the mere remnant was none else than his,

And since, for sure, the sorest way of death
Were but to die not falling at the feet
Of that one woman who with look or breath
Could change it if she would and make it sweet;

He chose before all fame he might have caught
With death in foremost fighting, now to cling
Upon her steps who at this last had wrought
His death-wound shameful with a lover’s sting.

O how the memories seemed to throb and start
Welling from out the unstanched past!--seemed nigh
Already opening there in all his heart
The canker wound wherewith he was to die!

And so, though she were quite estranged, and now
He held no costlier gift to win her with;
Yet, following, he would find her, and, somehow,
Lay in her hands that latest gift--his death:

For now all piteously his heart relied
On a mere hope of love dwindled to this--
To fall some fair waste moment at her side
And feel perhaps a tear or even a kiss;

Since surely, in some waste of day or night,
He thought, the face of love out of the Past,
With look of his, should rise up in her sight
And make some kind of pleading at the last.

Therefore, when all the heavy heated day
Of rowing on the waters was nigh done,
And like a track of sweetness past away
Waned on the wave the last track of the sun,

At length with scarce a sound or warning cry,
Save of the rowers ceasing from the oar,
He reached her side and prayed her pass not by;
Yea, prayed her bear him yet a little more.

But truly this well-nigh availed to move
Her--Cleopatra--with remorse for all:
She knew not of such pardon, e’en from love;
Nor craved to look upon his utter fall.

And, first, when it was told her how he came
And sought to reach the galley where she was,
She faltered for a while with fear and shame,
And bade them scarce give way to let him pass:

Only at length he showed them the plain sight
How he was broken and so soon to die;
Then they fell back all grieved and gave him right,
And scarce believed the man was Antony.

And yet he could not speak; but lay forlorn
Crouched up about the gilded quivering prow,
Three days, from morn to night and night to morn,
As one whom a sore burden boweth low.

Harshly the sea-sounds taunted him at will,
And seemed in mocking choruses combined;
Each bitter inward thought was uttered shrill
On shrieking tongues of many a thwart-blown wind.

And where with onward beak the galley clave
Full many a silver mouth in the blue mere,
The turned up whitened lips of every wave
Rang out a bitter cadence on his ear.

But first awhile his thoughts were taking leave
Sadly of Rome, and all the pageant days;
For now at length he saw and would believe
The end of triumphs and the end of praise.

And now he did survey, apart from wrath,
The various fates of men both great and small;
How little reign or glory any hath;
And how one end comes quickly upon all;

And thought if love had been--had been quite love,
One little thing in each man’s life for bliss,
Then had the grief been paid with sweet enough
And a lost crown forgotten for a kiss;

While now, as though men played with fall and rise Of mere base monies of the common mart, To-day they strove for love as for a prize, To-morrow compassed fame with every art;

And one who should but half trust any face
Of seeming fame, or follow love too well,
To set his heart a moment in love’s place--
That man should fall,--yea, even as he fell.

And he thought how, since the first fate began,
The lot of every one hath been so cast:
One woman bears and brings him up a man,
Another woman slays him at the last;

While all so hardly leaguered are men’s ways
And love so sharp a snare for them contrives,
The fleeting span of one fair woman’s days
Sufficeth many heroes’ loves and lives!

--But now, when he had thought all this and more,
He lay there and yet moved not from his place;
The love of her was in him like a sore,
And he lived waiting to behold her face.

At length they drew nigh to a land by name
Tænarus; and the third day, at its eve,
In guise of one who mourneth the Queen came
Weeping, and prayed him rise up and forgive.

V.

THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.

My heart is heavy for each goodly man Whom crownéd woman or sweet courtezan Hath slain or brought to greater shames than death. But now, O Daughter of Herodias! I weep for him, of whom the story saith, Thou didst procure his bitter fate:--Alas, He seems so fair!--May thy curse never pass!

Where art thou writhing? Herod’s palace-floor Has fallen through: there shalt thou dance no more; And Herod is a worm now. In thy place, --Salome, Viper!--do thy coils yet keep That woman’s flesh they bore with such a grace? Have thine eyes still the love-lure hidden deep, The ornament of tears, they could not weep?

Thou wast quite perfect in the splendid guile Of woman’s beauty; thou hadst the whole smile That can dishonour heroes, and recal Fair saints prepared for heaven back to hell: And He, whose unlived glory thou mad’st fall All beautiful and spotless, at thy spell, Was great and fit for thee by whom he fell.

O, is it now sufficing sweet to thee-- Through all the long uncounted years that see The undistinguished lost ones waste away-- To twine thee, biting, on those locks that bleed, As bled they through thy fingers on that day? Or hast thou, all unhallowed, some fierce need Thy soul on his anointed grace to feed?

Or hast thou, rather, for that serpent’s task Thou didst accomplish in thy woman-mask, Some perfect inconceivable reward Of serpent’s slimy pleasure?--all the thing Thou didst beseech thy master, who is Lord Of those accursèd hosts that creep and sting, To give thee for the spoil thou shouldest bring?

He was a goodly spoil for thee to win! --Men’s souls and lives were wholly dark with sin; And so God’s world was changed with wars and gold, No part of it was holy; save, maybe, The desert and the ocean as of old:-- But such a spotless way of life had he, His soul was as the desert or the sea.

I think he had not heard of the far towns; Nor of the deeds of men, nor of kings’ crowns; Before the thought of God took hold of him, As he was sitting dreaming in the calm Of one first noon, upon the desert’s rim, Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm, All overcome with some strange inward balm.

But then, so wonderful and lovely seemed That thought, he straight became as though he dreamed A vast thing false and fair, which day and night Absorbed him in some rapture--very high Above the common swayings of delight And general yearnings, that quite occupy Men’s passions, and suffice them till they die:

Yea, soon as it had entered him--that thought Of God--he felt that he was being wrought All holy: more and more it filled his heart; And seemed, indeed, a spirit of pure flame Set burning in his soul’s most inward part. And from the Lord’s great wilderness there came A mighty voice calling on him by name.

He numbered not the changes of the year, The days, the nights, and he forgot all fear Of death: each day he thought there should have been A shining ladder set for him to climb Athwart some opening in the heavens, e’en To God’s eternity, and see, sublime-- His face whose shadow passing fills all time.

But he walked through the ancient wilderness. O, there the prints of feet were numberless And holy all about him! And quite plain He saw each spot an angel silvershod Had lit upon; where Jacob too had lain The place seemed fresh,--and, bright and lately trod, A long track showed where Enoch walked with God.

And often, while the sacred darkness trailed Along the mountains smitten and unveiled By rending lightnings,--over all the noise Of thunders and the earth that quaked and bowed From its foundations--he could hear the voice Of great Elias prophesying loud To Him whose face was covered by a cloud.

Already he was shown so perfectly The awful mystic grace and sanctity Of all the earth, there was no part his feet With sandal covering might dare to tread; Because that in it he was sure to meet The fair sword-bearing angels, or some dread Eternal prophet numbered with the dead.

So he believed that he should purify His body, till the sin of it should die, And the unfailing spirit and great word Of One--who is too bright to be beheld, And in his speech too fearful to be heard By mortal man--should come down and be held In him as in those holy ones of eld.

And to believe in this was rapture more Than any that the thought of living bore To tempt him: so the pleasant days of youth Were but the days of striving and of prayer; And all the beauty of those days, forsooth, He counted as an evil or a snare, And would have left it in the desert there.

Ah, spite of all the scourges that had bit So fiercely his fair body, branding it With many a painful over-written vow Of perfect sanctity--what man shall say How often, weak with groanings, he would bow Before the angels of the place, and pray That all his body might consume away?

For through whole bitter days it seemed in vain That all the mighty desert had no stain Of sin around him; that the burning breaths Went forth from the eternal One, and rolled For ever through it, filling it with deaths, And plagues, and fires; that he did behold The earthquakes and the wonders manifold:

It seemed in vain that all the place was bright Ineffably with that unfading light No man who worketh evil can abide; That he could see too with his open eyes Fair troops of deathless ones, and those that died In martyrdoms, or went up to the skies In fiery cars--walk there with no disguise;--

It seemed in vain that he was there alone With no man’s sin to tempt him but his own;-- Since in his body he did bear about A seeming endless sin he could not quell With the most sharp coercement, nor cast out Through any might of prayer. O, who can tell-- Save God--how often in despair he fell? The very stones seemed purer far than he; And every naked rock and every tree Looked great and calm, composed in one long thought Of holiness; each bird and creeping thing Rejoiced in bearing some bright sign that taught The legend of an ancient minist’ring To some fair saint of old there sojourning.

Yea, all the dumb things and the creatures there Were grand, and some way sanctified; most fair The very lions stood, and had no shame Before the angels; and what time were poured The floods of the Lord’s anger forth, they came Quite nigh the lightnings of the Mount and roared Among the roaring thunders of the Lord:

Yet He--while in him day by day, divine, The clear inspirèd thought went on to shine, And heaven was opening every radiant door Upon his spirit--He, in that fair dress Of weak humanity his senses bore, Did feel scarce worthy to be there, and less Than any dweller in the wilderness.

Wherefore his limbs were galled with many a stone; And often he had wrestled all alone With their fair beauty, conquering the pride And various pleasure of them with some quick And hard inflicted pain that might abide,-- Assailing all the sense with constant prick Until the lust or pride fell faint and sick.

Natheless there grew and stayed upon his face The wonderful unconquerable grace Of a young man made beautiful with love; Because the thought of God was wholly spread Like love upon it; and still fair above All crownèd heads of kings remained his head Whereon the halo of the Lord was shed.

Ah, how long was it, since the first red rush Of that surpassing thought made his cheek blush With pleasure, as he sat--a tender child-- And wondered at the desert, and the long Rough prickly paths that led out to the wild Where all the men of God, holy and strong, Had dwelt and purified themselves--how long?--

Before he rose up from his knees one day, And felt that he was purified as they; That he had trodden out the sin at last, And that the light was filling him within? How many of the months and years had past Uncounted?--But the place he was born in No longer knew him: no man was his kin.

O then it was a most sweet, holy will That came upon him, making his soul thrill With joy indeed, and with a perfect trust,-- For he soon thought of men and of the king All tempted in the world, with gold and lust, And women there, and every fatal thing, And none to save their souls from perishing--

And so he vowed that he would go forth straight From God there in the desert, with the great Unearthliness upon him, and adjure The nations of the whole world with his voice; Until they should resist each pleasant lure Of gold and woman, and make such a choice As his, that they might evermore rejoice.

Thus beautiful and good was He, at length, Who came before King Herod in his strength, And shouted to him with a great command To purify himself, and put away That unclean woman set at his right hand; And after all to bow himself and pray, And be in terror of the Judgment Day!

He never had seen houses like to that Fair-columned, cedar-builded one where sat King Herod. Flawless cedar was each beam, Wrought o’er with flaming brass: along the wall Great brazen images of beasts did gleam, With wondrous flower-works and palm trees tall; And folded purples hung about it all.

He never had beheld so many thrones, As those of ivory and precious stones Whereon the noble company was raised About the king:--he never had seen gems So costly, nor so wonderful as blazed Upon their many crowns and diadems, And trailed upon their garments’ trodden hems:

But he had seen in mighty Lebanon The cedars no man’s axe hath lit upon; And he had often worshipped, falling down In dazzling temples opened straight to him, Where One who had great lightnings for His crown Was suddenly made present, vast and dim Through crowded pinions of the Cherubim!

Wherefore he had no fear to stand and shout To all men in the place, and there to flout Those fair and fearful women who were seen Quite triumphing in that work of their smile To shame a goodly king. And he cast, e’en A sudden awe that undid for a while The made-up shameless visages of guile.

And when Herodias--that many times Polluted one, assured now in all crimes Past fear or turning--when she, her fierce tongue Thrice forked with indignation, hotly spoke Quick wild beseeching words, wherewith she clung To Herod, praying him by some death-stroke To do her vengeance there before all folk--

Ah, spite of every urging that her hate Did put into her lips,--so fair and great Seemed that accuser standing weaponless, Yet wholly terrible with his bright speech As ’twere some sword of flaming holiness, That no man dared to join her and beseech His death; but dread came somehow upon each.

For he was surely terrible to see So plainly sinless, so divinely free To judge them; being in a perfect youth, Yet walking like an angel in a man Reproving all men with inspired truth. And Herod himself spoke not, but began To tremble: through his soul the warning ran.

--Then _that Salome_ did put off the shame Of her mere virgin girlhood, and became A woman! Then she did at once essay Her beauty’s magic, and unfold the wings Of her enchanted feet,--to have men say She slew _him_--born indeed for wondrous things. Her dance was fit to ruin saints or kings.

O, her new beauty was above all praise! She came with dancing in shy devious ways, And while she danced she sang. The virgin bandlet of her forehead brake, Her hair came round her like a shining snake; To loving her men’s hearts within them sprang The while she danced and sang.

Her long black hair danced round her like a snake Allured to each charmed movement she did make; Her voice came strangely sweet; She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me-- Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see?” And what her voice did sing her dancing feet Seemed ever to repeat.

She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me? What sweet I have, I have it all for thee;” And through the dance and song She freed and floated on the air her arms Above dim veils that hid her bosom’s charms: The passion of her singing was so strong It drew all hearts along.

Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air, They seemed like floating flowers the most fair-- White lilies the most choice; And in the gradual bending of her hand There lurked a grace that no man could withstand; Yea, none knew whether hands, or feet, or voice, Most made his heart rejoice.

The veils fell round her like thin coiling mists Shot through by topaz suns, and amethysts, And rubies she had on; And out of them her jewelled body came, And seemed to all quite like a slender flame That curled and glided, and that burnt and shone Most fair to look upon.

Then she began, on that well-polished floor, Whose stones seemed taking radiance more and more From steps too bright to see, A certain measure that was like some spell Of winding magic, wherein heaven and hell Were joined to lull men’s souls eternally In some mid ecstasy:

For it was so inexplicably wrought Of soft alternate motions, that she taught Each sweeping supple limb, And in such intricate and wondrous ways With bendings of her body, that the praise Lost breath upon men’s lips, and all grew dim Save her so bright and slim.

And through the swift mesh’d serpents of her hair That lash’d and leapt on each place white and fair Of bosom or of arm, And through the blazing of the numberless And whirling jewelled fires of her dress, Her perfect face no passion could disarm Of its reposeful charm.

Her head oft drooped as in some languid death Beneath brim tastes of joy, and her rich breath Heaved faintly from her breast; Her long eyes, opened fervently and wide, Did seem with endless rapture to abide In some fair trance through which the soul possest Love, ecstasy, and rest.

But lo--while each man fixed his eyes on her, And was himself quite fillèd with the stir His heart did make within-- The place was full of devils everywhere: They came in from the desert and the air; They came from all the palaces of sin, And each heart they were in:

They lurked beneath the purples, and did crawl Or crouch in unseen corners of the hall, Among the brass and gold; They climbed the brazen pillars till they lined The chamber fair; and one went up behind The throne of Herod--fearful to behold-- The Serpent king of old.

Yea, too, before those blinded men there went Some even to Salome; and they lent Strange charms she did not shun. She stretched her hand forth, and inclined her ear; She knew those men would neither see nor hear: A devil did support her head, and one Her steps’ light fabric spun.

O, then her voice with singing all unveiled, In no trained timid accents, straight assailed King Herod’s open heart: The amorous supplication wove and wound Soft deadly sins about it; the words found Fair traitor thoughts there,--singing snakes did dart Their poison in each part.

She sang, “O look on me, and look on Love: We three are here together, and above-- What heaven may there be? None for thine heart without this spell of mine, Yea, this my beauty, yea, these limbs that shine And make thy senses shudder; and for me, No heaven without thee!

“O, all the passion in me on this day Rises into one song to sweep away The breakers of Love’s bond; For is it not a pleasant bond indeed, And made of all the flowers in life’s mead? And is not Love a master fair and fond? And is not Death beyond?

“O, who are these that will adjure thee, King, To put away this tender flower-thing, This love that is thy bliss? Dost thou think thou canst live indeed, and dare The joyless remnant of pale days, the bare Hard tomb, and feed through cold eternities Thy heart without one kiss?

“Dost thou think empty prayers shall glad thy lips Kept red and living with perpetual sips Of Love’s rich cup of wine? That thy fair body shall not fall away, And waste among the worms that bitter day Thou hast no lover round thy neck to twine Fond arms like these of mine?

“I say they are no prophets,--very deaths, And plagues, and rottenness, do use their breaths Who speak against delight; Pale distant slayers of humanity Have tainted them, and sent them forth to try Weak lures to make man give up joyous right Of days for empty night.

“I tell thee, in their wilderness shall be No herbs enough for food for them and thee, No rock to give thee drink; I tell thee, all their heavens are a cheat, Or but a mirage to betray thy feet, And draw thee quicker to some grave’s dread brink Where thou shalt fall and sink.

“Turn rather unto me, and hear my voice Against these desert howlings, and rejoice: Now surely do I crave To treble this my beauty, and embalm My words with deathless thrill, singing the psalm Of pleasure to thee, King,--so I may save Thy fair days from this grave.

“Yea, now of all my beauty will I strive With these mad prophesiers till I drive Their ravings from thine ear: Against their rudeness I will set my grace, My softness, and the magic of my face; And spite of all their curses thou shalt hear And let my voice draw near:

“Against their loud revilings I will try The long low-speaking pleadings of my sigh, All my heart’s tender way; Against their deserts--here, before thine eyes My love shall open thee a paradise, Where, if thou comest, thou shalt surely stay And seek no better way:

“And rather than these haters of thy joy Should anyhow allure thee to destroy Thy heart’s prosperity,-- O, I will throw my woman’s arms entwined About thy body; ere thy lips can find One word of yielding, I will kiss them dry: --And failing, let me die!

“But look on me, for it is in my soul To make the measure of thy glory whole-- With many goodly things To crown thee, yea, with pleasure and with love, Till there shall scarcely be a name above King Herod’s, in the mouth of one who sings The fame of mighty kings:

“For see how great and fair a realm is this-- My untried love--the never conquered bliss All hoarded in my breast; My beauty and my love were jewels meet To make the glory of a king complete, And I,--O thou of kingship half-possest-- Can crown thee with the rest!

“I stand before thee--on my head the crown Of all thou lackest yet in thy renown-- Ah, King, take this of me! And in my hand I bear a brimming cup That sparkles; to thine eyes I hold it up: A royal draught of life-long pleasure--see, The wine is fit for thee!

“Ah, wilt thou pass me? Wilt thou let me give Thy fair life to some meaner man to live? Nay, here--if I am sweet-- Thou shalt not. I will save thee with the sight Of all my sweetness, save thee with the might And charm of all my singing lips’ deceit, Or with my dancing feet.

“I have indeed some power. A lure lies Within my tender lips--behind my eyes-- Concealed in all my way; And while I seem entreating, I compel, Yea, while I do but plead, I use a spell-- Ah secretly--but surely. Who are they That ever turn away?

“Now, thou hast barely seen bright glittering The gilded cup of pleasures that I swung Before thy reeling gaze,-- The deep beginnings of sweet drunkenness Are in thy heart already, more or less, And on thy soul deliciously there preys A thirst no joy allays.

“Dost thou not feel, each time my long hair sweeps The glowing floor, how through thy being creeps A vague yet sweet desire?-- How writhes in every sense a tiny snake Of pleasure biting till it seems to wake A fever of sharp lusts that never tire, Unquenchable as fire?

“Is there not wrought a madness in thy brain Each time my thin veils part and close again-- Each time their flying ring Is seen a moment’s space encircling me With filmy changes--each time, rapidly Rolled down, their cloud-like gauzes billowing About my limbs they fling?

“Ah, seek not in this moment some cold will; Attend to no false pratings that would kill Thy heart, and make thee fall: But now a little lean to me, and fear My charming. Ah, thy fame to me is dear! Some wound of mine, when me thou couldst not call, Might slay thee after all.

“For even while I sing, the unseen grace Of Love descending hath filled all this place With most strong prevalence; His miracle is raging in the breasts Of all these men, and mightily he rests On me and thee. His power is too intense, No curse shall drive him hence.

“--O, Love, invisible, eternal God, In whose delicious ways all men have trod, This day Thou truly hast My heart: thy inspiration fills my tongue With great angelic madness; I have sung Set words that in my bosom thou hast cast-- Thine am I to the last!

“My feet are like two liquid flames that leap For joy at thee; I feel thy spirit sweep-- Yea, like a southern wind-- Through all the enchanted fibres of my soul; I am a harp o’er which thy vast breaths roll, And one day thou shalt break me: none shall find A wreck of me behind.

“And now all palpitating, O I pray Thy utmost passion while I cry--away With all Love’s enemies! A man--borne up between the closing wings Of two eternities of unknown things, May catch this seraph charmer as he flies, And hold him till he dies;

“And yet some bitter ones, whom coming night Hath wholly entered, grudge man this small right Of joy, and seek to fill His rushing moment with the monstrous hiss Of shapeless terrors, poisoning the bliss Brief nestled in his bosom--merely till Forced out by its death chill!

“What voice is this the envious wilderness Hath sent among us foully to distress And haunt our lives with fear? What vulture, shrieking on the scent of death-- What yelping jackal--what insidious breath Of pestilence hath ventured to draw near, And enter even here?

“No kindred flesh of fair humanity Yon fiend hath, seeking through lives doomed to die Death’s foretaste to infuse: His body is but raised up from the slain Unburied thousands that long years have lain About the desert: Death himself doth choose His pale disguise to use.

“But, even though he be from some new God, He shall not turn us who love’s ways have trod, Nor make us break love’s vow. Nay, rather, if a single beauty dwells In me, if in that beauty there be spells To win my will of any man--O thou, King Herod, hear me now!--

“Let _it_ be for his ruin! Ah, let me, With all in me thou countest fair to see, Procure this and no more! If yet, with tender prevalence, my voice May ask a thing of thee--this is my choice, Though thou wouldst buy my sweets with all thy store-- This all I sell them for.

“Yea, are there lures of softness in my eyes? My eyes are--for his death. Is my heart’s prize A seeming fair reward? My virgin heart is--for his blood here shed; Its passion--for the falling of his head; And on that man my kiss shall be outpoured Who slays him with the sword!”

Invisible--in supernatural haze, Of shapes that seem not shapes to human gaze-- The devils were half awed as they did stand Around her; each one in his separate hell All inwardly was forced to praise her well: And every man was fain to lose his hand Or do all that sweet woman might command.

There was a tumult.--Cloven foot and scale Of fiend with iron heel and coat of mail Were rolled and hustled in the rage to slay That fair young Saviour: when they murdered him And brought his head, still beautiful--though dim And drenched with blood--the aureole did play Above it, slowly vanishing away.

I weep to think of him and his fair light So quenched--of him thrust into some long night Of unaccomplishment so soon, alas! And Thou, who on that ancient palace floor Didst dance, where dost thou writhe now evermore-- Salome, Daughter of Herodias? O woman-viper--may thy curse ne’er pass!

VI

HELEN.

After long years of all that too sweet sin
That held her ever in the far strange land,
She felt her heart was stricken, felt begin
Great strokes of sorrow smiting like a hand.

She turned away from all the long delight
Which had so filled and blinded all the past;
The sweet sin rose up bitter in the night
And turned the love to sickness at the last.

She and her lover in their goodly halls
Gazed on each other no more the old way;
About the face of each clung shadowy palls
Of sadness all unchanged through many a day.

And now, along the fair courts marble-floored,
Each met the looks of other all aghast
With rueful thoughts unstanched yet ne’er outpoured;
And their trailed robes touched mournful as they passed.

Into the lonely paths of Ida sweet
For sorrow, dark and very sweet with leaves,
Came Helen: weary at her bosom beat
The sad thoughts all the summer noons and eves.

Strange: as her eyes sought where the sea was held
Gathered into dim distances of blue,
Down in her heart a dim Past she beheld,
Wherein were memories like an ocean too.

And strange, there, long up-pent, the memories stirred
Like waves long rolling: in her heart at length
All the fair time from which her years had erred
Came up against her now with all its strength.

Back from the earliest love-time there was sent
A tide of all the long untasted sweet
Of days forgotten, summers that were spent,
And eves when love and lover used to meet;

And heavy wafts of perfume that was known
E’en from those dark familiar laurel trees
That hid where love and lover were alone
Rolled back upon the heart with sore disease:

And from the early home there came no less
Than the reproach of each remembered gaze
Of friends, and want of all the happiness
They gave her in their simple Spartan ways.

And now her heart strove, longing, to divine
The several thoughts of her they had devised
In separate years that passed by with no sign;
Yea, to have known their pain she would have prized:

For now when toward them her heart was wrought
Quite weak, and from no tenderness forbore,
They seemed all strong against her, with hard thought
And faces turning from her evermore.

And with the vision of them so deceived
Came piteous memories of the waning face
Of the Old man who sat all shamed and grieved
Lonely beside the hearth’s familiar place.

Before her soon in very semblance gleamed
The Spartan homestead there unaltered, plain,
With all the household things; yea, till she dreamed
All were yet to begin that way again,

And Menelaus the next golden morn
Were still to come for her with wedlock blest,
As though not all deserted and forlorn
He strayed--the lone man without love or rest.

But most she yearned between her fear and love,
To see him now--divining what was due
To wrath and sorrowing to change and move
His features from the fashion that she knew:

For now the first time after all those years
The face seemed anyhow her way to seek;
--But turned upon her now with all its tears
And vengeance of reproach at length to wreak;

--And seemed to hold her through her love come back,
Unforeseen, and how come, she could not tell;
So that the wrath of it, the grief could rack
Her heart,--yet her heart craved therewith to dwell.

He was her husband--it should ever seem;
And that home, surely it was still her home;
And years since some long voyage or a dream;
And now no more the heart was fain to roam:

Nay, but was true to where it felt begin
Love and the rosy ecstasies so brief;
And that was surely love and the rest sin,
That all delight and all the other grief.

And now though none should render her heart’s right
In any fair place where she used to sit,
She would have prayed for a mere alien’s sight
Of all it was so little pain to quit:

Just to draw near, some silent hour, alone,
Unheralded, unwelcomed, and behold
Her husband and remember him her own,
And be quite near him only as of old:

And perchance, for some grief that was exprest
Plainly upon his face, she might have dared
To enter in, and after all been blest
Some remnant of his pity to have shared.

--Alas, too surely, for long years, all thought
And love of her had perished from his heart;
Until on all her memory were wrought
Dishonour, and with him she had no part;

--And this the while, so held of alien joys,
She spared no thought for him and for his pain,
Nor fancied the least echo of his voice
Sent forth a thousand times to her in vain;

When, might-be many a time, his earnest grief
Sent it so truly seeking her quite near,
Vainly it fell on some dumb flower or leaf
Beside her, never cherished in her ear.

And she thought how one day--she heeding nought--
The last voice on the fruitless air was borne
And died almost a taunt, and the last thought
Of her was changed to hate or utter scorn.

And she thought how since that time, day by day,
The man had learnt to live without her need,
And been quite happy perhaps many a way,
All without loving her or taking heed.

And that which was the great woe had scarce grown
In any gradual way; but with a burst
Her life was torn apart from peace, and thrown
Far from the love that seemed its own at first

All for a mere girl’s fancy too--a whim
For foreign faces and some ruddier south,
And no real choice to die away from him
Who won the truest troth in love and youth.

Now it was bitter to be quite outcast,
And bitter--when this thought of dying crost
Her heart--to reach him no more at the last
Than in mere rumour, as of one long lost.

She looked upon the great sea rolled between
Herself and Lacedæmon: but the Past,
The sins and all the falseness that had been
Seemed like an ocean deeper and more vast.

VII.

A TROTH FOR ETERNITY.

--So, Woman! I possess you. Yes, at length.
Once wholly and for ever you are mine!

That cursèd burden on my memory, Your whole past life’s betrayal--let it go: Ay, let it perish, and, for me at least, Let life begin this moment, though we die But three hours hence!

Is this your little voice My Love, enthralling, winning my whole faith With mere increasing sweetness in its tones, Dissolving, exorcising, as it used, Ah too infallibly, the phantom thing, The doubt, the dread within me? ah, my Sweet, Is this once more your voice assuring me-- With some rare music rather than one word Of those fair whispered oaths of constancy; Yea, till, as ever, I am come to smile And glory in you, and believe you pure-- All mine, for ever, past a change in thought?

But no! _It is the little voice of the Steel Here safe against my breast and fairly hid: The Steel is singing to me, very low, A tender song entrancing me_;--O joy! The Steel says you will ne’er escape me more; You will be true to me; you will be mine; No man shall touch you after me; no face, However strangely fair, shall have the art To draw one look from you, to charm and rouse That wondrous little snake of treachery That was for ever lurking for me--sure To spring upon me out of the least look Or promise, safe to be curled up beneath The simplest seeming offering in your hand.

Yes, ’tis a thing at length as good as this The steel is singing to me: did you hear, You should but love it--since it pleads so well It makes me put whole faith in you once more. For now three days and nights indeed--while I, Contending for you with the love I gave Against the curse I owed you, raged and thought It was my madness--O this little voice Was striving with me, singing all the time, Upon a low sweet soothing tune, strange words Of promise that seemed like the distant taunts Of all my past beliefs, and that I sought To cover with my curses; till, last night, My soul grew faint with hearing them--how sweet, How full of good they were. Then I fell still, Yea, stunned, and with my head upon the ground; And through the shut bleared darkness of my eyes, I seemed to see the room about me lit And fearful, and the Sword from off the wall Unscabbarded before me in the midst, Most terrible and living, and in light-- Just like a great archangel with the glare Of burning expiations full on him.

O then my soul did call upon the Steel; And the Steel heard and swore to me. My soul Tore forth the hidden-rooted love of thee, Thy treasured words--each one a cruel worm That gnaws me through for ever, thy fair face From the first inmost shrine, thy early kiss, Thy separate falsenesses, all my despair, My utter helplessness--and flung them down, The very writhing entrails of my life Become one inward horror to be borne No longer. And there came about me, loud, The mocking of a thousand impious tongues, That seemed to clash and rattle hideously From ancient hollow sepulchres of men Long buried and forgotten; for my love Their gibe was, for my faith, for my despair, For my long blindness: and at last I knew, And, understanding, called with a great voice Upon the Steel: and the Steel heard me there, And swore to me--for you and me and God!

_Sing on, O little voice: She cannot hear;_ _There is a pact between us._

Now I stand And feel her eyes’ soft element within, Upon, around me, melting away life Into these few full throbbing moments.--Lo! Her tears again--her disavowal clean Of any thought of falseness. Lo! her words-- I might have lived beside her all these days In perfect joy; words, blandishments and tears Already staggering me with their old might Of coiling fascinations; and one tear A drop that, falling straight into my heart, Fills it too full for speaking a long time The ready thing of pardon and of love.

See! am I Lord here?--This fair sight of Her, Working the whole impassioned prodigy As ’twere of all her beauty, just to win _Me_ this time and, at any cost, be queen Of this one present, as of many pasts-- Hath ever it been fairer, more complete?

Who else hath had her more and called her his Than here I have her calling herself mine? I would indeed he might draw near just now, Yea, void of feigning, in some wonted way, And feel a cold look from her plant him there Outside the circle where this molten love Of her whole smile is showered upon me, And know her no more his now than mine then.

But what do I here with a thought like this? Those men I deemed my rivals--what are they To me now? Why I could put them to shame And taunt them now myself for insolent Pretenders who have never known what ’tis To conquer love.--Ay, what compared with me Seem all the famous lovers of great queens Or splendid cruel mistresses, whose woes-- Deceived, betrayed, reviled--have made them shine With some bright share of every age’s tears? What but mere fools? weak sufferers of wrong From creatures whom they held in their own hands? Or passionless, or lacking any strength To seize their fair worlds passing them so nigh Rather than linger in some sickly trail Of sweetness left behind and die of shame? O all ye Messalinas of old time-- Ye Helens, Cleopatras, ye Dalilahs, Ye Maries, ye Lucrezias, Catharines-- Fair crowned or uncrowned--courtezans alike Who played with men a calculated game-- Your moves their heart-wounds, deaths and ruins--sure Of your inconstancy and their soft loves, Had I been lover in the stead of them, Methinks the histories of you had been changed, And some of your worst falsenesses redeemed By flawless faithfulness to one last love.

But now I am content, I have love here; And I thank God for love--yea, is it sweet? Yea, is it best of all his gifts to man? --I see her splendid smile there--feel her arms Already coming round me!--Who but I Can answer? Who but I have had it whole Like this? _(The Steel is singing to me now, Still hidden in my breast--a low sweet song.)_

Ah, this time there is no doubt! ’tis all true: Her arms may fold me--fondle me, and I May wholly yield myself to their caress Quite sure it leaves no atom in reserve For any other after me. And lo, She is right worthy of a greater one Than all the lovers that have ever loved And, trembling, lost their women and themselves: For splendour--such as stains for me and turns My eyes disgusted from the vaunted white Of many a bosom impudently bared-- Is in that bosom closely veiled, whose veils I may undo--yea now, and with these hands; It is my right. And then, O joy, to know That this, so much more wonderful than those, Shall ne’er be seen by anyone but me! (Ah, sing on little voice!) But, as I said, --Yes, she is worthy!--Come to me, my Sweet: You have the greatest beauty God has made. I think that. Let me kiss your forehead once, Twice, thrice, and say it is diviner white, And hallowed with a brighter radiant grace Than Cleopatra’s was, and swear therewith I kiss it with a passion greater far Than Antony’s was: yea, let me write there This thing in kisses that none can efface. “Ah, you believe me now, dear love?” she says: Yes: I say yes. _(Sing on! ’Twas you sang: yes; You bade me answer so. I trust you most.)_

“Dear Love, let us go lie upon that bed. I should delight to know it just the grave, So I might keep this faith and happiness, That yours--this mine--both safe for evermore, So I might lie down sure that no mischance, No doubt, no calumny, could come to change Me--yours, you--mine, and peace for evermore.”

She says this, and she leads me by the hand.

Her head is like a lily drooping down.

--My passion! Yea I will not baulk thee now: I need not: for I feel that what I am Is something more than man, that conquers man. What is it? I know not: a flame, a thought; But cold, but calm, unalterable, pure, As far above the fume of the base lust That dulls and levels all men, as, perhaps, Was that strange flame or thought that made Man first And Woman then to bring the man to nought, Which fate I, who indeed am not a god, Who am not Hercules, nor Samson, no, Nor Antony--which fate I yet will change. Nay, passion, rather I will urge thee on; For I shall be above thee all the time A cold impartial watcher, hard to foil, Attentive that thou gettest all thine own Not tampered with--lest, in some little thing, Thou art betrayed, or with a semblance served, Yea, for a blind fool as thou ever wert.

--O take thy fill of looking on this snow In which thy heart finds such delicious death; Do out thine utmost revel on the bloom Of this rare flower’s beauty, now at full; Whose summer is just perfected to-night And laid before thee, heightened with the tint Of first mysterious sadness, like a touch Of far-off autumns. Do not shun that mouth: For there, indeed, a thing most dainty-sweet-- The last kiss that was sown a precious seed By Love at the beginning--waits for thee, The fullest, the most perfect of them all. The earth will never fashion forth, and Love Will never with his summer paint again So beautiful a flower.

I am clasped With such arms as I would might hold me so For evermore in heaven. All around, The strange unearthly fragrance of her hair Is coming up, and, with an element Divine as some transparent rosy cloud, Enwrapping both of us; ay, and, as though-- A very cloud of magic--it had borne Us, lifted far away from thought, and life, And days, and earthliness--we seem to voyage Through most ethereal atmospheres, and seas Upon whose soft sustaining waves we drift, And draw no sound from either distant shore Of ending or beginning: and the bliss, Unspeakable and perfect, that we feel Seems making and remaking evermore Our souls through this eternity.

Alas! One little thread--I strive in vain to break-- Is holding me: a memory, a thought, The pricking of a half-numbed wound through sleep, The constant teazing of a wingéd thing, The bitterness wherewith some ceaseless fang Of life gnaws through, and breaks our dream of it-- Some such pursues and racks me. But ’tis well: I know the dream is mine to make my own; I know what dragon guards this paradise, And with what paltry lies he fools mankind. Ah, how the universe must jeer to see All men so smoothly cheated of their own!-- And when I slay this dragon, I have all.

I cannot stir now. Many a knotted tress Is on me, like a thousand-threaded chain Twined many times about my limbs. I dream No more: I feel her small and gliding hands Seek mine; and while the burning rapid words Her full heart furnishes hiss in mine ear, My sight is peering blindly through the dark Of her vast hair--a cavernous abyss Of blackness traversed by mad shooting sparks Or fearful gleams of blood.--What things she says! “--Let this be as it were my bridal night, If you doubt all the Past. I am yours now; Take this for the beginning, and trust me; I will be yours for ever,--not a look, A word, a thought shall e’er dishonour you.”-- And, if I had not heard this very thing Before, once, twice, innumerable times, I should not plunge as I do now, my head Still deeper in the fathomless dark hair, And see tears falling from me--as it seems-- To fall on through a drear eternity.

But, hark, another voice! Whence comes it?--Whence? From here, beneath the pillow; yes, ’tis harsh And not like hers; but speaks a sweet thing--this: _I swear for Her it shall be so: trust Me!_