Part 46 (1/2)
Then soon was it midnight, and moonset, as we wended Down to the s.h.i.+p, and the merchant-folks' babble.
The oily green waves in the harbour mouth glistened, Windless midnight it was, but the great sweeps were run out, As the cable came rattling mid rich bales on the deck, And slow moved the black side that the ripple was lapping, And I looked and beheld a great city behind us By the last of the moon as the stars were a-brightening, And Pharamond the Freed grew a tale of a singer, With the land of his fathers and the fame he had toiled for.
Yet sweet was the scent of the sea-breeze arising; And I felt a chain broken, a sickness put from me As the sails drew, and merchant-folk, gathered together On the p.o.o.p or the prow, 'gan to move and begone, Till at last 'neath the far-gazing eyes of the steersman By the loitering watch thou and I were left lonely, And we saw by the moon the white horses arising Where beyond the last headland the ocean abode us, Then came the fresh breeze and the sweep of the spray, And the beating of ropes, and the empty sails' thunder, As we s.h.i.+fted our course toward the west in the dawning; Then I slept and I dreamed in the dark I was lying, And I heard her sweet breath and her feet falling near me, And the rustle of her raiment as she sought through the darkness, Sought, I knew not for what, till her arms clung about me With a cry that was hers, that was mine as I wakened.
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, a sweet dream it was, as thy dreams were aforetime.
KING PHARAMOND
Nay not so, my fosterer: thy hope yet shall fail thee If thou lookest to see me turned back from my folly, Lamenting and mocking the life of my longing.
Many such have I had, dear dreams and deceitful, When the soul slept a little from all but its search, And lied to the body of bliss beyond telling; Yea, waking had lied still but for life and its torment.
Not so were those dreams of the days of my kings.h.i.+p, Slept my body--or died--but my soul was not sleeping, It knew that she touched not this body that trembled At the thought of her body sore trembling to see me; It lied of no bliss as desire swept it onward, Who knows through what sundering s.p.a.ce of its prison; It saw, and it heard, and it hoped, and was lonely, Had no doubt and no joy, but the hope that endureth.
--Woe's me I am weary: wend we forward to-morrow?
MASTER OLIVER
Yea, well it may be if thou wilt but be patient, And rest thee a little, while time creepeth onward.
KING PHARAMOND
But tell me, has the fourth year gone far mid my sickness?
MASTER OLIVER
Nay, for seven days only didst thou lie here a-dying, As full often I deemed: G.o.d be thanked it is over!
But rest thee a little, lord; gather strength for the striving.
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, for once again sleep meseems cometh to struggle With the memory of times past: come tell thou, my fosterer, Of the days we have fared through, that dimly before me Are floating, as I look on thy face and its trouble.
MASTER OLIVER
Rememberest thou aught of the lands where we wended?
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, many a thing--as the moonlit warm evening When we stayed by the trees in the Gold-bearing Land, Nigh the gate of the city, where a minstrel was singing That tale of the King and his fate, o'er the cradle Foretold by the wise of the world; that a woman Should win him to love and to woe, and despairing In the last of his youth, the first days of his manhood.
MASTER OLIVER
I remember the evening; but clean gone is the story: Amid deeds great and dreadful, should songs abide by me?
KING PHARAMOND
They shut the young king in a castle, the tale saith, Where never came woman, and never should come, And sadly he grew up and stored with all wisdom, Not wis.h.i.+ng for aught in his heart that he had not, Till the time was come round to his twentieth birthday.
Then many fair gifts brought his people unto him, Gold and gems, and rich cloths, and rare things and dear-bought, And a book fairly written brought a wise man among them, Called the Praising of Prudence; wherein there was painted The image of Prudence:--and that, what but a woman, E'en she forsooth that the painter found fairest;-- Now surely thou mindest what needs must come after?
MASTER OLIVER