Part 2 (2/2)
And yet again beware, and make these fears Of none avail; nor waver any more, I pray thee: for already to the sh.o.r.e Of all delights and joys thou drawest nigh.”
He spoke, and from the chamber straight did fly To highest heaven, and going softly then, Wearied the father of all G.o.ds and men With prayers for Psyche's immortality.
Meantime went Zephyrus across the sea, To bring her sisters to her arms again, Though of that message little was he fain, Knowing their malice and their cankered hearts.
For now these two had thought upon their parts And made up a false tale for Psyche's ear; For when awaked, to her they drew anear, Sobbing, their faces in their hands they hid, Nor when she asked them why this thing they did Would answer aught, till trembling Psyche said, ”Nay, nay, what is it? is our father dead?
Or do ye weep these tears for shame that ye Have told him not of my felicity, To make me weep amidst my new-found bliss?
Be comforted, for short the highway is To my forgiveness: this day shall ye go And take him gifts, and tell him all ye know Of this my unexpected happy lot.”
Amidst fresh sobs one said, ”We told him not But by good counsel did we hide the thing, Deeming it well that he should feel the sting For once, than for awhile be glad again, And after come to suffer double pain.”
”Alas! what mean you, sister?” Psyche said, For terror waxing pale as are the dead.
”O sister, speak!” ”Child, by this loving kiss,”
Spake one of them, ”and that remembered bliss We dwelt in when our mother was alive, Or ever we began with ills to strive, By all the hope thou hast to see again Our aged father and to soothe his pain, I charge thee tell me,--Hast thou seen the thing Thou callest Husband?”
Breathless, quivering, Psyche cried out, ”Alas! what sayest thou?
What riddles wilt thou speak unto me now?”
”Alas!” she said; ”then is it as I thought.
Sister, in dreadful places have we sought To learn about thy case, and thus we found A wise man, dwelling underneath the ground In a dark awful cave: he told to us A horrid tale thereof, and piteous, That thou wert wedded to an evil thing, A serpent-bodied fiend of poisonous sting, b.e.s.t.i.a.l of form, yet therewith lacking not E'en such a soul as wicked men have got.
Thus ages long agone the G.o.ds made him, And set him in a lake hereby to swim; But every hundred years he hath this grace, That he may change within this golden place Into a fair young man by night alone.
Alas, my sister, thou hast cause to groan!
What sayest thou?--_His words are fair and soft;_ _He raineth loving kisses on me oft,_ _Weeping for love; he tells me of a day_ _When from this place we both shall go away,_ _And he shall kiss me then no more unseen,_ _The while I sit by him a glorious queen_---- --Alas, poor child! it pleaseth thee, his kiss?
Then must I show thee why he doeth this: Because he willeth for a time to save Thy body, wretched one! that he may have Both child and mother for his watery h.e.l.l-- Ah, what a tale this is for me to tell!
”Thou prayest us to save thee, and we can; Since for nought else we sought that wise old man, Who for great gifts and seeing that of kings We both were come, has told us all these things, And given us a fair lamp of hallowed oil That he has wrought with danger and much toil; And thereto has he added a sharp knife, In forging which he well-nigh lost his life, About him so the devils of the pit Came swarming--O, my sister, hast thou it?”
Straight from her gown the other one drew out The lamp and knife, which Psyche, dumb with doubt And misery at once, took in her hand.
Then said her sister, ”From this doubtful land Thou gav'st us royal gifts a while ago, But these we give thee, though they lack for show, Shall be to thee a better gift,--thy life.
Put now in some sure place this lamp and knife, And when he sleeps rise silently from bed And hold the hallowed lamp above his head, And swiftly draw the charmed knife across His cursed neck, thou well may'st bear the loss, Nor shall he keep his man's shape more, when he First feels the iron wrought so mysticly: But thou, flee unto us, we have a tale, Of what has been thy lot within this vale, When we have 'scaped therefrom, which we shall do By virtue of strange spells the old man knew.
Farewell, sweet sister! here we may not stay, Lest in returning he should pa.s.s this way; But in the vale we will not fail to wait Till thou art loosened from thine evil fate.”
Thus went they, and for long they said not aught, Fearful lest any should surprise their thought, But in such wise had envy conquered fear, That they were fain that eve to bide anear Their sister's ruined home; but when they came Unto the river, on them fell the same Resistless languor they had felt before.
And from the blossoms of that flowery sh.o.r.e Their sleeping bodies soon did Zephyr bear, For other folk to hatch new ills and care.
But on the ground sat Psyche all alone, The lamp and knife beside her, and no moan She made, but silent let the long hours go, Till dark night closed around her and her woe.
Then trembling she arose, for now drew near The time of utter loneliness and fear, And she must think of death, who until now Had thought of ruined life, and love brought low; And with, that thought, tormenting doubt there came, And images of some unheard-of shame, Until forlorn, entrapped of G.o.ds she felt, As though in some strange h.e.l.l her spirit dwelt.
Yet driven by her sisters' words at last, And by remembrance of the time now past, When she stood trembling, as the oracle With all its fearful doom upon her fell, She to her hapless wedding-chamber turned, And while the waxen tapers freshly burned She laid those dread gifts ready to her hand, Then quenched the lights, and by the bed did stand, Turning these matters in her troubled mind; And sometimes hoped some glorious man to find Beneath the lamp, fit bridegroom for a bride Like her; ah, then! with what joy to his side Would she creep back in the dark silent night; But whiles she quaked at thought of what a sight The lamp might show her; the hot rush of blood The knife might shed upon her as she stood, The dread of some pursuit, the hurrying out, Through rooms where every sound would seem a shout Into the windy night among the trees, Where many a changing monstrous sight one sees, When nought at all has happed to chill the blood.
But as among these evil thoughts she stood, She heard him coming, and straight crept to bed.
And felt him touch her with a new-born dread, And durst not answer to his words of love.
But when he slept, she rose that tale to prove.
And sliding down as softly as might be, And moving through the chamber quietly, She gat the lamp within her trembling hand, And long, debating of these things, did stand In that thick darkness, till she seemed to be A dweller in some black eternity, And what she once had called the world did seem A hollow void, a colourless mad dream; For she felt so alone--three times in vain She moved her heavy hand, three times again It fell adown; at last throughout the place Its flame glared, lighting up her woeful face, Whose eyes the silken carpet did but meet, Grown strange and awful, and her own wan feet As toward the bed she stole; but come thereto Back with dosed eyes and quivering lips, she threw Her lovely head, and strove to think of it, While images of fearful things did flit Before her eyes; thus, raising up the hand That bore the lamp, one moment did she stand As man's time tells it, and then suddenly Opened her eyes, but scarce kept back a cry At what she saw; for there before her lay The very Love brighter than dawn of day; And as he lay there smiling, her own name His gentle lips in sleep began to frame, And as to touch her face his hand did move; O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love, And she began to sob, and tears fell fast Upon the bed.--But as she turned at last To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing That quenched her new delight, for flickering The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there The meaning of that sad sight knew full well, Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.
Then on her knees she fell with a great cry, For in his face she saw the thunder nigh, And she began to know what she had done, And saw herself henceforth, unloved, alone, Pa.s.s onward to the grave; and once again She heard the voice she now must love in vain ”Ah, has it come to pa.s.s? and hast thou lost A life of love, and must thou still be tossed One moment in the sun 'twixt night and night?
And must I lose what would have been delight, Untasted yet amidst immortal bliss, To wed a soul made worthy of my kiss, Set in a frame so wonderfully made?
”O wavering heart, farewell! be not afraid That I with fire will burn thy body fair, Or cast thy sweet limbs piecemeal through the air; The fates shall work thy punishment alone, And thine own memory of our kindness done.
”Alas! what wilt thou do? how shalt thou bear The cruel world, the sickening still despair, The mocking, curious faces bent on thee, When thou hast known what love there is in me?
O happy only, if thou couldst forget, And live unholpen, lonely, loveless yet, But untormented through the little span That on the earth ye call the life of man.
Alas! that thou, too fair a thing to die, Shouldst so be born to double misery!
”Farewell! though I, a G.o.d, can never know How thou canst lose thy pain, yet time will go Over thine head, and thou mayst mingle yet The bitter and the sweet, nor quite forget, Nor quite remember, till these things shall seem The wavering memory of a lovely dream.”
Therewith he caught his shafts up and his bow, And striding through the chambers did he go, Light all around him; and she, wailing sore, Still followed after; but he turned no more, And when into the moonlit night he came From out her sight he vanished like a flame, And on the threshold till the dawn of day Through all the changes of the night she lay.
At daybreak when she lifted up her eyes, She looked around with heavy dull surprise, And rose to enter the fair golden place; But then remembering all her piteous case She turned away, lamenting very sore, And wandered down unto the river sh.o.r.e; There, at the head of a green pool and deep, She stood so long that she forgot to weep, And the wild things about the water-side From such a silent thing cared not to hide; The dace pushed 'gainst the stream, the dragon-fly, With its green-painted wing, went flickering by; The water-hen, the l.u.s.tred kingfisher, Went on their ways and took no heed of her; The little reed birds never ceased to sing, And still the eddy, like a living thing, Broke into sudden gurgles at her feet.
But 'midst these fair things, on that morning sweet, How could she, weary creature, find a place?
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