Part 7 (2/2)

A strange look on the dying man she cast, Then covered up her face and said, ”O past!

Past the sweet times that I remember well!

Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell!

Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine!

How sweet to feel his arms about me twine, And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss To hear his praises! all to come to this, That now I durst not look upon his face, Lest in my heart that other thing have place.

That which I knew not, that which men call hate.

”O me, the bitterness of G.o.d and fate!

A little time ago we two were one; I had not lost him though his life was done, For still was he in me--but now alone Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan, For I must die: how can I live to bear An empty heart about, the nurse of fear?

How can I live to die some other tide, And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried About the portals of that weary land Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand.

”Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone, How hadst thou borne a living soul to love!

Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove, To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to bra.s.s, That through this wondrous world thy soul might pa.s.s, Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be Can a G.o.d give a G.o.d's delights to thee?

Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again, If for one moment only, that sweet pain The love I had while still I thought to live!

Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give My life, my hope?--But thou--I come to thee.

Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me In silence let my last hour pa.s.s away, And men forget my bitter feeble day.”

With that she laid her down upon the bed, And nestling to him, kissed his weary head, And laid his wasted hand upon her breast, Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest Fell on that chamber. The night wore away Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change On things unseen by night, by day not strange, But now half seen and strange; then came the sun, And therewithal the silent world and dun Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound, As men again their heap of troubles found, And woke up to their joy or misery.

But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie, Until Admetus' ancient nurse drew near Unto the open door, and full of fear Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead; Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread, She cried, ”Admetus! art thou dead indeed?

Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed?

Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!”

But with her piercing cry the King awoke, And round about him wildly 'gan to stare, As a bewildered man who knows not where He has awakened: but not thin or wan His face was now, as of a dying man, But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear, As of a man who much of life may bear.

And at the first, but joy and great surprise Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes; But as for something more at last he yearned, Unto his love with troubled brow he turned, For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas!

Her lonely shadow even now did pa.s.s Along the changeless fields, oft looking back, As though it yet had thought of some great lack.

And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed.

And even as the colour lit the day The colour from her lips had waned away; Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness Had come again her faithful heart to bless, Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow, But of her eyes no secrets might he know, For, hidden by the lids of ivory, Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh.

Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung, Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue Refused to utter; yet the just-past night But dimly he remembered, and the sight Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword: Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew, That nought it was but her fond heart and true That all the marvel for his love had wrought, Whereby from death to life he had been brought; That dead, his life she was, as she had been His life's delight while still she lived a queen.

And he fell wondering if his life were gain, So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain; Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes, For as a G.o.d he was.

Then did he rise And gat him down unto the Council-place, And when the people saw his well-loved face Then cried aloud for joy to see him there.

And earth again to them seemed blest and fair.

And though indeed they did lament in turn, When of Alcestis' end they came to learn, Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least, The silence in the middle of a feast, When men have memory of their heroes slain.

So pa.s.sed the order of the world again, Victorious Summer crowning l.u.s.ty Spring, Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting, And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain: And still and still the same the years went by.

But Time, who slays so many a memory, Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen; And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen, Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries.

For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these, The shouters round the throne upon that day.

And for Admetus, he, too, went his way, Though if he died at all I cannot tell; But either on the earth he ceased to dwell, Or else, oft born again, had many a name.

But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame Grew greater, and about her husband's twined Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined.

See I have told her tale, though I know not What men are dwelling now on that green spot Anigh Boebeis, or if Pherae still, With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill Still shows its white walls to the rising sun.

--The G.o.ds at least remember what is done.

Strange felt the wanderers at his tale, for now Their old desires it seemed once more to show Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest, Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;-- --Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain Some s.p.a.ce to try such deeds as now in vain They heard of amidst stories of the past; Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast From out their hands--they sighed to think of it, And how as deedless men they there must sit.

Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time, Whereby, in spite of hope long past away, In spite of knowledge growing day by day Of lives so wasted, in despite of death, With sweet content that eve they drew their breath, And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more Than that dead Queen's beside Boebeis' sh.o.r.e; Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both, Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth, Perchance, to have them told another way.-- So pa.s.sed the sun from that fair summer day.

June drew unto its end, the hot bright days Now gat from men as much of blame as praise, As rainless still they pa.s.sed, without a cloud, And growing grey at last, the barley bowed Before the south-east wind. On such a day These folk amid the trellised roses lay, And careless for a little while at least, Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast: Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide; But through the thick trees wandered far and wide From sun to shade, and shade to sun again, Until they deemed the elders would be fain To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew: Then round about the grave old men they drew, Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet The gra.s.s seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet Unto the elders, as they stood around.

So through the calm air soon arose the sound Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke.

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