Complete works of willia.., p.335
Complete Works of William Morris, page 335
By Argo’s prow flew o’er the shifting way
Unseen of all, and turned them still to land;
And as they went the Thracian’s cunning hand
Stole o’er the harp-strings till Arion’s steeds
Gat them from ‘twixt the tangled water-weeds,
And lifted listening heads above the sea,
And sea-birds, pensive with the harmony,
About the mast, above the singer hung,
With quivering wings, as from full heart he sung:
O DEATH, that maketh life so sweet,
O fear, with mirth before thy feet,
What have ye yet in store for us,
The conquerors, the glorious?
Men say: For fear that thou shouldst die
To-morrow, let to-day pass by
Flower-crowned and singing; yet have we
Passed our to-day upon the sea,
Or in a poisonous unknown land,
With fear and death on either hand,
And listless when the day was done
Have scarcely hoped to see the sun
Dawn on the morrow of the earth,
Nor in our hearts have thought of mirth.
And while the world lasts, scarce again
Shall any sons of men bear pain
Like we have borne, yet be alive.
SO surely not in vain we strive
Like other men for our reward;
Sweet peace and deep, the chequered sward
Beneath the ancient mulberry-trees,
The smooth-paved gilded palaces,
Where the shy thin-clad damsels sweet
Make music with their gold-ringed feet.
The fountain court amidst of it,
Where the short-haired slave maidens sit,
While on the veined pavement lie
The honied things and spicery
Their arms have borne from out the town
THE dancers on the thymy down
In summer twilight, when the earth
Is still of all things but their mirth,
And echoes borne upon the wind
Of others in like way entwined.
THE merchant town’s fair market-place,
Where over many a changing face
The pigeons of the temple flit,
And still the outland merchants sit
Like kings above their merchandise,
Lying to foolish men and wise.
AH! if they heard that we were come
Into the bay, and bringing home
That which all men have talked about,
Some men with rage, and some with doubt,
Some with desire, and some with praise;
Then would the people throng the ways,
Nor heed the outland merchandise,
Nor any talk, from fools or wise,
But tales of our accomplished quest.
WHAT soul within the house shall rest
When we come home? The wily king
Shall leave his throne to see the thing;
No man shall keep the landward gate,
The hurried traveller shall wait
Until our bulwarks graze the quay,
Unslain the milk-white bull shall be
Beside the quivering altar-flame;
Scarce shall the maiden clasp for shame
Over her breast the raiment thin
The morn that Argo cometh in.
THEN cometh happy life again
That payeth well our toil and pain
In that sweet hour, when all our woe
But as a pensive tale we know,
Nor yet remember deadly fear;
For surely now if death be near,
Unthought-of is it, and unseen
When sweet is, that hath bitter been.
THUS sung the Thracian, and the rowing-folk
Sent Argo quivering with the well-timed stroke
Over the green hills, through great clouds of spray,
And as they went upon their happy way
About the deck the longing men would stand
With wistful eyes still gazing for the land;
Which yet they saw not, till the cool fresh night
Had come upon them, with no lack of light,
For moon and stars shone brightly overhead,
Nor through the night did Iris fail to lead
The wave-tossed Argo o’er the glittering sea.
So as the moon set, did there seem to be
Upon their larboard, banks of high-piled cloud,
Which from their sight the last dark hour did shroud.
Then came the twilight, and those watchers fain
Against the eastern light beheld again
The clouds unchanged, and as the daylight grew,
Lynceus cried out: Some land we draw unto!
Look forth, Erginus, on these mountains grey,
If thou, perchance, hast seen them ere to-day,
Therewith all turned about, and some men ran
To hear what words the God-begotten man
Would give them back, who answered thus, and said:
The man we left ere Aea’s wall we made,
Might tell us this, the godlike Hercules;
Yet I myself think that the landless seas
No more shall vex us now, but that we come
Unto the gates that look into our home:
So trim the sails, for thither will I steer,
Seeking what lies beyond with little fear,
Since surely now I see the Iberian land
That ‘gainst the shore of Africa doth stand,
To break these mighty billows, ever pressed
Each against each from out the landless west.
So with glad hearts all men his bidding did,
And swiftly through the water Argo slid,
Till as the sun rose were they near the strait,
At whose mouth but a little did they wait
Till they had eaten, pouring honied wine
Unto the Gods, then biding no new sign,
They cried aloud, and running out the oars,
They swept great Argo midmost ‘twixt the shores
Of either land, and as her gilded prow
Cleft the new waters, clean forgotten now
Grew all the wasteful washing of the main,
And clean forgotten the dull hopeless pain,
In the great swirling river left so long,
And in all hearts was memory fresh and strong
Of the bright Grecian headlands, and the bay
They left astern upon a glorious day.
LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON: BOOK XIII.
Medea sees Circe, and has good counsel from her.
ALONG the shore next day their way they went,
And many a headland passed and many a bent
Known of Erginus: in that land there were
No towns, said he, but still from year to year
Well-nigh untilled the earth her produce gave,
And many a herd the houseless people drave,
And using neither roof nor sheltering wall,
Dwelt but in tents, and knew no need at all.
With that he bade them trim the bellying sail,
For from the land now blew a gentle gale,
Spice-laden, warm, that made their full hearts yearn
For unseen things; but soon they left astern
That fruitful place, the lion-haunted land,
Nor saw but tumbling seas on either hand.
Three days they sailed, and passed on the third day
A rock-bound coast upon their left that lay,
But on the morrow eve made land again,
Stretched right ahead across the watery plain,
Whereto ere nightfall did they draw anear,
And so lay-to till dawn with little fear;
For from the shore a light, soft land-wind blew.
BUT as the dead night round about them drew,
The ceaseless roar of savage beasts they heard,
Mingled with sounds like cries of men afeard,
And blare of horns, and clank of heavy chains,
And noise of bells, such as in moonlit lanes
Rings from the grey team on the market-night.
And with these noises did they see a light,
That seemed to light some crown of palaces,
Shining from out a grove of thick-set trees.
Then did the Minyæ doubt if they were come
Unto some great king’s well-adorned home,
Or if some temple of a God were there,
Or if, indeed, the spirits of the air
Haunted that place: so slowly passed away
The sleepless night, and at the dawn of day
Their longing eyes beheld a lovely land,
Green meadows rising o’er a yellow strand,
Well-set with fair fruit-bearing trees, and groves
Of thick-leaved elms all populous of doves;
And watered by a wandering clear green stream;
And through the trees they saw a palace gleam
Of polished marble, fair beyond man’s thought.
There as they lay, the sweetest scents were brought
By sighing winds across the bitter sea,
And languid music breathed melodiously,
Steeping their souls in such unmixed delight,
That all their hearts grew soft, and dim of sight
They grew, and scarce their hands could grip the oar,
And as they slowly neared the happy shore
The young men well-nigh wept, and e’en the wise
Thought they had reached the gate of Paradise.
BUT ‘midst them all Medea thoughtfully
Gazed landward o’er the ripple of the sea,
And said no word, till from her precious things
She drew a casket full of chains and rings,
And took therefrom a chaplet brown and sere,
And set it on her head: and now being near
The yellow strand, high on the poop she stood,
And said: O heroes, what has chilled your blood,
That in such wise ye gaze upon this land
With tearful eye, and nerveless, languid hand,
And heaving breast, and measureless desire?
Be wise, for here the never-dying fire,
The God-begotten wonder, Circe, lights,
The wise of women, framer of delights
That being of man once felt, he ne’er shall cease
To long for vainly, as the years increase
On his dulled soul, shut in some bestial form.
And good it had been that some bitter storm
Were tossing Argo’s planks from sea to sea,
Than ye had reached this fair land, but for me,
Who amid tears and prayers, and nameless pain,
Some little wisdom have made shift to gain:
Look forth upon the green shore, and behold
Those many beasts, all collared with fine gold,
Lions and pards, and small-eyed restless bears,
And tusked boars, who from uneasy lairs
Are just come forth; nor is there ‘mongst them one
But once walked upright underneath the sun,
And had the name of man: such shall ye be,
If from the ship ye wander heedlessly,
But safely I my kinswoman may meet,
And learn from her the bitter and the sweet
That waits us ere ye come to Greece again,
And see the wind-swept green Thesalian plain.
Meanwhile, let nothing tempt you to the land,
Nor unto anything stretch forth the hand
That comes from shore, for all that wander there
Are but lost men and their undoers fair.
BUT with that word they furrowed the wet sand,
And straight they ran the gangway out to land,
O’er which, with girded raiment, passed the queen;
But now another marvel was there seen,
For to the shore, from many a glade and lawn,
The golden-collared sad-eyed beasts were drawn
In close-set ranks above the sea-beat shore,
And open-mouthed, with varying moan and roar,
White-foot Medea did they seem to threat;
Whereat the Minyæ on their bow-strings set
The notches of their arrows, but the maid
Turned round about, with calm face unafraid,
And said: O Minyæ, lay your weapons down,
Nor fear for me; behold this chaplet brown,
Whose withered leaves rest lightly on my head,
This is the herb that Gods and mortals dread,
The Pontic Moly, the unchanging charm.
Then up the beach she passed, and her white arm
This way and that the leopards thrust aside,
And ‘mid the grisly swine her limbs did glide,
And on a lion’s mane her hand she laid;
But still with moans they thronged about the maid,
As she passed onward to the palace white,
Until the elm-groves hid her from the sight.
Then they with fearful hearts did sacrifice
Unto the Gods in their seafaring wise,
But of the lovely land were they so fain
That their return they scarcely counted gain,
Unto the green plain dotted o’er with folds
And that fair bay that Pelion beholds.
MEANWHILE Medea through the thick-leaved grove
Passed underneath the moaning of the dove,
Not left by those strange beasts; until at last
Her feet from off the thin long herbage passed
Unto a sunny space of daisied sward,
From which a strange-wrought silver grate did guard
A lovely pleasance, set with flowers, foursquare,
On three sides ending in a cloister fair
That hid the fair feet of a marble house,
Carved thick with flowers and stories amorous:
And midmost of the slender garden-trees
A gilded shrine stood set with images,
Wherefrom the never-dying fire rose up
Into the sky, and a great jewelled cup
Ran over ever from a runlet red
Of fragrant wine, that ‘mid the blossoms shed
Strange scent that grapes yield not to any man,
While round about the shrine four streamlets ran
From golden founts to freshen that green place.
So there Medea stayed a little space,
Gazing in wonder through the silver rail
That fenced that garden from the wooded vale;
For damsels wandered there in languid wise
As though they wearied of that Paradise,
Their jewelled raiment dragging from its stalk
The harmless daisy in their listless walk.
But though from rosy heel to golden head
Most fair they were and wrought with white and red,
Like to the casket-bearer who beguiled
The hapless one, and though their lips still smiled,
Yet to the Colchian heavy-eyed they seemed,
And each at other gazed as though she dreamed;
Not noting aught of all the glorious show
She joined herself, nor seeming more to know
What words she spoke nor what her fellows sung,
Nor feeling arms that haply round her clung.
For here and there the Colchian maid could see
Some browned seafarer kissing eagerly
White feet or half-bared bosom, and could hear
A rough voice stammering low ‘twixt love and fear
Amid the dreamy murmur of the place,
As on his knees, with eager upturned face,
Some man would pour forth many a fruitless word,
That did but sound like song of a wild bird
Unto his love; while she for all reply,
Still gazing on his flushed face wearily,
Would undo clasp and belt, and show to him
Undreamed-of loveliness of side or limb.
And in such guise of half-stripped jewelled weed,
The men entrapped, Medea saw them lead
Into the dark cool cloister, whence again
They came not forth, but four-foot, rough of mane,
Uncouth with spots, baneful of tooth and claw.
BUT when the sad-eyed beasts about her saw
These coming towards them and beheld the gate
Open and shut, and fellows to that state
New come, they whined, and brushing round her feet
Prayed for return unto that garden sweet,
Their own undoing once, that yet shall be
Death unto many a toiler of the sea;
Because all these outside the wicket white
Were men though speechless; and in all despite
Of what they seemed to be, none otherwise,
Did longing torture them, than when in guise
Of men they stood before that garden green,
And first their eyes the baneful place had seen.
But now the queen grew wrath, for in her way,
Before the gate a yellow lion lay,
A tiger-cat her raiment brushed aside,
And o’er her feet she felt a serpent glide,
The swine screamed loud about her, and a pard
Her shining shoulder of its raiment bared
With light swift clutch; then she from off her head
Took the sere moly wreath, and therewith said:
What do ye, wretches? know ye not this sign,
That whoso wears is as a thing divine?
Get from this place, for never more can ye
Become partakers of the majesty
That from man’s soul looks through his eager eyes.
Go; wail that ever ye were made so wise
As men are made; who chase through smooth and rough
Their own undoing, nor can have enough
Of bitter trouble and entangling woe.
Then slowly from her did those monsters go,
In varied voices mourning for their lot
And that sweet poison ne’er to be forgot.
BUT straight with serious face the Colchian maid
Her slender fingers on the latchet laid
That held the silver gate, and entered in;
Nor did those weary images of sin
Take any heed of her as she passed by,
But, if they met her eyes, stared listlessly,
Like those who walk in sleep, and as they dream
Turn empty faces to the lightning’s gleam,
And murmur softly while the thunder rolls.
SWIFTLY she passed those bodies void of souls,
And through the darkling corridor she passed,
