Complete works of willia.., p.336
Complete Works of William Morris, page 336
And reached a huge adorned hall at last,
Where sat alone the undying sorceress,
Upon whose knees an open book did press,
Wherein strange things unknown of Gods she read;
A golden vine-bough wreathed her golden head,
And her fair body a thin robe did touch
With silken folds, but hid it not so much
As the cool ripple hides Diana’s feet,
When through the brook the roe-deer, slim and fleet,
She follows at the dawning of the day.
Smiling, she put the wondrous book away
As the light footsteps fell upon her ear,
She raised her head, and when the queen drew near,
She said: O wanderer from dark sea to sea,
I greet thee well, and dear thou art to me;
Though verily if I could wish for aught,
I could have wished thou hadst been hither brought
Ere that had happed to thee that haps to all,
Into the troublous sea of love to fall;
Then like unto the Gods shouldst thou have been,
Nor ever died, but sitting here have seen
The fashion of the foolish world go by,
And drunk the cup of power and majesty.
But now it may not be, and thou must come
With him thou boughtest, to a troublous home.
But since indeed the fates will have it so,
Take heed thou dost the things I bid thee do.
Whereas thou here wouldst cleanse thy soul of blood,
The kindred stream that reddened the wild flood
‘Twixt yellow Phasis and the green-ridged sea,
Behold, this is not possible to me,
Nor ever must another altar stand
In this green nook of the Italian land,
To aught but me, no, not unto my Sire;
But unto him shall ye light ruddy fire,
When drawing nigh to your desired home
Unto the headland of Malea ye come;
And then, indeed, I bid you not to spare
Spices and golden things and raiment fair,
But to the country folk give things of price,
And from them take wherewith to sacrifice,
A hundred milkwhite bulls, a hundred kine,
And many a jar of unmixed honied wine,
And, crowned with olive, round the altars sing
Unto the God who gladdens everything,
Thy father’s father, the all-seeing Sun.
And then the deed thy Jason’s spear has done
Mayst thou forget, it shall not visit thee.
Moreover, sailing hence across the sea,
A waste of yellow sand shall ye pass by
‘Neath the Trinacrian cliffs, whereon shall lie
Fair women, fairer than thine eyes have seen.
And if thou still wouldst be a Grecian queen,
When to that deadly place ye draw anear,
And sweetest music ye begin to hear,
Bid your bold love steer Argo from the land,
While Thracian Orpheus takes his harp in hand,
And sings thereto some God-delighting strain.
And surely else shall all your toil be vain,
For deadlier than my gardens are those sands;
And when the mariner’s toil-hardened hands
Reach out unto those bodies fair and white,
They clasp but death instead of their delight.
But, doing as I bid, Malea reach,
And after, nigh Iolchos Argo beach,
Yet at the city haste ye not to land,
For still the sceptre presses Pelias’ hand,
And Aeson is at rest for evermore;
Bid then thy folk lurk by some wooded shore,
And to the white-walled city straightly wend
Thyself alone, and safely there make end
Of the King’s life; nor need I teach thee how,
For deep unfailing wiles thy soul doth know.
What more? what more ? I see thy grey eyes ask,
What course, what ending to the tangled task
The Gods have set before me, ere I die?
O child, I know all things, indeed, but why
Shouldst thou know all, nor yet be wise therefor?
Me knowledge grieves not, thee should it grieve sore;
Nor knowing, shouldst thou cease to hope or fear.
What! do men think of death ere it draws near?
Not so, else surely would they stint their strife,
For lengthening out their little span of life,
But where each found himself there should he sit,
Not moving hand or foot for thought of it.
Wherefore the Gods, wishing the earth to teem
With living wills like theirs, nor as a dream
To hold but beauty and the lives of beasts,
That they may have fair stories for their feasts,
Have given them all forgetfulness of death,
Longings and hopes, and joy in drawing breath,
And they live happy, knowing nought at all,
Nor what death is, when that shall chance to fall.
For while he lives, few minutes certainly
Does any man believe that he shall die.
Ah, what? thou hang’st thine head, and on thy feet
Down rain the tears from thy grey eyes and sweet;
Weep not, nor pity thine own life too much:
Not painless shall it be, indeed, nor such
As the Gods live in their unchanged abode,
And yet not joyless; no unmeasured load
Of sorrows shall thy dull soul learn to bear,
With nought to keep thee back from death but fear,
Of what thou know’st not, knowing nought but pain.
But though full oft thou shall lift hands in vain,
Crying to what thou know’st not in thy need,
And blind with agony, yet oft, indeed,
Shalt thou go nigh to think thyself divine,
For love of what. thou deemest to be thine,
For joy of what thou dreamest cannot die.
Live then thy life, nor ask for misery,
Most certain if thou knewest what must be,
And then, at least, this shall not hap to thee,
To be like those who people my sad groves,
Beneath the moaning of the grey-winged doves.
And midst all pain and joy, and right and wrong,
Thy name shall be a solace and a song
While the world lasts, if this avail thee aught.
FAREWELL, O child, whose feet alone have brought
An earthly damsel to my house of gold,
For surely those thou didst erewhile behold
These hands have made, and can unmake again,
Nor know they aught of love, or fear, or pain.
Go, loiter not, this place befits thee nought,
Thou knowest many things full dearly bought,
And well I love thee, being so wise and fair,
But what is knowledge in this deadly air,
That floats about thee, poisoning hearts of man?
Behold I see thy cheeks, that erst were wan,
Flaming with new desire, and in thine eyes
Shine out new thoughts that from thine heart arise;
Gird up thy raiment, nor run slower now
Than from the amorous bearer of the bow
Once Daphne ran; nor yet forget the word
That thou from deadly lips this day hast heard.
SO said she, and thereat the Colchian maid
Turned from her fair face shuddering and afraid,
With beating heart, and flushed face like the rose
That in the garden of Damascus grows,
And catching up her raiment, hurried through
The mighty hall, where thick the pillars blue
Stood like a dream to hold the roof aloft;
But as she left it, musky odours soft
Were cast about her by the dallying breeze,
That through the heavy-fruited garden-trees
Blew o’er those golden heads and bodies white,
And limbs well made for manifold delight,
From ‘twixt whose fingers and the strings, did flow
Sweet music such as Helicon might know.
But dizzied, hurrying through the place she past,
Nor any look upon their beauty cast,
Nor any thought unto the music gave,
But set herself her own vext soul to save
From that dread place; beginning now to run
Like to a damsel of the lightfoot One,
Who oft from twilight unto twilight goes
Through still dark woods, where never rough wind blows.
So, the grove passed, she made good speed to reach
The edges of the sea, the wind-swept beach;
But as she ran, afar the heroes saw
Her raiment fluttering, and made haste to draw
Their two-edged swords, and their strong bows to string,
Doubting that she was chased of some dread thing;
And Jason leapt ashore, and toward her ran,
And with him went the arrow-loving man,
The wise Arcadian, and the Minyæ
Got ready shielded Argo for the sea.
But ere these met her, with uplifted hand,
She cried: Turn back, nor deeper in this land
Thrust ye your souls; nought chases me but fear,
And all is well if on the sea we were;
Yea, if we once were free from fear and spell,
Then, truly, better were all things than well.
Thereat they stayed, but onward still she ran
Until she reached them, and the godlike man
Took by the arm, and hurrying him along,
Stayed not until their feet were set among
The last faint ripples of the gentle sea,
Wherefrom they boarded Argo speedily,
And Jason bid all men unto the oar.
WITH that they left the fair death-bearing shore,
Not gladlier than some fair young man may leave
His love, upon the odorous summer eve,
When she turns sighing to her father’s house,
And leaves him there alone and amorous,
Heartsick with all that shame has let him see,
Grieved that no bolder he has dared to be.
LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON: BOOK XIV.
The Sirens. The Garden of the Hesperides. The heroes do sacrifice at Malea.
ACROSS the open sea they drew their wake
For three long days, and when the fourth ‘gan break
Their eyes beheld the fair Trinacrian shore,
And there-along they coasted two days more.
Then first Medea warned them to take heed,
Lest they should end all memory of their deed
Where dwell the Sirens on the yellow sand,
And folk should think some tangled poisonous land
Had buried them, or some tumultuous sea
O’er their white bones was tossing angrily;
Or that some muddy river, far from Greece,
Drove seaward o’er the ringlets of the Fleece.
But when the Minyæ hearkened to this word,
With many a thought their wearied hearts were stirred,
And longing for the near-gained Grecian land,
Where in a little while their feet should stand;
Yet none the less like to a happy dream,
Now, when they neared it, did their own home seem,
And like a dream the glory of their quest,
And therewithal some thought of present rest
Stole over them, and they were fain to sigh,
Hearkening the sighing restless wind go by.
But hard on even of the second day,
As o’er the gentle waves they took their way,
The orange-scented land-breeze seemed to bear
Some other sounds unto the listening ear
Than all day long they had been hearkening,
The land-born signs of many a well-known thing.
Thereat Medea trembled, for she knew
That nigh the dreadful sands at last they drew,
For certainly the Sirens’ song she heard,
Though yet her ear could shape it to no word,
And by their faces could the queen behold
How sweet it was, although no tale it told,
To those worn toilers o’er the bitter sea.
NOW, as they sped along, they presently,
Rounding a headland, reached a little bay
Wailed from the sea by splintered cliffs and grey,
Capped by the thymy hills’ green wind-beat head,
Where ‘mid the whin the burrowing rabbits fed.
And ‘neath the cliff they saw a belt of sand,
‘Twixt Nereus’ pasture and the high scarped land,
Whereon, yet far off, could their eyes behold
White bodies moving, crowned and girt with gold,
Wherefrom it seemed that lovely music welled.
So when all this the grey-eyed queen beheld,
She said: O Jason, I have made thee wise
In this and other things; turn then thine eyes
Seaward, and note the ripple of the sea,
Where there is hope as well as fear for thee.
Nor look upon the death that lurketh there
‘Neath the grey cliff, though sweet it seems and fair;
For thou art young upon this day to die.
Take then the helm, and gazing steadily
Upon the road to Greece, make strong thine hand,
And steer us toward the lion-haunted land:
And thou, O Thracian! if thou e’er hast moved
Men’s hearts with stories of the Gods who loved,
And men who suffered, move them on this day,
Taking the deadly love of death away,
That even now is stealing over them,
While still they gaze upon the ocean’s hem,
Where their undoing is if they but knew.
BUT while she spake, still nigher Argo drew
Unto the yellow edges of the shore,
And little help she had of ashen oar,
For as her shielded side rolled through the sea,
Silent with glittering eyes the Minyæ
Gazed o’er the surge, for they were nigh enow
To see the gusty wind of evening blow
Long locks of hair across those bodies white,
With golden spray hiding some dear delight;
Yea, nigh enow to see their red lips smile,
Wherefrom all song had ceased now for a while,
As though they deemed the prey was in the net,
And they no more had need a bait to set,
But their own bodies, fair beyond man’s thought,
Under the grey cliff, hidden not of aught
But of such mist of tears as in the eyes
Of those seafaring men might chance to rise.
A moment Jason gazed, then through the waist
Ran swiftly, and with trembling hands made haste
To trim the sail, then to the tiller ran,
And thrust aside the skilled Milesian man,
Who with half-open mouth, and dreamy eyes,
Stood steering Argo to that land of lies;
But as he staggered forward, Jason’s hand
Hard on the tiller steered away from land,
And as her head a little now fell off
Unto the wide sea, did he shout this scoff
To Thracian Orpheus: Minstrel, shall we die,
Because thou hast forgotten utterly
What things she taught thee whom men call divine?
Or will thy measures but lead folk to wine,
And scented beds, and not to noble deeds?
Or will they fail as fail the shepherd’s reeds
Before the trumpet, when these sea-witches
Pipe shrilly to the washing of the seas?
I am a man, and these but beasts, and thou
Giving these souls, that all were men ere now,
Shall be a very God and not a man!
So spake he; but his fingers Orpheus ran
Over the strings, and sighing turned away
From that fair ending of the sunny bay;
But as his well-skilled hands were preluding
What his heart swelled with, they began to sing
With pleading voices from the yellow sands,
Clustered together, with appealing hands
Reached out to Argo as the great sail drew,
While o’er their white limbs sharp the spray-shower flew,
Since they spared not to set white feet among
The cold waves heedless of their honied song.
Sweetly they sang, and still the answer came
Piercing and clear from him, as bursts the flame
From out the furnace in the moonless night;
Yet, as their words are no more known aright
Through lapse of many ages, and no man
Can any more across the waters wan
Behold those singing women of the sea,
Once more I pray you all to pardon me,
If with my feeble voice and harsh I sing
From what dim memories yet may chance to cling
About men’s hearts, of lovely things once sung
Beside the sea, while yet the world was young.
Sirens
O HAPPY seafarers are ye,
And surely all your ills are past,
And toil upon the land and sea,
Since ye are brought to us at last.
To you the fashion of the world,
Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned,
And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled,
Are nought, since hither ye have turned.
For as upon this beach we stand,
And o’er our heads the sea-fowl flit,
Our eyes behold a glorious land,
And soon shall ye be kings of it.
Orpheus
A LITTLE more, a little more,
O carriers of the Golden Fleece,
A little labour with the oar,
Before we reach the land of Greece.
E’en now perchance hint rumours reach
Men’s ears of this our victory,
And draw them down unto the beach
To gaze across the empty sea.
But since the longed-for day is nigh,
And scarce a God could stay us now,
Why do ye hang your heads and sigh,
Hindering for nought our eager prow?
Sirens
AH, had ye chanced to reach the home
