Complete works of willia.., p.345
Complete Works of William Morris, page 345
For she herself within her fair-hung room
Had set the warp and watched the fine web glide
Up from the roller, while from side to side,
Scarce seen, the shuttle flew from fingers thin
Of a dark Indian maid, whom gold did win
From some Phœnician, that loved nought but gold.
But sighing now the raiment to behold,
She poured into a well-wrought bowl of brass
The thing that in the phial hidden was,
And therein, fold by fold, the linen laid,
Then for a little while her hands she stayed,
Till it had drunk the moisture thoroughly;
Whereon she took it forth and laid it by,
Far from the sunlight, on her royal bed,
Saying: O thou who hast the hardihead,
Whoe’er thou art, to take from me mine own,
It had been better for thee that of stone
Thy limbs were wrought, nor made to suffer pain,
If this morn’s deed has not been quite in vain.
So saying, did she mutter moodily,
Watching the spread-out linen slowly dry;
At last she took it and within a bright
Fair silver casket hid it from the sight.
This done, about the noble house she went,
And bitterly full oft her eyes she bent
On man and maid, and things grown old and dear,
‘Midst hope of rest, no longer hoped for there.
AND, meantime Jason by the wily king
Still watched, had little joy in anything,
For while with fierce desire his heart still burned,
Yet now again for rest and peace he yearned,
Nor praise of other men yet counted nought,
And somewhat of the coming days he thought,
Arid helpless eld with many memories
Beset, and pictures of reproachful eyes;
Yet thinking of the chain of days and nights
Stretched out all barren of once-hoped delights,
A sorry thing life seemed to him to be,
And one path only from that misery
Seemed open to him…where the fair girl stood,
Within the shadow of the beechen wood.
But while he wavered thus ‘twixt love and fear,
And something of the old time grown too dear
To cast off lightly, Creon noted all;
Fair grew his hope that things should so befall
As he had willed, and in such wise he wrought
That all unto an ending soon he brought.
Therefore it happed that on a July morn,
Jason at last, by many troubles torn,
Mounted his horse, and toward Cleonæ turned.
But as with pale face, and a heart that burned
To end all things in sweet love at the last,
He by the palace of King Creon passed,
There Creon stood before the door, and said:
Where goest thou, O Jason? By my head,
Wilt thou not sit at our high feast to-day?
What do’st thou then, upon the stony way
That leads to Argolis? O King, said he,
I am not meet for your solemnity,
Because the Gods to-day have made me sad;
Nor knew I that high feast should here be had,
But thought to-day to see my arrows fly
Within the green glades of the wood hereby.
Meseems, the king said, Summer yet is young,
And on the wall thy quiver may be hung,
When unto Citheræa’s house of gold
Go thronging man and maid and young and old:
When elders like to me will hold this feast;
Who in their foolish hearts can mourn at least
For days and things that never come again.
Yet, for myself, I shall not feast in vain,
For on this day my daughter comes to me;
Her whom anigh Cleonæ thou didst see;
And she too goes with flower-bearing hands
To kiss the foot that on the tortoise stands.
So saying, did his ancient wily eyes
Behold the blood to Jason’s brow arise,
And inwardly he laughed; but Jason said:
Yea then, O King, to chase my drearihead,
This were a fair sight for mine eyes to see,
And since thou willest, I will go with thee.
Then ‘lighting from his horse, beside the king
He stood, and talked of this or that light thing,
And saw meanwhile full many a wain broad-wheeled,
Laden with blossoms plucked from close and field,
Go toward the temple of the Cyprian queen,
And youths and maidens, wreathed about with green,
Pass singing carols through the listening street.
At last the king said: Come, and let us meet
This joyous band within the very fane.
So forth they went, and soon the place did gain,
Where the fair temple of the Goddess rose
From ‘midst a grassy apple-planted close.
But each side of the door a maid there stood,
Clad in thin silken raiment red as blood,
Who had by her a gilded basket light,
Filled full of blossoms woven for delight,
Wherefrom unto the passing kings they gave
Wreaths bound with gold, that somewhat they might have
To offer to the dread divinity,
Whose image wrought of silver cunningly
Stood ‘neath a canopy of gleaming gold
Midmost the place, where damsels fair did hold
Baskets of flowers, or swung rich censers high;
Then to the precious shrine they drew anigh
And forth stood Creon, and the fragrant wreath
Laid on the altar, and beneath his breath
Some prayer he muttered; and next Jason laid
His gift by Creon’s, but of much afraid,
And hoping much, he made not any prayer
Unto the Goddess; then amid the fair
Slim pillars did he stand beside the king,
Confused as in a dream, and wondering
How all would end. But as they waited thus,
Within that fragrant place and amorous,
Languid grew Jason with the roses’ scent
And with the incense-cloud that ever went
Unto the half-seen golden roof above,
Amongst whose glimmering dusk the grey-winged dove
Hung crooning o’er his wrongs; moreover there
The temple-damsels passed them, shy and fair,
With white limbs shining through their thin attire,
And steadfast eyes, the hearts of men to fire,
Beneath their heavy crowns of roses red;
And veiled sweet voices through the place did shed
Strange fitful music, telling more than words,
Confused by twitter of the restless birds
Within the temple-eaves, and by the doves,
Who ‘mid the pillars murmured of their loves.
But when the pleasure of that temple fair
Had sunk into his soul, upon the air
Was borne the sound of flutes from folk outside,
And soon the greatest doors were opened wide,
And all the rout of worshippers poured in,
Clad in fair raiment, summer-like and thin,
And holding wreaths, part twined of fragrant flowers…
The children of the soft, sweet April showers…
And part of blossoms wrought in ruddy gold.
Now back the incense from the altar rolled
At their incoming, driven by the wind,
And round the pillars of the place it twined,
Enwrapping Jason, so that faint and dim
The fair show of the maidens was to him,
As each upon the altar laid adown
The blossoms mingled with the golden crown,
And prayed her prayer, then passed behind the shrine.
At last from ‘midst that cloud did Venus shine
Before the face of the Thessalian,
Who, with fixed eyes, and lips grown thin and wan,
Stared at the image, little though he saw,
But at her feet a sweet face, grave with awe,
Just bending over toward the silver feet,
Which Glauce with a timid kiss did greet,
And this being done, drew backward murmuring
Her prayer to Venus: Goddess, a small thing
Before this altar do I ask of thee,
That I my hero and my love may see,
That I but therewithal her face she raised,
And met his hungry eyes that on her gazed,
And stopped all trembling, letting fall adown
The hand that held the gold-enwoven crown.
Yet little anger Venus had therefore,
But rather smiled to see her learn her lore
Within her house upon her festal day.
But now upon the altar did she lay
Her mingled crown, and yet she finished not
Her prayer begun, though in her poor heart, hot
With thoughts of love, full many a prayer she prayed.
And now was all that pageant well arrayed
To pass about the temple, and her place
Did Glauce take with flushed and eager face;
But on her finger did she loose a ring,
Which that same day the wise Corinthian king
Had given unto her; thus she went along,
Murmuring faint words amidst her fellows’ song.
Then past the kings the long procession swept,
And somewhat from the pillars Jason stepped,
Seeking a sign from that desired face;
And when the damsels at a gentle pace
Went by him, and for fear of him and awe
Shrunk back, and with their slender hands did draw
Closer about them the thin fragrant weed;
Still nought of all their beauty did he heed,
But as the maiden army passed him by
Into sweet Glauce’s eyes appealingly
He gazed, who, trembling like some snow-trapped dove,
From her soft eyes sent forth one look of love
Then dropped the lids, as, blind with love and shame,
Unto the place where stood the kings she came.
And there her hand that down beside her hung
She raised a little, and her faltering tongue
Just framed the words: O love, for thee, for thee!
And with that word she trembled piteously,
In terror at the sound of her own voice.
And much did wily Creon then rejoice,
Looking askance, and feigning to see nought,
When he beheld those hands together brought.
But Jason, when those fingers touched his own,
Forgat all joys that he had ever known;
And when her hand left his hand with the ring,
Still in the palm, like some lost, stricken thing
He stood and stared, as from his eyes she passed.
And from that hour all fear away was cast,
All memory of the past time, all regret
For days that did those changed days beget,
And therewithal adown the wind he flung
The love whereon his yearning heart once hung.
AH! Let me turn the page, nor chronicle
In many words the death of faith, nor tell
Of meetings by the newly-risen moon,
Of passionate silence ‘midst the brown birds’ tune,
Of wild tears wept within the noontide shade,
Of wild vows spoken that of old were made,
For other ears, when, amidst other flowers,
He wandered through the love-begetting hours.
Suffice it that unhappy was each day
Which without speech from Glauce passed away,
And troublous dreams would visit him at night,
When day had passed all barren of her sight.
And at the last, that Creon, the old king,
Being prayed with gifts, and joyful of the thing,
Had given a day when these twain should be wed.
MEANWHILE, the once-loved sharer of his bed
Knew all at last, and fierce tormenting fire
Consumed her as the dreadful day drew nigher,
And much from other lips than his she heard:
Till, on a day, this dreadful, blighting word,
Her eyes beheld within a fair scroll writ,
And ‘twixt her closed teeth still she muttered it:
Depart in peace! And take great heaps of gold,
For nevermore thy body will I fold
Within these arms. Let Gods wed Goddesses
And sea-folk wed the women of the seas,
And men wed women; but thee, who can wed
And dwell with thee without consuming dread,
O wise kin of the dreadful sorceress!
And yet perchance thy beauty still may bless
Some man to whom the world seems small and poor,
And who already stands beside his door,
Armed for the conquest of all earthly things.
Lo, such an one, the vanquisher of kings,
And equal to the Gods should be thy mate.
But me, who for a peaceful end but wait,
Desiring nought but love…canst thou love me?
Or can I give my whole heart up to thee?
I hear thee talk of old days thou didst know…
Are they not gone?...wilt thou not let them go,
Nor to their shadows still cling desperately,
Longing for things that never more can be?
What! wilt thou blame me still that the times change?
Once through the oak-wood happy did I range,
And thought no ill; but then came over me
Madness, I know not why, and o’er the sea
I needs must go in strife to win me fame,
And certes won it, and my envied name
Was borne with shouts about the towns of Greece.
All that has vanished now, and my old peace,
Through lapse of changing years, has come to me.
Once more I seem the woodland paths to see,
Tunes of old songs are ringing in mine ears,
Heard long ago in that place free from fears,
Where no one wept above his fellow dead,
And looked at death himself with little dread.
The times are changed, with them is changed my heart,
Nor in my life canst thou have any part,
Nor can I live in joy and peace with thee,
Nor yet, for all thy words, canst thou love me.
Yet, is the world so narrow for us twain
That all our life henceforth must be but vain?
Nay, thou shalt go, and be a queen henceforth
Of fairer worlds than mine, of greater worth:
And wheresoe’er thou goest shalt thou fare
As one for whom the Gods have utmost care.
YEA, she knew all, yet when these words she read,
She felt as though upon her bowed-down head
Had fallen a misery not known before,
And all seemed light that erst her crushed heart bore.
For she was wrapped in uttermost despair,
And motionless within the chamber fair
She stood, as one struck dead and past all thought.
But as she stood, a sound to her was brought
Of children’s voices, and she ‘gan to wail
With tearless eyes, and from writhed lips and pale
Faint words of woe she muttered, meaningless,
But such as such lips utter-none the less.
Then all at once thoughts of some dreadful thing
Back to her mind some memory seemed to bring
As she beheld the casket gleaming fair,
Wherein was laid that she was wont to wear,
Which in the venom lay that other morn;
And therewithal unto her heart was borne
The image of two lovers, side by side.
Then with a groan the fingers that did hide
Her tortured face slowly she drew away,
And going up to where her tablets lay,
Fit for the white hands of the Goddesses,
Therein she wrote such piteous words as these:
WOULD God that Argo’s brazen-banded mast
‘Twixt the blue clashing rocks had never passed
Unto the Colchian land! Or would that I
Had had such happy fortune as to die
Then, when I saw thee standing by the Fleece,
Safe on the long-desired shore of Greece!
Alas O Jason! for thy cruel praise!
Alas, for all the kindness of past days!
That to thy heart seems but a story told
Which happed to other folk in times of old.
But unto me indeed, its memory
Was bliss in happy hours, and now shall be
Such misery as never tongue can tell.
Jason, I heed thy cruel message well,
Nor will I stay to vex thee, nor will stay
Until thy slaves thrust me thy love away.
Be happy! think that I have never been;
Forget these eyes, that none the less have seen
Thy hands take life at my hands, and thy heart
O’erflow in tears, when needs was we should part.
But for a little; though, upon the day
When I for evermore must go away,
I think indeed thou wilt not weep for this;
Yea, if thou weepest then, some honied kiss
From other lips shall make thy grey eyes wet,
Betwixt the words that bid thee to forget
That even thou hast loved but her alone.
Yet of all times mayst thou remember one,
The second time that ever thou and I
Had met alone together; mournfully
The soft wind murmured on that happy night,
The round moon, growing low, was large and bright,
As on my father’s marble house it gleamed,
While from the fane a baneful light outstreamed,
Lighting the horror of that prodigy,
The only fence betwixt whose wrath and thee
Was this poor body. Ah! thou knowest then
How thou beheldst the shadows of thy men
Steal silently towards Argo’s painted head.
Thou knowest yet the whispered words I said
Upon that night; thou never canst forget
That happy night of all nights. Ah! and yet
Why make I these long words, that thou the more
