Until the town was passed, and ‘twixt the fair

  Green corn-fields of the June-tide he drew rein,

  To ponder on his life, so spoiled and vain.

  But when Bellerophon awoke that morn,

  Weary he felt, as though he long had borne

  Some heavy load, and his perplexed heart

  Must chide the life wherein he had a part.

  But ere he gat him down to meet the day

  With its new troubles, ‘thwart his weary way

  Was come that chamberlain, who bade him read,

  And say what other thing he yet might need.

  He read, and knit his anxious brows in thought,

  For in his mind great doubt that letter brought

  If yet he were in friendship with the King;

  And therewith came a dark imagining

  Of unseen dangers, and great anger grew

  Within his soul, as if the worst were true

  Of all he thought might be; and in his mind

  It was, that going, he might leave behind

  A bitter word to pay for broken troth:

  And still the King’s man saw that he was wroth,

  And watched him curiously, till he had read

  The letter thrice, but nought to him he said.

  At last he spake, “Sir, even as the King

  Now bids me, will I make no tarrying;

  And as I carne to Argos, even so,

  Unfriended, bearing nothing, will I go;

  And few farewells are best to-day, I deem,

  For like a banished man I would not seem

  Among these folk that love me: get we gone,

  And tell the King his full will shall be done.”

  So forth they ride, and ever as the way

  Lengthened behind them, and the summer day

  Grew hotter on the lovely teeming earth,

  The fresh soft air and sounds and sights of mirth

  Wrought on Bellerophon, until it seemed

  That things might not be e’en as he had deemed

  At first. “What thoughts are mine; have I not had

  Gifts from his hands — hath he not made me glad

  When I was sorry? Therefore will I take

  What chance there lies herein for honour’s sake.

  Nay, more, and may not friendship lie herein? —

  May he not drive me forth from shame and sin

  And evil fate? Well, howsoe’er it is,

  But little evil do I see in this:

  Yea, I may see his face again once more,

  And crowned with honour come back to this shore,

  For now I fear nought — if he thinks to see

  Some evil thing that nowise is in me,

  Another day the truth of all will show.

  Let pass, again from out the place I go

  Wherein the sport of fortune I have tried;

  If it has failed me, yet the world is wide

  And I am young. Now go I forth alone

  To do what in my life must needs be done,

  And in my own hands lies my fate, I think,

  And I shall mix the cup that I must drink:

  So be it; thus the world is merrier,

  And I shall be a better man than here.”

  Amid these thoughts, unto the ship he came,

  And higher yet sprang up the new-stirred flame

  Of great desires when first he saw the sea

  Leap up against her black sides lovingly,

  And heard the sails flap, and the voice of folk,

  Who at the sight of him in shouts outbroke,

  Since they withal were eager to be gone.

  And now were all things done that should be done;

  The money rendered up, the King’s seal shown,

  Unto the master all his will made known,

  And on the deck stood the Corinthian.

  As up the mast clattering the great rings ran,

  And back the hawser to the ship was cast,

  The helmsman took the tiller, and at last

  The head swung round, trimly the great sail drew,

  The broad bows pierced the land of fishes through,

  Unheard the red wine fell from out the cup

  Into the noisy sea; and then rose up

  The cloud of incense-smoke a little way,

  But driven from the prow, with the white spray

  It mingled, and a little dimmed the crowd

  Of white-head braves; then rose the sea-song loud,

  While on the stern still stood Bellerophon,

  Bidding farewell to what of life was gone,

  Pensive, but smiling somewhat to behold

  The lengthening wake, and field, and hill, and wold,

  And white-walled Argos growing small astern,

  That he the pleasure of the gods might learn.

  BUT when the King’s man, with a doubtful smile,

  Had watched the parting sails a little while,

  He turned about, revolving many things

  Within his mind, of the weak hearts of kings,

  Because the Prince’s glory seemed grown dim,

  And nowise grand this parting seemed to him;

  “For day-long leave-taking there should have been,”

  He grumbled, “and fair tables well beseen

  Should have been spread the gilded ship anigh,

  And many a perfect beast been slain thereby

  Unto the gods — Had this Bellerophon

  Too great fame for the King of Argos won?

  I will be lowly, for no little bliss

  I have in Argos, a good place it is —

  Or else what thing has happed?”

  Howe’er it was,

  Slowly again to Argos did he pass,

  And here and there he spake upon that day

  Of how Bellerophon had gone away,

  Perchance as one who would no more return;

  And sore hearts were there, who thereat must yearn

  To see the face that let a weak hope live;

  And folk still doomed with many things to strive,

  Who found him helpful — few indeed were there

  Who did not pray that well he still might fare

  Whereso he was, and few forgot him quite

  For many a day and many a changing night.

  But Sthenobœa, when she knew that morn

  That she was not alone of love forlorn,

  But of the thing too that fed love in her,

  Yet coldly at the first her lot did bear

  In outward seeming: in no other wise

  She sat among her maids than when his eyes

  Had first met hers. “No babble shall there be

  In this fool’s land concerning him and me.

  Gone is he, — let him die and be forgot:

  Cold is my heart that yesterday was hot,

  Quenched is the fervent flame of yesterday;

  Past is the time when I had cast away,

  If he had bidden me, name, and fame, and all:

  Now in this dulls world e’en let things befall

  As they are fated; I am stirred no more

  By any hap — hope, hate, and love are o’er.”

  So spake she in the morn, when, still a Queen,

  She sat among her folk as she had been,

  Dreaded, unloved; yet as the day wore on

  She felt as though it never would be done.

  And now she took to wandering restlessly,

  And set her face to go unto the sea,

  But soon turned back, and through the palace ranged,

  And thought she thought not of him, and yet changed

  Her face began to grow; and if she spoke,

  As one untroubled, aught unto her folk,

  Her speech grew wild and broken ere its end;

  And as about the place she still did wend,

  More than its wonted chill her presence threw

  On those who of her coming footsteps knew —

  Yea, as she passed by some, she even thought

  A look like pity to their eyes was brought,

  And then, amidst her craving agony,

  Must she grow red with wrath that such could be.

  Now came the night, and she must cast aside

  All semblance of her coldness and her pride,

  And find the weary night was longer yet

  Than was the day, and harder to forget

  The thoughts that came therewith. How can I tell

  In any words the torment of that hell,

  That she for her own soul had fashioned so,

  That from it never any path did go

  To lands of rest, no window was therein,

  Through which there shone a hope of happier sin;

  But close the fiery walls about her glared,

  And on one dreadful picture still she stared,

  Intent on that desire, that dreadful love,

  The dullness of her savage heart that clove

  With wasting fire, a bane to her, and all

  Who in the net of her vain life might fall.

  The next day wore, and thereto followed night,

  And changed through dark and dusk and dawn to light;

  And when at last high-risen was the sun,

  The women came to do what should be done

  In the Queen’s chamber: water for the bath

  They brought, and dainties such as Venus hath;

  Gold combs, embroidered cloths, pearl-threaded strings,

  Such unguents as the hidden river brings

  Through strange-wrought caverns down into a sea

  Where seldom any keel of man may be;

  Fine Indian webs, the work of many a year,

  And incense that the bleeding tree doth bear

  Lone in the desert; — yea, and fear withal

  Of what new thing upon that day might fall

  From her they served, for on the day now dead

  Wild words, strange threatenings had her writhed lips said.

  But when within the chamber door they were,

  A new hope grew within them, a new fear,

  For empty ‘neath the golden canopy

  The bed lay, and when one maid drew anigh,

  She saw that all untouched the linen was

  As for that night; so when it came to pass

  That in no chamber of that house of gold

  Might any one the Lycian’s face behold,

  Nor any sign of her, then therewithal

  To others of the household did they call,

  And asked if they had tidings of the Queen;

  And when they found that she had not been seen

  Since at the end of day to bed she passed,

  Within their troubled minds the thing they cast,

  And thus remembered that at whiles of late

  She had been wont the rising sun to wait

  Within the close below her bower; so then

  They called together others, maids and men,

  And passed with troubled eyes adown the stair;

  And coming to the postern-door that there

  Led out into the pleasance, that they found

  Still open, and thereby upon the ground,

  And on a jagged bough of creeping vine,

  Gold threads they saw, and silken broidery fine,

  That well they knew torn from the Lycian’s gown;

  Therewith with hasty feet were trodden down

  The beds of summer flowers that lay between

  The outer wicket of that garden green

  And the bower-door — feet that had heeded nought

  By what wild ways they to their end were brought;

  Then by the gate where the faint sweetbriar-rose

  Grew thick about the edges of the close,

  Had one pushed through their boughs in such a way

  That fragments of a dainty thin array

  Yet fluttered on the thorns in the light breeze,

  Nor might they doubt who once had carried these.

  But when the pleasance-gate they had passed through,

  At first within the lingering strip of dew

  Beneath the wall, footprints they well could see;

  But as the shadow failed them presently,

  And little could the close-cropped summer grass

  Tell them of feet that might have chanced to pass

  Thereby before the dawn, their steps they stayed,

  And this and that thing there betwixt them weighed

  With many words; then splitting up their band,

  Some took the way unto the well-tilled land,

  Some seaward went, and some must turn their feet

  Unto the wood: yet did not any meet

  A further sign; and though some turned again

  To tell the tale at once, yet all in vain

  Did horsemen scour the country far and wide,

  And vainly was the sleuth-hounds’ mettle tried —

  — Gone was the Lycian, and in such a guise

  That silence seemed the best word for the wise.

  But many a babbling tongue in Argos was,

  Who for no gold had let such matters pass;

  And some there were who, mindful of her face

  As down the street she passed in queenly grace,

  Said that some god had seen her even as they,

  And with no will that longer she should stay

  Midst dying men, had taken her to his home —

  “And we are left behind,” they said; but some,

  Who had been nigher to her, said that she,

  Smitten by some benign divinity

  Who loved the world and lovely Argos well,

  Had fled with changed heart far from man to dwell —

  Yea, and might be a goddess even yet.

  But other folk, well ready to forget

  Her bitter soul, and well content to bear

  The changed life that she erst had filled with care,

  Smiled, and said yea to better and to worse,

  But inly thought that many a heart-felt curse

  Her careless ears had heard upon the earth

  Had not returned to where it had its birth.

  The Gods are kind, and hope to men they give

  That they their little span on earth may live,

  Nor yet faint utterly; the Gods are kind,

  And will not suffer men all things to find

  They search for, nor the depth of all to know

  They fain would learn: and it was even so

  With Sthenobœa; for a fisher old

  That day a tale unto his carline told,

  E’en such as this:

  “When I last night had laid

  The boat up ‘neath the high cliff, and had made

  All things about it trim, and left thee here,

  Even as thou knowest, I set out to bear

  Those mullets unto Argos. Nought befell

  At first whereof is any need to tell,

  But when the night had now grown very old,

  And, as my wont is, I was waxing bold,

  And thinking of the bright returning day,

  That drives the sprites of wood and wave away,

  As the path leads, I entered the beech-wood

  Which, close to where the ancient palace stood,

  Clothes the cliff’s edge; I entered warily,

  Yet thought no evil thing therein to see.

  Scarce lighter than dark night it was therein,

  Though swift without the day on night did win.

  So I went on, I say, and had no fear,

  So nigh to day; but getting midmost, where

  Thinner it grows and lighter, toward the sea,

  I stayed my whistling, for it seemed to me

  The wind moaned louder than it should have done,

  Because of wind without was well-nigh none.

  When I stood still it ended, and again,

  E’en as I moved, I seemed to hear it plain.

  Trembling, I stopped once more, and heard indeed

  A sound as though one moaned in bitter need,

  Clearer than was the moaning of the surf,

  Now muffled by a rising bank of turf

  On the cliff’s edge; fear-stricken, yet in doubt,

  Through the grey glimmer now I peered about,

  And turned unto the sea: then my heart sank,

  For by the tree the nighest to that bank

  A white thing stood, like, as I now could see,

  The daughters of us sons of misery,

  Though such I deemed her not — and yet had I

  No will or power to turn about and fly;

  And now it moaned and moaned, and seemed to writhe

  Against the tree its body long and lithe.

  Long gazed I, while still colourless and grey,

  But swift enow, drew on the dawn of day;

  But as I trembled there, at last I heard

  How in a low voice it gave forth this word:

  “What say’st thou?— ‘Live on still — I loved thee not

  The while I lived; my bane from thee I got:

  And canst thou think that I shall love thee, then,

  Where no will is, or power to sons of men?’

  I know not, thou mayst hate me, yet I come

  That I may look on thee in that new home

  My hands built for thee: if the priests speak truth,

  What heart thou hast may yet be stirred by ruth,

  When thy changed eyes behold the traitorous Queen

  Tormented for the vile thing she has been —

  If, as the books say, e’en such ways they have

  As we on this explored side of the grave.

  Yea, thou mayst pity then mine agony,

  When no more evil I can do to thee.

  Here on the earth I could not weep enow,

  Or show thee all my misery here, and thou

  Must ever look upon me as a Queen,

  Thy mistress and thy fear. Couldst thou have seen

  My weary ways upon this long, long night —

  Couldst thou behold the coming day’s new sight,

  When round this tree the folk come gathering

  To see the wife and daughter of a King,

  Slain by her own hand, and in such a wise —

  O thou I hoped for once, might not thine eyes

  Have softened had they seen me shivering here,

  Alone, unholpen, sick with my first fear,

  Beat down by coming shame, and mocked by these

  Gay fluttering rags of dainty braveries

  That decked my state; by gold, and pearl, and gem,

  Over my wretched breast, set in the hem

  This night has torn, and o’er my bleeding feet;

  Mocked by this glittering girdle, nowise meet

 

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