And tell him that I come to make my prayer,

  That, since for a long time I have sat there,

  And know no other trade than this of King,

  He of his bounty yet will add a thing

  To all that he hath given, and let me reign

  Along with him. Send here my chamberlain,

  That I may clothe me in right fitting guise

  To do him honour in all goodly wise.”

  So spake his lips, but his eyes seemed to say;

  ‘Long is it to the ending of the day,

  And many a thing may hap ere eventide;

  And well is he who longest may abide.’

  So from the presence did the captain pass,

  When now the autumn morn in glory was,

  And when he reached the palace court, he found

  The eager people flocking all around

  The door of the great hall, and variously

  Men showed their joyance at that victory.

  But in the hall there stood Bellerophon

  Anigh the daïs, and the young sun shone

  On his bright arms, and round from man to man

  In eager notes the hurried question ran,

  And, smiling still, he answered each; but yet

  Small share that circle of his tale did get,

  Because distraught he was, and seemed to be

  As he who looks the face of one to see

  Who long delays; but when the captain’s staff

  Cleft through the people’s eager word and laugh,

  And, after that, his fellow of the night

  Bellerophon beheld, his face grew bright

  As one who sees the end. Withal he said

  As they drew nigh:

  “Has the King seen the head,

  Knows he what it betokens? For, behold!

  Before the sun of that day grew acold

  Whereon thou left’st me, all that heap was gone

  Thou sawest there, both hair and flesh and bone;

  So when this dawn I mounted my good steed,

  I looked to thee to show forth that my deed,

  Lest all should seem a feigned tale or a dream.”

  “Master,” the other said, “thou well mayst deem,

  That what thy will loosed, my will might not hold;

  E’en as thy tale, so must my tale be told,

  And nought is left to show of that dread thing.”

  E’en as he spake did folk cry on the King,

  And now to right and left fell back the crowd,

  And down the lane of folk gold raiment glowed,

  And blare of silver trumpets smote the roof.

  Then said the captain:

  “Certes, no more proof

  The King will ask, to show that thou hast done

  The glorious deed that was for thee alone;

  Be glad, thy day is come, and all is well!”

  But on his sword the hero’s left hand fell,

  And he looked down and muttered ‘neath his breath,

  “Trust slayeth many a man, the wise man saith;

  Yet must I trust perforce.” He stood and heard

  The joyful people’s many-voicèd word

  Change into a glad shout; the feet of those

  Who drew anear came closer and more close,

  Till their sound ceased, and silence filled the hall;

  And then a soft voice on his ears did fall,

  That seemed the echo to his yearning thought:

  “Look up, look up! the change of days hath brought

  Sweet end to our desires, and made thee mine!”

  He raised his eyes, and saw gold raiment shine

  Before him in the low sun; but a face

  Above it made the murmuring crowded place

  Silent and lone; for there she stood, indeed,

  His troublous scarce-kept life’s last crown and meed

  Her sweet lips trembled, her dear eyes ‘gan swim

  In tears that fell not, as she reached to him

  One hand in greeting, while a little raised

  And restless was the other, as she gazed

  Into his eyes, and lowly was her mien;

  But yet a little forward did she lean,

  As though she looked for sudden close embrace,

  Yet feared it ‘neath the strange eyes of that place.

  But though his heart was melted utterly

  Within him, he but drew a little nigh,

  And took her hand, and said:

  “What hour is this

  That brings so fair a thing to crown my bliss?

  What land far off from that which first I knew?

  How shall I know that such a thing is true,

  Unless some pain yet falls on thee and me?

  Rather this hour is called eternity,

  This land the land of heaven, and we have died

  That thus at last we might go side by side

  For ever, in the flower-strewn happy place.”

  Then closer to her drew his bright flushed face;

  Well-nigh their lips met, when Jobates cried:

  “Good hap, Corinthian! for thou hast not died;

  The pale land holds no joy like thou wilt have

  If yet awhile the Gods thy dear life save.

  Yet mayst thou fear, indeed, for such thou art,

  That yet the Gods will have thee play thy part

  In heaven and not on earth — But come on now,

  And see if this my throne be all too low

  For thy great heart; sit here with me to-day,

  And in the shrines of the Immortals pray,

  With many offerings, lest they envy thee,

  And on the morrow wed Philonoë,

  And live thy life thereafter.”

  So he spake,

  Smiling, and yet a troubled look did break

  Across the would-be frankness of his smile.

  But still the hero stood a little while

  And watched Philonoë, as she turned and went

  Adown the hall, and then a sigh he sent

  From out his heart, and turned unto the King

  As one who had no thought that anything

  Of guile clung round him, and said:

  “Deem thou not,

  O King, that ruin from me thou hast got,

  Although I take from thee my due reward;

  For still for thee my hand shall hold the sword,

  Nor will I claim more than thou givest me,

  And great is that, though a king’s son I be.”

  So on the throne was set Bellerophon,

  And on his head was laid the royal crown

  Instead of helm; and just as safe he felt

  As though mid half-fed savage beasts he dwelt.

  Yet when he went out through the crowded street,

  Shouting because of him, when blossoms sweet

  Faint with the autumn fell upon his head,

  When his feet touched the silken carpet spread

  Over the temple-steps; when the priests’ hymn

  Rang round him in the inner temple dim,

  He smiled for pleasure once or twice, and said:

  “So many dangers, yet I am not dead;

  So many fears, yet sweet is longing grown,

  Because to-morrow morn I gain my own!

  So much desire, and but a night there is

  Betwixt me and the perfecting of bliss!”

  SO fell the noisy day to feastful night,

  For sleep was slow to hush the new delight

  Of the freed folk; and in the royal house

  Loud did the revellers grow, and clamorous,

  And yet that too must have an end at last,

  And to their sleeping-places all folk passed

  Not long before the shepherds’ sleep grew thin.

  But listening to the changing of the din,

  Philonoë lay long upon her bed,

  Nor would sweet sleep come down to bless her head,

  No, not when all was still again; for she,

  Oppressed with her new-found felicity,

  Had fallen to thoughts of life and death and change,

  And through strange lands her wearied heart did range,

  And knew no peace; therefore at last she rose

  When all was utter stillness and stood close

  Unto the window. Such a night it was

  That a thin wind swept o’er the garden-grass

  And loosened the sick leaves upon the trees;

  Promise of rain there was within the breeze,

  Yet was the sky not wholly overcast,

  But o’er the moon yet high the grey drift passed,

  And with a watery gleam at whiles she shone,

  And cast strange wavering shadows down upon

  The trembling beds of autumn blossoms tall,

  And made the dusk of the white garden wall

  Gleam like another land against the sky.

  She turned her from the window presently,

  And went unto her dainty bed once more;

  But as she touched its silk a change came o’er

  Her anxious heart, and listening there she stood,

  Counting the eager throbbing of her blood;

  But nought she heard except the night’s dim noise;

  Then did she whisper (and her faint, soft voice

  Seemed hoarse and loud to her)— “Yet will I go

  To Pallas’ shrine, for fain I am to know

  If all things even yet may go aright,

  For my heart fails me.”

  To the blind dusk night

  She showed her loveliness awhile half-veiled,

  When she had spoke, as though her purpose failed;

  Then softly did she turn and take to her

  A dusky cloak, and hid her beauty rare

  In its dark folds, and turned unto the door;

  But ere she passed its marble threshold o’er

  Stayed pondering, and she said:

  “Alas, alas!

  To-morrow must I say that all this was

  And is not — this sweet longing? — what say men —

  It cometh once and cometh not again,

  This first love for another? holds the earth

  Within its circle aught that is of worth

  When it is dead? — and this is part of it,

  This measureless sweet longing that doth flit,

  Never to come again, when all is won.

  And is our first desire so soon foredone,

  Like to the rose-bud, that through day and night

  In early summer strives to meet the light,

  And in some noon-tide of the June, bursts sheath,

  And ere the eve is past away in death?

  Belike love dies then like the rest of life?

  — Or fails asleep until it mix with strife

  And fear and grief? — and then we call it pain,

  And curse it for its labour lost in vain.

  “Sweet pain! be kind to me and leave me not!

  Leave me not cold, with all my grief forgot,

  And all the joy consumed I thought should fill

  My changing troubled days of life, until

  Death turned all measuring of the days to nought!

  “And thou, O death, when thou my life hast caught

  Within thy net, what wilt thou with my love,

  That now I deem no lapse of time can move?

  O death, maybe that though I seem to pass

  And come to nought, with all that once I was,

  Yet love shall live I called a part of me,

  And hold me in his heart despite of thee,

  And call me part of him, when I am dead

  As the world talks of dying.”

  So she said,

  But scarcely heard her voice, and through the door

  Of her own chamber passed; light on the floor

  Her white feet fell, her soft clothes rustled nought,

  As slowly, wrapped in many a changing thought,

  Unto the Maiden’s shrine she took her way

  That midmost of the palace precincts lay;

  But in a chamber that was hard thereby,

  Although she knew it not, that night did lie

  Her love that was, her lord that was to be.

  Through the dark pillared precinct, silently

  She went now, pausing every now and then

  To listen, but heard little sound of men;

  Though far off in the hill-side homesteads crowed

  The waking fowl, or restless milch-kine lowed

  In the fair pastures that her love had saved;

  And from the haven, as the shipmen heaved

  Their sail aloft, a mingled strange voice came.

  So as she went, across her flitted shame

  Of her own loneliness, and eager love

  That shut the world out so, and she ‘gan move

  With quicker steps unto the temple-stead,

  Scarce knowing what her soft feet thither led.

  Within an open space the temple was,

  And dark-stemmed olives rose up from the grass

  About it, but a marble path passed o’er

  The space betwixt the cloister and its door

  Of some ten yards; there on its brink she stayed,

  And from the cloister watched the black trees swayed

  In the night breeze. E’en as a bather might

  Shrink from the water, from the naked night

  She shrank a little — the wind wailed within

  The cloister walls, the clouds were gotten thin

  About the moon, and the night ‘gan to wane —

  Then, even as she raised her skirts again

  And put her foot forth, did she hear arms clash,

  And fear and shame her heart did so abash,

  She shrank behind a pillar; then the sound

  Of footsteps smote upon the hardened ground,

  And ‘gainst the white steps of the shrine she saw

  From out the trees a tall dark figure draw

  Unto the holy place: the moon withal

  Ran from a cloud now, and her light did fall

  Upon a bright steel helm: she trembled then,

  But her first thought was not of sons of men;

  Of the armed goddess, rather, did she think,

  And closer in her hiding-place did shrink.

  Then though the moon grew dull again, yet she

  Ten shapes of armed men at the last could see

  Steal up the steps and vanish from the night,

  And a sharp pang shot through her; but affright

  She felt not now of gods: she murmured low;

  “What do these men-at-arms in such guise now

  Amidst the feast? God help me, we are caught

  Within a brazen net!”

  And with that thought

  No more delay she made but girt her gown

  Unto her, and with swift feet went adown

  The marble steps, and so from tree to tree,

  Through all the darkest shadow, silently

  Gained the dark side of the brass temple door;

  And through its chink she saw the marble floor

  Just feebly lit by some small spark of light

  She saw not, and the gleam of armour white,

  And knew that she unto the men was close.

  E’en as some sound that loud and louder grows

  Within our dreams and yet is nought at all

  She heard her heart, as clinging to the wall

  She strove to listen vainly; but at last

  All feebleness from out her did she cast

  With thought of love — and death that drew anear-

  And therewithal a low voice did she hear,

  She thought she knew.

  “Milo the Colchian?”

  It said as asking, and another man

  Said “Here” in a hoarse voice and low; once more

  The first voice said; “The Clearer of the Shore,

  Known by no other name the people say,

  Art thou here too?” a new voice muttered “Yea.”

  And then again the first:

  “My tale told o’er

  And none found wanting — since ye know wherefore

  We here are met, few words are best to-night:

  Within the ivory chamber, called the White,

  Lies the ill monster’s bane, asleep belike,

  Or, at the worst without a sword to strike,

  Or shield to ward withal; his wont it is

  To have few by him; on this night of bliss

  Those few of night-cropped herbs enow have drunk,

  And deep in slumber like short death are sunk:

  So light our work is; yet let those who lack

  Heart thereunto e’en at this hour go back;

  Though — let these take good heed that whatsoe’er

  We risk hereafter they in likewise share,

  Except the risk of dying by his sword.”

  He ceased awhile, and a low muttered word

  Seemed to say, “We are ready:” then he said:

  “When he is slain, then shall ye bear his bed

  Into this shrine, and burn what burned may be

  In little space; but into the deep sea

  Thou Clearer of the Shore, with thy two men

  Shalt bear him forth. — Fellows, what say we then,

  When on the morn the city wakes to find

  Its saviour gone? This:— ‘Men are fools and blind,

  And the Gods all-wise; this man born on earth

  By some strange chance, yet was of too great worth

  To live, and go as common men may go;

  Therefore the Gods, who set him work to do,

  When that was done, had no more will to see

  His head grow white; or with man’s frailty

  Burn out his heart; they might not hear him curse

  His latter days, as unto worse and worse

  He fell at last; therefore they took him hence

  To make him sharer in omnipotence,

  And crown him with their immortality,

  Nor may ye hope his body more to see.

  These ashes of the web wherein last lay

  His godlike limbs that took your fear away,

  (Limbs now a very god’s), this fire-stained gold

  That, unharmed, very god might nowise hold,

  Are left for certain signs — so shall ye rear

  A temple to him nigh the gate; and bear

  Gifts of good things unto the one who wrought

  Deliverance for you, when ye e’en were brought

  Unto the very gate of death and hell.’

 

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