own ft CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY The gift of Clark S, Northup THE HART MEMORIAL LIBRARY Date Due MAY 6 12 i5 Irii' i\ '^. ''.■: r.^ 404^ ^««^» U OCT— 3- i9eMf«— ^ypij pai.^MK -iWP^tr^Ne^ av- ''GL =^=^ Cornell University Library PR 5075.A1 1890 The earthly paradise, a poem 3 1924 013 527 902 n 537- M Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013527902 MR. WILLIAM MORRIS' WORKS. Just Puhlishedt square crrnvn S7/0, 430^/., 8^. THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS, wherein is told somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale, their Friends, their Neighbours, their Foemen, and their Fellows-in-Arms. Second Edition, square crown 8vo, zoo ^^. , 6s. A TALE OF THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS, and all the Kindreds of the Mark. Written in Prose and Verse. Library Edition, 4 vols., crown 8vo, £2. THE EARTHLY PARADISE : A Poem in four parts. TAe Vols, separately as beloiv. Vols. I. and II., Spring and Summer . Ninth Edition. its. VoL III., Autumn . ... Se^/enth Edition, zzs. Vol. IV., Winter Seventh Edition, im. Popular Edition of THE EARTHLY PARADISE, in lo parts, i2mo, is, bd. each. Ditto ditto in 5 vols. , i2mo, 5J. each. Second Edition^ square crown Svo, 382 pp., 14J. THE ^NEIDS OF VIRGIL. Done into English Verse. Third Edition, crown Bvo, zi-/ pp., ^s. 6d. HOPES AND FEARS FOR ART. Five Lectures delivered in Birmingham, London, &c., in 1878-1881. Second Edition, square croivn Svo, 450//., 6s. 6d. THE ODYSSEY OF HOMER. Done into English Verse. Crown Bvo, 2^8 pp., 8s. THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE, and other Poems. Reprinted without alteration from the Edition of 1858. Eighth Edition, crown Zvo, yjfi pp., revised by the Author, Zs. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON : A Poem. Fourth Edition, square crown 8vo, 345 ^/., 6s. THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG, and the Fall of the Niblungs. Third Edition, square crown Svo, 134 pp., 7S. id. iVith design on side in gold. LOVE IS ENOUGH, or the Freeing of Pharamond. A Morality. Cheap Edition, izmo, is. ; cloth, is. 6d. A DREAM OF JOHN BALL and A KING'S LESSON. Post Svo, 202 pp., 4s. 6d. SIGNS OF CHANGE. Seven Lectures delivered on various Occasions. THE EARTHLY PARADISE. V. 00VSlfp First Edition, crown 8vo, 4 vols. 1868-70. Popular Edition, id parts, i2mo, 1872 ; and 5 vols. i2mo, 1886. TO MY WIFE I DEDICATE THIS BOOK CONTENTS. PAGE AN APOLOGY. ...... I PROLOGUE : THE WANDERERS .... 3 THE AUTHOR TO THE READER . 29 MARCH ... ... . 30 ATALANTa'S RACE . ... . 32 THE MAN BORN TO BE KING . . 40 APRIL . 61 THE DOOM OF KING ACRISIUS . 62 ' THE PROUD KING ..... . 87 MAY . 97 THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE . . 98 THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE ■ 123 JUNE . 127 THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS .... . 128 THE LADY OF THE LAND .... . 141 JULY ■ 147 THE SON OF CRCESUS ..... . 148 THE WATCHING OF THE FALCON . 154 AUGUST . 163 PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE .... . 164 ^OGIER THE DANE ..... . 172 SEPTEMBER . 188 THE DEATH OF PARIS ..... . 189 >»THE LAND FAST OF THE SUN AND WEST OF THE M0( 3N . . 197 CONTENTS. OCTOBER THE STORY OF ACONTIUS AND CYDIPPE THE MAN WHO NEVER LAUGHED AGAIN NOVEMBER THE STORY OF RHODOPE THE LOVERS OF GUDRUN DECEMBER THE GOLDEN APPLES . THE FOSTERING OF ASLAUG JANUARY . BELLEROPHON AT ARGOS 1 THE RING GIVEN TO VENUS FEBRUARY BELLEROPHON IN LYCIA •VTHE HILL OF VENUS . EPILOGUE L'ENVOI PAGE 229 230 242 259 260 276 326 334 349 3SO 374 387 388. 424 443 444 THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 0F Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, 1 cannot ease the burden of your fears. Or maie quick-coming death a little thing. Or hring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears. Or hope again for aught that I can say. The idle singer of an empty day. Dreamer of dreams, horn out of my due time. Why should I strive to set the crooked straight ? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhytne Beats with light wing against the ivory gate. Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay. Lulled hy the singer of an empty day. But rather, when aweary of your mirth. From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh. And, feeling iindly unto all the earth. Grudge every minute as it passes hy. Made the more mindful that the sweet days die— — Rememher me a little then I pray, The idle singer of an empty day. Folk say, a wix_ard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, That through one window men heheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow. And through a third the fruited vines a-row. While still, unheard, hut in its wonted way. Piped the drear wind of that Decemher day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread. These idle verses have no power to hear; So let me sing of names remembered. Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day. So with this Earthly Paradise it is. If ye will read aright, and pardon me. Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss Midmost the heating of the steely sea. Where tossed about all hearts of men must be; Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay, Not the poor singer of an empty day. PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. ARGUMENT. Certain gentlemen and mariners of Norway, having considered all that they had heard of the Earthly Paradise, set sail to find it, and after many troufcliK and the lapse of many years came old men to some Western land, of which they had never before heard : there they died, when they had dwelt there certain years, muchjionoured of the strange people. FORGET six counties overhung with smoke, Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke. Forget the spreading of the hideous town ; Think rather of the pack-horse on the down, And dream of London, small, and white, and clean. The clear Thames .bordered by its gardens green ; Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves. Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill. And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill. And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napety. And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne ; While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen Moves over bills of lading — mid such times Shall dwell the hoUow puppets of my rhymes. A nameless city in a distant sea, White as the changing walls of faerie, Thronged with much people clad in ancient guise I now am fain to set before your eyes ; There, leave the clear green water and the quays. And pass betwixt its marble palaces. Until ye come unto the chiefest square ; A bubbling conduit is set midmost there. And round about it now the maidens throng. With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song, Making but light of labour new begun While in their vessels gleams the morning sun. On one side of the square a temple stands. Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient lands Still have their altars ; a great market-place Upon two other sides fills all the space. And thence the busy hum of men comes forth ; But on the cold side looking toward the north A pillared council-house may you behold, Within whose porch are images of gold. Gods of the nations who dwelt anciently About the borders of the Grecian sea. Pass now between them, push the brazen door. And standing on the polished marble floor Leave all the noises of the square behind ; Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find, Silent at first, but for the noise you made Wheii on the brazen door your hand you laid , To shut it after you— but now behold The city rulers on their thrones of gold. Clad in most fair attire, and in ftieir hands Long carven silver-banded ebony wands ^ Then from the dais drop your eyes and see Soldiers and peasants standing reverently Before those elders, round a little band Who bear such arms as guard the English land, But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they. The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey ; And as they lean with pain upon their spears Their brows seem furrowed deep with more than years ; For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes ; Bent are they less with time than miseries. Pondering on them the city grey^beards gaze Through kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days, And pity for poor souls, and vague regret For all the things that might have happened yet. Until, their wonder gathering to a head. The wisest man, who long that land has led, Breaks the deep silence, unto whom again A wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain. And with a hollow voice as from a tomb At first he tells the story of his doom. But as it grows and once more hopes and fears, Both measureless, are ringing round his ears. His eyes grow bright, bis seeming days decrease. For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace. PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. The Elder of the City. From what unheard-of world, in what strange keel, Have ye come hither to our commonweal ? No barbarous folk, as these our peasants say. But learned in memories of a long-past day. Speaking, some few at least, the ancient tongue That through the lapse of ages still has clung To us, the seed of the Ionian race. Speak out and fear not ; if ye need a place Wherein to pass the end of life away, That shall ye gain from us from this same day. Unless the enemies of God- ye are ; We fear not you and yours to bear us war. And scarce can think that ye will try again v Across the perils of the shifting plain , ' ' To seek your own land, whereso that may be ; , For folk of ours bearing the memory ' Of our old land, in days past oft have striven ^ To reach it, unto none of whom was given To come again and tell us of the tale. Therefore out ships are now content to sail. About these happy islands that we know. The Wanderer. Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, A tale of folly and of wasted life, Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife. Ending, where all things end, in death at last : So if I tell the story of the past, Let it be worth some little rest, I pray, A little slumber ere the end of day. No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know. Since at Byzantium many a year ago My father bore the twibil valiantly ; There did he marry, and get me, and die, And I went back to Norway to my kin. Long ere this beard ye see did first begin To shade my mouth, but nathless not before Among the Greeks I gathered some small lore, And standing midst the Vfering warriors heard From this or that man mnny a wondrous word ; For ye shall know that though we worshipped God, And heard mass duly, still of Swithiod The Greater, Odin and his house of gold. The noble stories ceased not to be told ; These moved me more than words of mine can say E'en while at Micklegarth my folk did stay ; But when I reached one dying autumn-tide My uncle's dwelling near the forest side, And saw the land so scanty and so bare, And all the hard things men contend with there, A little and unworthy land it seemed. And all the more of Asgard's days I dreamed. And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise. But now, but now — when one of all those days Like Lazarus' finger on my heart should be Breaking the fiery fixed eternity, But for one moment — could I see once more The grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the shore Or note the brown boats standing in from sea, Or the great dromond-swinging from the quay. Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jay Shoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey. Yea, could I see the days before distress When very longing was but happiness ! Within our house there was a Breton squire Well learned, who fail'd not to blow up the fire That evermore unholpen burned in me Strange land's and things beyond belief to see : Much lore of many lands this Breton knew ; And. for one tale 1 told, he told me two. He, counting Asgard but a new-told thing. Vet spoke of gardens ever blossoming Across the western sea where none grew old. E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told, And said moreover that an English knight Hadjiad the Earthjyj'aradisejn sigljt7~ And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein. But entered not, being hindered by his sin. Shortly, so much of this and that he said That in my heart the sharp barb entered. And like real life would empty stories seem. And life from day to day aii empty dream. : Another man there was, a Swabian priest. Who knew the maladies of man and beast. And what things helped them ; he the stone still sought Whereby base metal into gold is brought. And strove to gain the precious draught, whereby Men live midst mortal men, yet never die ; Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tell Who neither went to Heaven nor yet to Hell, When from that fight upon the Asian plain He vanished, but still lives to come again : i? Men know not how or when ; but I listening Unto this tale thought it a certain thing That in some hidden vale of Swithiod Across the golden pavement still he trod. But while our longing for such things so grew, , And ever more and more we deemed them true, Upon the land a pestilence there fell Unheard of yet in any chronicle, And, as the people died full fast of it. With these two men it chanced me once to sit, This learned squire whose name was Nicholas, And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was ; For, could we help it, scarcely did we part From dawn to dusk : so heavy, sad at heart, PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. We from the castle.yard. beheld the bay . . Upon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day. Little we said amidst that dreary mood, And certes nought that we could say was good. . It was a bright September afternoon, The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soon; The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun Were letting fall their petals one by one ; No wind. there was, a haze was gathering o'er The furthest bound of the faint yellow shore ; And in the oily waters of the bay Scarce moving aught some flsher-cobbles lay, And all seemed peace ; and had been peace indeed But that we young men of our life had need, And to our listening ears a sound was borne That made the sunlight wretched and forlorrf — — The heavy tolling of the minster bell — And nigher yet a tinkUng sound did tell That through the streets they bore our Saviour Christ By dying lips in anguish to be kissed. At last spoke Nicholas, " How long shall we Abide here, looking forth into the sea Expecting when our turn shall come to die ? Fair-fellowSr^wilLyexomearith jne and try Now at our worst that l ong-desirefl guestr Now— when-our -worst is death, and- life our-Jaest.!' "Nay, but thou know'st," I said, "that I but wait The coming of some man, the turn of fate. To make this voyage — but I die meanwhile. For I am poor, though my blood be not vile. Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence hold Within his crucibles aught like to gold ; And what hast thou, whose father driven forth By Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North But little riches as I needs must deem ? " "Well," said he, "things are better than they seem. For 'neath my bed an iron chest I have That holdeth things I have made shift to save E'en for this end ; moreover, hark to this, In the next firth a fair long-ship there is Well victualled, ready even now for sea. And I may say it 'longeth unto me ; Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, lies Dead at the end of many miseries. And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know, Would be content throughout the world to go If I but took her hand, and now still more Hath heart to leave this poor death-stricken shore. Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swords And Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards. " What say ye, will ye go with me to-night, Setting your faces to undreamed delight. Turning your backs unto this troublous hell,- Or is the time too short to say farewell ? "- - "Not so," I said, " rather would I depart Now while thou speakest ; never has my heart Been set on anything within this land." Then said the Swabian, " Let us now take hand And swear to follow evermore this quest Till death or life have set our hearts at rest." So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said, ' ' To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelMd To leave this land, bring all the arms ye can And such men as ye trust ; my own good man Guards the small postern looking towards St. Bride, - And good it were ye should not be espied. Since mayhap freely ye shoald notgo hence, Thou Rolf in special ; for this pestilence Makes all men hard and cruel, nor are they Willing that folk should 'scape if they must stay : Be wise ; I bid you for a while farewell, X-eave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bell Strikes midnight, all will surely then be still. And I will bide you at King "Tryggvi's hill Outside the city gates." Each went his way Therewith, and I the remnant of that day Gained for the quest three men that I deemed true. And did such other things as I must do. And still was ever listening for the chime. Half maddened by the lazy lapse of time ; Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should live Till the great tower the joyful sound should give That set us free. And so the hours went past, Till startled by the echoing clang at last That told of midnight, armed from head to heel Down to the open postern did I steal. Bearing small wealth— this sword that yet hangs here Worn thin and narrow with so many a year. My father's axe that from Byzantium, With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come. Nought else that shone with silver or with gold. But by the postern gate could I behold Laurence the priest all armed as if for war. And my three men were standing not right far From off the town-wall, having some small store Of arms and furs and raiment : then once more I turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fall Upon the new-built bastions of the wall. Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light. And further off I saw the lead shine bright On tower and turret-roof against the sky. And looking down I saw the old town lie Black in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill, 6 PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. Stricken with death, and dreary, but all still To talk of what he deemed our course should be. Until it reached the water of the bay. /To whom agape I listened, smce I knew That in the dead night smote against the quay / Nought but old tales, nor aught of false and true Not all unheard, though there was little wind. \ Midst these, for all of one kind seemed to be But as I turned to leave the place behind, \ The Vineland voyage o'er the unknown sea The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell. And Swegdir's search for Godhome, when he found Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell. That in that stillness jarring on mine ears. With sudden jangle checked the rising tears. And now the freshness of the open sea Seemed ease and joy and very life to me. So greeting my new mates with little sound, We made good haste to reach King Tryggvi's mound. And there the Breton Nicholas beheld. Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held. And round about them twenty men there stood, Of whom the more part on the holy rood Were sworn till death to follow up the quest. And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest. Again betwixt us was there little speech. But swiftly did we set on toward the beach. And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man, We boarded, and the long oars out we ran. And swept from out the fipth, and sped so well That scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bell Toll one, although the light wind blew from land ; Then hoisting sail southward we 'gan to stand, And much I joyed beneath the moon to see The lessening land that might have been to me A kindly giver of wife, child, and friend. And happy life, or at the worser end A quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth. The entrance to a new world underground ; But Nicholas o'er many books had pored And this and that thing in his mind had stored, And idle tales from true report he knew. — Would he were living now, to tell to you This story that my feeble lips must tell ! Now he indeed of Vineland knew full well, Both from my tales where truth perchance touched lies. And from the ancient written histories ; But now he said, ' ' The land was good enow That Leif the son of Eric came unto. But this was not our world, nay scarce could be The door into a place so heavenly As that we seek, therefore my rede is this. That we to gain that sure abode of bliss Risk dying in an unknown landless sea ; , Although full certainly it seems to me All that we long for there we needs must find. " Therefore, O friends, if ye are of my mind. When we are passed the French and English strait Let us seek news of that desired gate To immortality and blessed rest Within the landless waters of the west. But still a little to the southward steer. Certes no Greenland winter waits us there. No year-long night, but rather we shall find Spice-trees set waving by the western wind. Night passed, day dawned, and we grew full of And gentle folk who know no guile at least. mirth As with the ever-rising morning wind Still further lay our threatened death behind, Or so we thought : some ei ght y men we were. Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear. The rest were uplanders ; midst such of these As knew not of our quest, with promises Went Nicholas dealing florins round about. With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt. Till all were fairly won or seemed to be To that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea. Now if ye ask me from what land I come With all my folly, — Wick was once my home Where Tryggvi Olaf s son and Olaf s sire Lit to the ancient Gods the sacred fire. Unto whose line am I myself akin. Through him who Astrid in old time did win. King Olaf's widow : let all that go by, Since I was born at least to misery. Now Nicholas came to Laurence and to me And many a bright-winged bird and soft-skinned beast, ■ For gently must the year upon them fall. " Now since the Fighting Man is over small f_ To hold the mighty stores that we shall need. To turn as now to Bremen is my rede. And there to buy a new keel with my gold. And fill her with such things as she may hold ; And thou henceforward, Rolf, her lord shall be. Since thou art not unskilled upon the sea." But unto me most fair his saying seemed. For of a land unknown to all I dreamed. And certainly by some warm sea I thought That we the soonest thereto should be brought. Therefore with mirth enow passed every day Till in'the Weser stream at last we lay Hearkening the, bells of Bremen ring to mass. For on a Sunday morn our coming was. There in a while to chaffer did we fall. And of the merchants bought a dromond tall They called the Rose-Garland, and her we stored 4i PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. With such-like victuals as we well might hoard. And arms and raiment ; also there we gained Some few men more by stories true and feigned. And by that time, nowTISBdiiig lldU^lit SCa^, We weighed, well armed, with good hope not to fall Into the hands of rovers of the sea. Since at that time had we heard certainly Edward of England drew all men to him. And that his fleet held whatso keel could swim From Jutland to Land's End ; for all that, we Thought it but wise to keep the open sea And give to warring lands a full wide berth ; Since unto all of us our lives seemed worth ~ I A better purchase than they erst had been. I So it befell that we no sail had seen Till the sixth day at morn, when we drew near The land at last and saw the French coast clear, — The high land over Guines our pilot said. There at the day-break, we, apparelled Lilce merchant ships in seeming, now perforce Must meet a navy drawing thwart our course, Whose sails and painted hulls not far away Rolled slowly o'er the leaden sea and grey. Beneath the night-clouds by no sun yet cleared ; But we with anxious hearts this navy neared, For we sailed deep and heavy, and to fly Would nought avail since we were drawn so nigh, And fighting, must we meet but certain death. Soon with amazement did I hold my breath As from the wide bows of the Rose-Garland, I saw the sun, new risen o'er the land, Light up the shield-bung side of keel on keel. Their sails like knights' coats, and the points of steel Glittering from waist and castle and high top. And well indeed awhile my heart might stop As heading all the crowded van I saw. Huge, swelling out without a crease or flaw, A sail where, on the quartered blue and red. In silk and gold right well apparelldd. The lilies gleamed, the thin gaunt leopards glared Out toward the land where even now there flared The dying beacons. Ah, with such an one Could I from town to town of France have run To end my Hfe upon some glorious day Where stand the banners brighter than the May Above the deeds of men, as certainly This king himself has full oft wished to die. And who knows now beneath what field he lies. Amidst what mighty bones of enemies ? Ah, surely it had been a glorious thing From such a field to lead forth such a king. That he might live again with happy days. And more than ever win the people's praise. Nor had it been an evil lot to stand On the worse side, with people of the land 'Gainst such a man, when even this might fall. That it might be my luck some day to call My battle-cry o'er his low-lying head. And I be evermore remembered. Well as'we neared and neared, such thoughts I had Whereby perchance I was the less d-drad Of what might come, and at the worst we deemed They would not scorn our swords ; but as I dreamed Of fair towns won and desperate feats of war. And my old follies now were driven afar By that most glorious sight, a loud halloo Came down the wind, and one by me who knew The English tongue cried that they bade us run Close up and board, nor was there any one Who durst say nay to that, so presently Both keels were underneath the big ship's lee ; While Nicholas and I together passed Betwixt the crowd of archers by the mast Unto the poop, where, 'neath his canopy The king sat, eyeing us as we drew nigh. Broad-browed he was, hook-nosed, with wide grey eyes No longer eager for the coming prize. But keen and steadfast, many an ageing line, Half hidden by his sweeping beard and fine. Ploughed his thin cheeks, his hair was more than grey. And like to one he seemed whose better day Is over to himself, though foolish fame Shouts louder year by year his empty name. Unarmed he was, nor clad upon that morn Much like a king, an ivory hunting-horn Was slung about him, rich with gems and gold. And a great white ger-falcon did he hold Upon his fist ; before his feet there sat A scrivener making notes of this or that As the king bade him, and behind his chair His captains stood in armour rich and fair ; And by his side unhelmed, but armed, stood one I deemed none other than the prince his son ; For in a coat of England was he clad. And on his head a coronel he had. Tall was he, slim, made apt for feats of war, A splendid lord, yea, he seemed prouder far Than was his sire, yet his eyes therewithal With languid careless glance seemed wont to fall On things about, as though he deemed that nought Could fail unbidden to do all his thought. But close by him stood a war-beaten knight. Whose coat of war bore on a field of white A sharp red pile, and he of all men there Methought would be the one that I should fear If I led men. PROLOGUE : THE WANDERERS. But midst my thoughts I heard The king's voice as the high-seat now we neared, And knew his speech, because in French it was, That erewhile I had learnt of Nicholas. " Fair sirs, what are ye? for on this one day, I rule the narrow seas mine ancient way. Me seemeth in the highest bark I know The Flemish handiwork, but yet ye show Unlike to merchants, though your ships are deep And slowly through the water do ye creep ; And thou, fair sir, seem'st journeying from' the north With peltries Bordeaux-ward ? Nay then go forth. Thou wilt not harm us : yet if ye be men Well-born and warlike, these are fair days, when The good heart wins more than the merchant keeps, And safest still in steel the young head sleeps ; And here are banners thou mayest stand beneath And not be shamed either in life or death — What, man, thou reddenest, wouldst thou say me no. If underneath my banner thou shouldst go ? Nay, thou mayst speak, or let thy fellow say What he is stuffed with, be it yea or nay." For as he spoke my fellow gazed on me With something like to fear, and hurriedly As I bent forward, thrust me on one side, And scarce the king's last word would he abide But 'gan to say, " Sire, from the north we come. Though as for me far nigher is my home. Thy foes, my Lord, drove out my kin and me, Ere yet thine armed hand was upon the sea ; Chandos shall surely know my father's name, Loys of Dinan, which ill-luck, sword, and flame, Lord Charles of Blois, the French king, and the pest In this and that land now have laid to rest, Except for me alone. And now, my Lord, If I shall seem to speak an idle word To such as thou art, pardon me therefore ; But we, part taught by ancient books and lore. And part by what, nor yet so long ago. This man's own countrymen have come to do. Have gathered hope to find across the sea A land where we shall gain felicity Past tongue of man to tell of ; and our life Is not so sweet here, or so free from strife. Or glorious deeds so common, that, if we Should think a certain path at last to see To such a place, men then could think us wise To turn away therefrom, and shut our eyes, Because at many a turning here and there Swift death might lurk, or unaccustomed fear. O King, I pray thee in this young man's face Flash not thy banner, nor with thy frank grace Tear him from life ; but go thy way, let us Find hidden death, or life more glorious Than thou durst think of, knowing not the gate Whereby to flee from that all-shadowing fate. " O King, since I could walk a yard or twain, Or utter anything but cries of pain, Death was before me ; yea, on the first morn That I remember aught, among the corn I wandered with my nurse, behind us lay The walls of Vannes, virhite in the summer day. The reapers whistled, the brown maidens sung. As on the wain the topmost sheaf they hung. The swallow wheeled above high up in air. And midst the labour all was sweet and fair ; When on the winding road between the fields I saw a glittering line of spears and shields. And pleased therewith called out to some one by E'en as I could ; he scarce for fear could cry ' The French, the French 1 ' and turned and ran his best Toward the town gates, and we ran with the rest, I wailing loud who knew not why at all ; But ere we reached the gates my nurse did fall, I with her, and I wondered much that she Just as she fell should still He quietly ; Nor did the coloured feathers that I found Stuck in her side, as frightened I crawled round, Tell me the tale, though I was sore afeard At all the cries and wailing that I heard. " I say, my Lord, that arrow-flight now seems The first thing rising clear from feeble dreams, And that was death ; and the next thing was death. For through our house all spoke with bated breath And wore black clothes ; withal they came to me A little child, and did off hastily My shoon and hosen, and with that I heard The sound of doleful singing, and afeard Forbore to question, when I saw the feet Of all were bare, hke mine, as toward the street We passed, and joined a crowd in such-like guise. Who through the town sang woeful litanies, Pressing the stones with feet unused and soft. And bearing images of saints aloft. In hope 'gainst hope to save us from the rage Of that fell pest, that as an unseen cage Hemmed France about, and me and such as me They made partakers of their misery. " Lo death again, and if the time served now Full many another picture could I show Of death and death, and men who ever strive Through every misery at least to live. The priest within the minster preaches it. And brooding o'er it doth the wise man sit I-etting life's joys go by. Well, blame me then. If I who love this changing life of men. And every minute of whose life were bliss Too great to long for greater, but for this— Mock me, who take this d^th-bound life in hand PROLOGUE : THE WANDERERS. AndTisk thfrr-iig toflnd a happy land, — Where at th e worst jeath is so far away No man need think of him from day to day— Mock me, butTQl'Sisgo, fori amlaih Our restless road, the landless sea, to gain. ' His words nigh made me weep, but while he spoke I noted how a mocking smile just broke The thin line of the Prince's lips, and he Who carried the afore-named armoury Puffed out his wind-beat cheeks and whistled low : But the king smiled, and said, " Can it be so? I know not, and ye twain are such as find | The things whereto old kings must needs be blind. For you the world is wide— but not for me, | Who once had dreains of one great victory . \ Wherein that world lay vanquished by my thronei And now, the victor in so many an one, \ Find that in Asia Alexander died And will not live again ; the world is wide For you I say, — for me a narrow space Betwixt the four walls of a fighting place. ' ' Poor man, why should I stay thee ? live thy fill, Of that fair life, wherein thou seest no ill But fear of that fair rest I hope to win One day, when I have purged me of my sin. " Farewell, it yet may hap that I a king Shall be remembered but by this one thing. That on the morn before ye crossed the sea Ye gave and took in common talk with me ; But with this ring keep memory of the morn, Breton, and thou Northman, by this horn Remember me, who am of Odin's blood. As heralds say : moreover it were good Ye had some lines of writing 'neath my seal, Or ye might find it somewhat hard to deal With some of mine, who pass not for a word Whate'er they deem may hold a hostile sword." So as we kneeled this royal man to thank, A clerk brought forth two passes sealed and blank, And when we had them, with the horn and ring. With few words did we leave the noble king. And as adown the gangway steps we passed, We saw the yards swing creaking round the mast, And heard the shipman's ho, for one by one The van outsailed before, by him had run E'en as he stayed for us, and now indeed Of his main battle must he take good heed : But as from off the mighty side we pushed. And in between us the green water rushed, 1 heard his scalds strike up triumphantly Some song that told not of the weary sea. But rather of the mead and fair green-wood, And as we leaned o'er to the wind, I stood And saw the bright sails leave us, and soon lost The pensive music by the strong wind (ossed From wave to wave ; then turning I espied Glittering and white upon the weather side The land he came from, o'er the bright green sea. Scarce duller than the land upon our lea ; For now the clouds had fled before the sun And thf bright autumn day was well begun, Then I cried out for music too, and heard The minstrels sing some well-remembered word. And while they sung, before me still I gazed, Silent with thought of many things, and mazed With many longings ; when I looked again To see those Jands, nought but the restless plain With some far-off small fisher-boat was left. A little hoiir for evermore had reft The sight of Europe from my helpless eyes, And crowned my store of hapless memories. The Elder of the City. Sit, friends, and tell your tale which seems to us Shall be a strange tale and a piteous. Nor shall it lack our pity for its woe. Nor ye due .thanks for all the things ye show Of kingdoms nigh forgot that once were great. And small lands come to glorious estate. But, sirs, ye faint, "behold these maidens stand Bearing the blood of this our sunbuirnt land In well-wrought cups,— drink now of this, that while Ye poor folk wandered, hid from fortune's smile Abode your coming, hidden none the less Below the earth from summer's happiness. The Wanderers. Fair sirs, we thank you, hoping we have come Through many wanderings to a quiet home Befitting dying men — Good health and peace To you and to this land, and fair increase Of everything that ye can wish to have 1 But to my tale : A fair south-east wind tlrave Our ships for ten days more, and ever we Sailed mile for mile together steadily, But the tenth day I saw the Fighting Man Brought up to wait me, and when nigh I ran Her captain hailed me, saying that he thought That we too far to northward had been brought. And we must do our southing while we could. So as his will to me was ever good In such-like things, we changed our course straight- way. And as we might till the eleventh day Stretched somewhat south ; then baffling grew the wind. But as we still were ignorant and blind Nor knew our port, we sailed on helplessly O'er a smooth sea, beneath a lovely sky, PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. And westward ever, but no signs of land AH through these days we saw on either hand, Nor indeed hoped to see, because we knew Some watery desert we must journey through, That had been huge enough to keep all men From gaining that we sought for until then. Yet when I grew downcast, I did not fail To call to mind, how from our land set sail A certain man, and, after he had passed Through many unknown seas, did reach at last A rocky island's shore one foggy day. And while a little oif the land he lay As in a dream he heard the folk call out In his own tongue, but mazed and all in doubt He turned therefrom, and afterwards in strife With winds and waters, much of precious life He wasted utterly, for when again He reached his port after long months of pain. Unto Biarmeland he chanced to go. And there the isle he left so long ago He knew at once, where many Northmen were. And such a fate I could not choose but fear For us sometimes ; and sometimes when at night Beneath the moon I watched the foam fly white From off our bows, and thought how weali and small Showed the Rose-Garland's mast that looked so tall Beside the quays of Bremen ; when I saw With measiired steps the watch on toward me draw. And in the moon the helmsman's peering face, And 'twixt the cordage strained across my place Beheld the white sail of the Fighting Man Lead down the pathway of the moonlight wan — Then when the ocean seemed so measureless The very sky itself might well be less. When midst the changeless piping of the wind. The intertwined slow waves pressed on behind Rolled o'er pur wake and made it nought again. Then would it seem an ill thing and a vain To leave the hopeful world that we had known, When all was o'er, hopeless to die alone Within this changeless world of waters grey. But hope would come back to me with the day. The talk of men, the viol's quivering strings, Would bring my heart to think of better things. Nor were our folk down-hearted through all this ; For partly with the hope of that vague bliss Were they made happy, partly the soft air And idle days wherethrough we then did fare Were joy enow to rude sea-faring folk. But this our ease at last a tempest broke vf And we must scud before it helplessly, I Fearing each moment lest some climbing sea Should topple o'er our poop and end us there, i Nathless we 'scaped, and still the wind blew fair' For what we deemed was our right course ; but when On the third eve, we, as delivered men. Took breath because the gale was now blown out. And from our rolling deck we looked about Over the ridges of the dark grey seas, And saw the sun, setting in golden ease, Smile out at last from out the just-cleared sky Over the ocean's weltering misery, Still nothing of the Fighting Man we saw, _ Which last was seen when the first gusty flaw Smote them and us ; but nothing would avail To mend the thing, so onward did we sail. But slowly, through the moonlit night and fair, With all sails set that we could hoist in air. And rolling heavily at first ; for still Each wave came on a glittering rippled hill, And lifting us aloft, showed from its height The waste of waves, and then to lightless night Dropped us adown, and much ado had we To ride unspilt the wallow of the sea. But the sun rose up. in a cloudless sky. And from the east the wind blew cheerily. And southwest still we steered ; till on a day As nigh the mast deep in dull thoughts I lay, I heard a shout, and turning could I see One of the shipmen hurrying fast to me With something in his hand, who cast adown Close to my hand a mass of sea-weed brown Without more words, then knew I certainly The wrack, that oft before I had seen lie In sandy bights of Norway, and that eve Just as the sun the ridgy sea would leave. Shore birds we saw, that flew so nigh, we heard Their hoarse loud voice that seemed a heavenly word. Then all were glad, but I a fool and young Slept not that night, but walked the deck and sung Snatches of songs, and verily I think I thought next morn of some fresh stream to drink. What say I ? next morn did I think to be Set in my godless fair eternity. Sirs, ye are old, and ye have seen perchance Some little child for very gladness dance Over a scarcely-noticed worthless thing. Worth more to him than ransom of a king. Did not a pang of more than pity take Your heart thereat, not for the youngling's sake, But for your own, for man that passes by. So like to God, so like the beasts that die. Lo, sirs, my pity for myself is such. When like an image that my hand can touch My old self grows unto myself grown old. —Sirs, I forget, my story is not told. ~" Next morn more wrack we saw, more birds, but still No land as yet either for good or ill, PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. II But with the light increased the favouring breeze, And smoothly, did we mount the ridgy seas. Then as anigh the good ship's stern I stood Gazing adown, a piece of rough-hewn wood On a wave's crest I saw, and loud I cried,. ' ' Drift-wood ! drift-wood I " and one from by my side, Maddened with joy, made for the shrouds, and clomb Up to the top to look on bis new home, For sure be thought the green earth soon to see ; But gazing thence about him, presently He shouted out, ' ' A s^I astern, a sail ! " Freshening the hope that now had 'gun to fail Of seeipg our fellows with the earth new found ; Wherefore we shortened sail, and sweeping round The hazy edges of the sea and sky Soon from the deck could see that sail draw nigh. Half fearful lest she yet might chance to be The floating house of some strange enemy. Till on her sail we could at last behold The ruddy lion with the axe of gold, And Marcus ErUng's sign set comer-wise, The green, gold-fruited tree of Paradise. — Ah, what a meeting as she drew aaigh. Greeted with ringing shouts and minstrelsy ! Alas, the joyful fever of that day. When all we met still told of land that lay Not far ahead ! Yet at our joyous feast A word of warning spoke the Swabian priest To me and Nicholas, for, " O friends," he said, ' ' Right welcome is the land that Ues ahead To us who cannot turn, and in this air, Washed by this sea, it cannot but be fair. And good for us poor men I make no doubt ; Yet, fellows, must I warn you not to shout Ere we have left the troublous wood behind , Wherein we wander desperate and blind : ' ! Think what may dwell there ! Call to mind thfe We hearJTlast winter o'er the yule-tide ale, ! When that small, withered, black-eyed Genoese Told of the island in the outer seas He and his fellows reached upon a tide. And how, as lying by a streamlet's side. With ripe fruits ready unto every hand. And lacking not for women of the land, The devils came and slew them, all but him. Who, how he scarce knew, made a shift to swim Off to his ship : nor must ye, fellows, fear Such things alone, for mayhap men dwell here Who worship dreadful gods, and sacrifice Poor travellers to them in such horrid wise As I have heard of; or let this go by. Yet we may chance to come to slavery. Or all our strength and weapons be too poor To conquer such beasts as the unknown shore May breed ; or set all these ill things aside, It yet may be our lot to wander wide Through many lands before at last we come Unto the gates of our enduring home," But what availed such warning unto us, Who bythis change made lilgh ^eIifioiis7" Spake"wisdonroutward~from the teeth, but thought That in a httle hour we should be brought Unto that bliss our hearts were set upon. That more than very heaven we now had won. Well, the next mom unto our land we came. And even now my cheeks grow red with shame. To think what words 1 said to Nicholas, (Since on that night in the great ship I was,) Asking him questions, as if he were God, Or at the least in that fair land had trod. And knew it well, and still he answered me As some great doctor in theology Might his poor scholar, asking him of heaven. But unto me next morn the grace was given To see land first, and when men certainly That blessed sight of all sights could descry, - All hearts were melted, and with happy tears, Born of the death of all our doubts and fears. Yea, with loud weeping, each did each embrace For joy that we had gained the glorious place. Then must the minstrels sing, then must they play Some joyous strain to welcome in the day. But for hot tears could see nor bow nor string. Nor for the rising sobs make shift to sing ; Yea, some of us in that first ecstasy For joy of 'scaping death went near to die. Then might be seen how hard is this world'sjot^ When sjich a mafSTwiilpurgrief forgot. And what a thing the world's joy is to bear, When on our hearts the broken bonds of care Had left such scars, no man of us could say The burning words upon his lips that lay ; Since, trained to hide the depths of misery. Amidst that joy no more our tongueiwere free. Ah, then it was indeed when first I knew. When all our wildest dreams seemed coming true. And we had reached the gates of Paradise And endless bliss, at what unmeasured price Man sets his life, and drawing happy breath, I shuddered at the once familiar death. ~=— Alas, the happy day ! the foolish day ! Alas, the sweet time, too soon passed away ! Well, in a while I gained the Rose-Garland, And as toward shore we steadily did stand With all sail set, the wind, which had been light. Since the beginning of the just past night. Failed utterly, and the sharp ripple slept. Then toiling hard forward our keels we swept. / PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. Making small way, until night fell again, And then, although of landing we were fain, Needs must we wait ; but when the sun was set Then the cool night a light air did beget, And 'neath the stars slowly we moved along. And found ourselves within a current strong At daybreak, and the land beneath our lee. There a long line of breakers could we see. That on a yellow sandy beach did fall. And then a belt of grass, and then a wall Of green trees, rising dark against the sky. Not long we looked, but anchored presently A furlong from the shore, and then, all armed. Into the boats the most part of us swarmed, And pulled with eager hands unto the beach. But when the seething surf our prow did reach From off the bows JJeapLintflJbe sea Waist deep, and, wading, was the first to be ■Up on fllaf lan d j^theTi to the flowers I ran. And cried aloud like to a drunken man Words without meaning, whereof none took heed. For all across the yellow beach made speed To roll among the fair flowers and the grass. But when our folly somewhat tempered was. And we could talk like men, we thought it good To try if we could pierce the thick^lackjsood. And see what men might dwell in that new land ; But when we entered it, on either hand Uprose the trunks, with underwood entwined Making one thicket, thorny, dense, and blind ; Where with our axes, labouring half the day, We scarcely made some half a rod of way ; Therefore, we left that place and tried again, Yea, many times, but yet was all in vain ; So to the ships we went, when we had been A long way in our arms, nor yet had seen A sign of man, but as for living things, Gay birds with many-coloured crests and wings. Conies anigh the beach, and while we hacked Within the wood, grey serpents, yellow-backed, And monstrous lizards ; yea, and one man said That 'midst the thorns he saw a dragon's head ; And keeping still his eyes on it he felt For a stout shaft he had within his belt ; But just as he had got it to the string And drawn his hand aback, the loathly thing Vanished away, and how he could not tell. Now spite of all, little our courage fell, For this day's work, nay rather, all things seemed To show that we no foolish dream had dreamed — The pathless, fearful sea, the land that lay So strange, so hard to find, so far away. The lovely summer air, the while we knew That unto winter now at home it grew. The flowery shore, the dragon-guarded wood. So hard to pierce — each one of these made good The foolish hope that led us from our home. That we to utter misery might come. Now next morn when the tide began to flow We weighed, and somewhat northward did we go Coasting that land, and every now and then We went ashore to try the woods again. But little change we found in them, until Inland we saw a bare and scarped white hill Rise o'er their tops, and going further on Unto a broad green river's mouth we won. And entering there, ran up it with the flood. For it was deep, although 'twixt walls of wood Darkly enough its shaded stream did flow. And high trees hid the hill we saw just now. So as we peered about from side to side A path upon the right bank we espied Through the thick wood, and mooring hastily Our ships unto the trunks of trees thereby, Laurence and I with sixty men took land With bow or cutting sword or bill in hand. And bearing food to last till the third day ; But with the others there did Nicholas stay To guard the^ships, with whom was Kirstin still, WK&now seemed pining for old things, and ill. Spite of the sea-breeze and the lovely air. But as for us, we followed up with care A winding path, looking from left to right Lest any deadly thing should come in sight ; And certainly our path a dragon crossed That in the thicket presently we lost ; And some men said a leopard they espied, And further on we heard a beast that cried ; Serpents we saw, like those we erst had seen. And many-coloured birds, and lizards green. And apes that chattered from amidst the trees. So on we went until a dying breeze We felt upon our faces, and soon grew The forest thinner, till at last we knew The great scarped hill, which if we now could scale For sight of much far country would avail ; But coming there we climbed it easily, For though escarped and rough toward the sea, The beaten path we followed led us round To where a soft and grassy slope we found, i And there it forked ; one arm led up the hill, • • Another through the forest wound on still ; Which last we left, in good hope soon to see J Some signs of man, which happened presently ; •■ 'i . For two-thirds up the hill we reached a space " ° Levelled by man's hand in the mountain's face. And there a rude shrine stood, of unhewn stones Both walls and roof, with a great heap of bones Piled up outside it : there awhile we stood In doubt, for something there made cold our blood. Till brother Laurence, with a whispered word, ~ Crossed himself thrice, and drawing forth his sword PROLOGUE: THE WANDERERS. «3 Entered alone, but therewith presently From the inside called out aloud to me To follow, so I trembling, yet went in To that abode of unknown monstrous sin, And others followed : therein could we see, Amidst the gloom by peering steadily, An altar of rough stones, and over it We saw a god of yellow metal sit, A cubit long, which Laurence with his tongue Had touched "and found pure gold ; withal there hung Against the wall men's bodies brown and dry, WhiclTgandy-rHgsBfiffimenf wretchedly \ Did wrap about, and all their heads were wreathed With golden chaplets ; and meanwhile we bl'eathed A heavy, faint, and sweet spice-laden air, As though that incense late were scattered there. But from thatjigusg of devi ls soon we passed Trembling and pale, LaurenceThe priest, the last. And got away in haste, nor durst we take Those golden chaplets for their wearers' sake. Or that grim golden devil whose they were ; Yet for the rest, although they brought us fear^ i They did but seem to show our heaven anigh Because we deemed these might have come to die In seeking it, being slain for fatal sin. ^^ And now we set ourselves in haste to win Up to that mountain's top, and on the way Lookedbackward oft upon the land that lay Beneath the hill, and still on every hand The forest seemed to cover all the land, But that some four leagues off we saw a space Cleared of the trees," and in that open place Houses we seemed to see, and rising smoke That told where dwelt the unknown, unseen folk." But when at last the utmost top we won A dismal sight our eyes must look upon ; The mountain's summit, levelled by man's art, Was hedged by high stones set some yard apart All round