SONG.

O Dwellers on the lovely earth, Why will ye break your rest and mirth To weary us with fruitless prayer; Why will ye toil and take such care

For children's children yet unborn, And garner store of strife and scorn To gain a scarce-remembered name, Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame?

And if the gods care not for you, What is this folly ye must do To win some mortal's feeble heart? O fools! when each man plays his part,

And heeds his fellow little more Than these blue waves that kiss the shore Take heed of how the daisies grow. O fools! and if ye could but know

How fair a world to you is given. O brooder on the hills of heaven, When for my sin thou drav'st me forth, Hadst thou forgot what this was worth,

Thine own hand had made? The tears of men, The death of threescore years and ten, The trembling of the timorous race — Had these things so bedimmed the place

Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know To what a heaven the earth might grow If fear beneath the earth were laid, If hope failed not, nor love decayed.

He stopped, for he beheld his wandering lord, Who, drawing near, heard little of his word, And noted less; for in that haggard mood Nought could he do but o'er his sorrows brood,

Whate'er they were, but now being come anigh, He lifted up his drawn face suddenly, And as the singer gat him to his feet, His eyes Admetus’ troubled eyes did meet,

As with some speech he now seemed labouring, Which from his heart his lips refused to bring. Then spoke the herdsman, “Master, what is this, That thou, returned with honour to the bliss,

The gods have given thee here, still makest show To be some wretch bent with the weight of woe? What wilt thou have? What help there is in me Is wholly thine, for in felicity

Within thine house thou still hast let me live, Nor grudged most noble gifts to me to give.” “Yea,” said Admetus, “thou canst help indeed, But as the spring shower helps the unsown mead.

Yet listen: at Iolchos the first day Unto Diana's house I took my way, Where all men gathered ere the games began, There, at the right side of the royal man,

Who rules Iolchos, did his daughter stand, Who with a suppliant bough in her right hand Headed the band of maidens; but to me More than a goddess did she seem to be,

Nor fit to die; and therewithal I thought That we had all been thither called for nought But that her bridegroom Pelias might choose, And with that thought desire did I let loose,

And striving not with Love, I gazed my fill, As one who will not fear the coming ill: All, foolish were mine eyes, foolish my heart, To strive in such a marvel to have part!

What god shall wed her rather? no more fear Than vexes Pallas vexed her forehead clear, Faith shone from out her eyes, and on her lips Unknown love trembled; the Phoenician ships

Within their dark holds nought so precious bring As her soft golden hair, no daintiest thing I ever saw was half so wisely wrought As was her rosy ear; beyond all thought,

All words to tell of, her veiled body showed, As, by the image of the Three-formed bowed, She laid her offering down; then I drawn near The murmuring of her gentle voice could hear,

As waking one hears music in the morn, Ere yet the fair June sun is fully born; And sweeter than the roses fresh with dew Sweet odours floated round me, as she drew

Some golden thing from out her balmy breast With her right hand, the while her left hand pressed The hidden wonders of her girdlestead; And when abashed I sank adown my head,

Dreading the god of Love, my eyes must meet The happy bands about her perfect feet. “What more? thou know'st perchance what thing love is? Kindness, and hot desire, and rage, and bliss,

None first a moment; but before that day No love I knew but what might pass away When hot desire was changed to certainty, Or not abide much longer; e'en such stings

Had smitten me, as the first warm day brings When March is dying; but now half a god The crowded way unto the lists I trod, Yet hopeless as a vanquished god at whiles,

And hideous seemed the laughter and the smiles, And idle talk about me on the way. “But none could stand before me on that day, I was as god-possessed, not knowing how

The King had brought her forth but for a show, To make his glory greater through the land: Therefore at last victorious did I stand Among my peers, nor yet one well-known name

Had gathered any honour from my shame. For there indeed both men of Thessaly, Oetolians, Thebans, dwellers by the sea, And folk of Attica and Argolis,

Arcadian woodmen, islanders, whose bliss Is to be tossed about from wave to wave, All these at last to me the honour gave, Nor did they grudge it: yea, and one man said,

A wise Thessalian with a snowy head, And voice grown thin with age,‘ O Pelias, Surely to thee no evil thing it was That to thy house this rich Thessalian

Should come, to prove himself a valiant man Amongst these heroes; for if I be wise By dint of many years, with wistful eyes Doth he behold thy daughter, this fair maid;

And surely, if the matter were well weighed, Good were it both for thee and for the land That he should take the damsel by the hand And lead her hence, for ye near neighbours dwell;

What sayest thou, King, have I said ill or well?’ “With that must I, a fool, stand forth and ask If yet there lay before me some great task That I must do ere I the maid should wed,

But Pelias, looking on us, smiled and said, ‘ O neighbour of Larissa, and thou too, O King Admetus, this may seem to you A little matter; yea, and for my part

E'en such a marriage would make glad my heart; But we the blood of Salmoneus who share With godlike gifts great burdens also bear, Nor is this maid without them, for the day

On which her maiden zone she puts away Shall be her death-day, if she wed with one By whom this marvellous thing may not be done, For in the traces neither must steeds paw

Before my threshold, or white oxen draw The wain that comes my maid to take from me, Far other beasts that day her slaves must be: The yellow lion‘ neath the lash must roar,

And by his side unscared, the forest boar Toil at the draught: what sayest thou then hereto, O lord of Pheræ, wilt thou come to woo In such a chariot, and win endless fame,

Or turn thine eyes elsewhere with little shame?’ “What answered I? O herdsman, I was mad With sweet love and the triumph I had had. I took my father's ring from off my hand,

And said,‘ O heroes of the Grecian land, Be witnesses that on my father's name For this man's promise, do I take the shame Of this deed undone, if I fail herein;

Fear not, O Pelias, but that I shall win This ring from thee, when I shall come again Through fair Iolchos, driving that strange wain. Else by this token, thou, O King, shalt have

Pheræ my home, while on the tumbling wave A hollow ship my sad abode shall be.’ “So driven by some hostile deity, Such words I said, and with my gifts hard won,

But little valued now, set out upon My homeward way: but nearer as I drew To mine abode, and ever fainter grew In my weak heart the image of my love,

In vain with fear my boastful folly strove; For I remembered that no god I was Though I had chanced my fellows to surpass; And I began to mind me in a while

What murmur rose, with what a mocking smile Pelias stretched out his hand to take the ring. Made by my drunkard's gift now twice a king: And when unto my palace-door I came

I had awakened fully to my shame; For certainly no help is left to me, But I must get me down unto the sea And build a keel, and whatso things I may

Set in her hold, and cross the watery way Whither Jove bids, and the rough winds may blow Unto a land where none my folly know, And there begin a weary life anew.”

Eager and bright the herdsman's visage grew The while this tale was told, and at the end He said, “Admetus, I thy life may mend, And thou at lovely Pheræ still may dwell;

Wait for ten days, and then may all be well, And thou to fetch thy maiden home may go, And to the King thy team unheard-of show. And if not, then make ready for the sea

Nor will I fail indeed to go with thee, And‘ twixt the halyards and the ashen oar Finish the service well begun ashore; But meanwhile do I bid thee hope the best;

And take another herdsman for the rest, For unto Ossa must I go alone To do a deed not easy to be done.” Then springing up he took his spear and bow

And northward by the lake-shore‘ gan to go; But the King gazed upon him as he went, Then, sighing, turned about, and homeward bent His lingering steps, and hope began to spring

Within his heart, for some betokening He seemed about the herdsman now to see Of one from mortal cares and troubles free. And so midst hopes and fears day followed day,

Until at last upon his bed he lay When the grey, creeping dawn had now begun To make the wide world ready for the sun On the tenth day: sleepless had been the night

And now in that first hour of gathering light For weariness he slept, and dreamed that he Stood by the border of a fair, calm sea At point to go a-shipboard, and to leave

Whatever from his sire he did receive Of land or kingship; and withal he dreamed That through the cordage a bright light there gleamed Far off within the east; and nowise sad

He felt at leaving all he might have had, But rather as a man who goes to see Some heritage expected patiently. But when he moved to leave the firm fixed shore,

The windless sea rose high and‘ gan to roar, And from the gangway thrust the ship aside, Until he hung over a chasm wide Vocal with furious waves, yet had no fear

For all the varied tumult he might hear, But slowly woke up to the morning light That to his eyes seemed past all memory bright, And then strange sounds he heard, whereat his heart

Woke up to joyous life with one glad start, And nigh his bed he saw the herdsman stand, Holding a long white staff in his right hand, Carved with strange figures; and withal he said,

“Awake, Admetus! loiter not a-bed, But haste thee to bring home thy promised bride, For now an ivory chariot waits outside, Yoked to such beasts as Pelias bade thee bring;

Whose guidance thou shalt find an easy thing, If in thine hands thou holdest still this rod, Whereon are carved the names of every god That rules the fertile earth; but having come

Unto King Pelias’ well-adornéd home, Abide not long, but take the royal maid, And let her dowry in thy wain be laid, Of silver and fine cloth and unmixed gold,

For this indeed will Pelias not withhold When he shall see thee like a very god. Then let thy beasts, ruled by this carven rod, Turn round to Pheræ; yet must thou abide

Before thou comest to the streamlet's side That feed its dykes; there, by the little wood Wherein unto Diana men shed blood, Will I await thee, and thou shalt descend

And hand-in-hand afoot through Pheræ wend; And yet I bid thee, this night let thy bride Apart among the womenfolk abide; That on the morrow thou with sacrifice

For these strange deeds may pay a fitting price.” But as he spoke with something like to awe, His eyes and much-changed face Admetus saw, And voiceless like a slave his words obeyed;

For rising up no more delay he made, But took the staff and gained the palace-door Where stood the beasts, whose mingled whine and roar Had wrought his dream; there two and two they stood,

Thinking, it might be, of the tangled wood, And all the joys of the food-hiding trees, But harmless as their painted images ‘ Neath some dread spell; then, leaping up, he took

The reins in hand and the bossed leather shook, And no delay the conquered beasts durst make But drew, not silent; and folk just awake When he went by, as though a god they saw,

Fell on their knees, and maidens come to draw Fresh water from the fount sank trembling down, And silence held the babbling wakened town. So‘ twixt the dewy hedges did he wend,

And still their noise afar the beasts did send, His strange victorious advent to proclaim, Till to Iolchos at the last he came, And drew anigh the gates, whence in affright

The guards fled, helpless at the wondrous sight; And through the town news of the coming spread Of some great god so that the scared priests led Pale suppliants forth; who, in unmeet attire

And hastily-caught boughs and smouldering fire Within their censers, in the market-place Awaited him with many an upturned face, Trembling with fear of that unnamed new god;

But through the midst of them his lions trod With noiseless feet, nor noted aught their prey, And the boars’ hooves went pattering on the way, While from their churning tusks the white foam flew

As raging, helpless, in the trace they drew. But Pelias, knowing all the work of fate, Sat in his brazen-pillared porch to wait The coming of the King; the while the maid

In her fair marriage garments was arrayed, And from strong places of his treasury Men brought fine scarlet from the Syrian sea, And works of brass, and ivory, and gold;

But when the strange yoked beasts he did behold Come through the press of people terrified, Then he arose and o'er the clamour cried, “Hail, thou, who like a very god art come

To bring great honour to my damsel's home;” And when Admetus tightened rein before The gleaming, brazen-wrought, half-opened door. He cried to Pelias, “Hail, to thee, O King;

Let me behold once more my father's ring, Let me behold the prize that I have won, Mine eyes are wearying now to look upon.” “Fear not,” he said, “the Fates are satisfied;

Yet wilt thou not descend and here abide, Doing me honour till the next bright morn Has dried the dew upon the new-sprung corn, That we in turn may give the honour due

To such a man that such a thing can do, And unto all the gods may sacrifice?” “Nay,” said Admetus, “if thou call'st me wise, And like a very god thou dost me deem,

Shall I abide the ending of the dream And so gain nothing? nay, let me be glad That I at least one godlike hour have had At whatsoever time I come to die,

That I may mock the world that passes by, And yet forgets it.” Saying this, indeed, Of Pelias did he seem to take small heed, But spoke as one unto himself may speak,

And still the half-shut door his eyes did seek, Wherethrough from distant rooms sweet music came, Setting his over-strainéd heart a-flame, Because amidst the Lydian flutes he thought

From place to place his love the maidens brought. Then Pelias said, “What can I give to thee Who fail'st so little of divinity? Yet let my slaves lay these poor gifts within

Thy chariot, while my daughter strives to win The favour of the spirits of this place, Since from their altars she must turn her face For ever now; hearken, her flutes I hear,

From the last chapel doth she draw anear.” Then by Admetus’ feet the folk‘ gan pile The precious things, but he no less the while Stared at the door ajar, and thought it long

Ere with the flutes mingled the maidens’ song, And both grew louder, and the scarce-seen floor Was fluttering with white raiment, and the door By slender fingers was set open wide,

And midst her damsels he beheld the bride Ungirt, with hair unbound and garlanded: Then Pelias took her slender hand and said, “Daughter, this is the man that takes from thee

Thy curse midst women, think no more to be Childless, unloved, and knowing little bliss; But now behold how like a god he is, And yet with what prayers for the love of thee

He must have wearied some divinity, And therefore in thine inmost heart be glad That thou‘ mongst women such a man hast had.” Then she with wondering eyes that strange team saw

A moment, then as one with gathering awe Might turn from Jove's bird unto very Jove, So did she raise her grey eyes to her love, But to her brow the blood rose therewithal,

And she must tremble, such a look did fall Upon her faithful eyes, that none the less Would falter aught, for all her shamefastness, But rather to her lover's hungry eyes

Gave back a tender look of glad surprise, Wherein love's flame began to flicker now. Withal, her father kissed her on the brow, And said, “O daughter, take this royal ring,

And set it on the finger of the King, And come not back; and thou, Admetus, pour This wine to Jove before my open door, And glad at heart take back thine own with thee.”

Then with that word Alcestis silently, And with no look cast back, and ring in hand, Went forth, and soon beside her love did stand, Nor on his finger failed to set the ring;

And then a golden cup the city's King Gave to him, and he poured and said, “O thou, From whatsoever place thou lookest now, What prayers, what gifts unto thee shall I give

That we a little time with love may live? A little time of love, then fall asleep Together, while the crown of love we keep.” So spake he, and his strange beasts turned about,

And heeded not the people's wavering shout That from their old fear and new pleasure sprung, Nor noted aught of what the damsels sung, Or of the flowers that after them they cast,

But like a dream the guarded city passed, And‘ twixt the song of birds and blossoms’ scent It seemed for many hundred years they went, Though short the way was unto Pheræ's gates;

Time they forgat, and gods, and men, and fates, However nigh unto their hearts they were; The woodland boars, the yellow lords of fear No more seemed strange to them, but all the earth

With all its changing sorrow and wild mirth In that fair hour seemed new-born to the twain, Grief seemed a play forgot, a pageant vain, A picture painted, who knows where or when,

With soulless images of restless men; For every thought but love was now gone by, And they forgot that they should ever die. But when they came anigh the sacred wood,

There, biding them, Admetus’ herdsman stood, At sight of whom those yoke-fellows unchecked Stopped dead and little of Admetus recked Who now, as one from dreams not yet awake,

Drew back his love and did his wain forsake, And gave the carven rod and guiding bands Into the waiting herdsman's outstretched hands, But when he would have thanked him for the thing

That he had done, his speechless tongue must cling Unto his mouth, and why he could not tell. But the man said, “No words! thou hast done well To me, as I to thee; the day may come

When thou shalt ask me for a fitting home, Nor shalt thou ask in vain; but hasten now, And to thine house this royal maiden show, Then give her to thy women for this night.

But when thou wakest up to thy delight To-morrow, do all things that should be done, Nor of the gods, forget thou any one, And on the next day will I come again

To tend thy flocks upon the grassy plain. “But now depart, and from thine home send here Chariot and horse, these gifts of thine to bear Unto thine house, and going, look not back

Lest many a wished-for thing thou com'st to lack.” Then hand in hand together, up the road The lovers passed unto the King's abode, And as they went, the whining snort and roar

From the yoked beasts they heard break out once more And then die off, as they were led away, But whether to some place lit up by day, Or,‘ neath the earth, they knew not, for the twain

Went hastening on, nor once looked back again. But soon the minstrels met them, and a band Of white-robed damsels flowery boughs in hand, To bid them welcome to that pleasant place.

Then they, rejoicing much, in no long space Came to the brazen-pillared porch, whereon From‘ twixt the passes of the hills yet shone The dying sun; and there she stood awhile

Without the threshold, a faint tender smile Trembling upon her lips‘ twixt love and shame, Until each side of her a maiden came And raised her in their arms, that her fair feet

The polished brazen threshold might not meet, And in Admetus’ house she stood at last. But to the women's chamber straight she passed Bepraised of all,— and so the wakeful night

Lonely the lovers passed e'en as they might. But the next day with many a sacrifice, Admetus wrought, for such a well-won prize, A life so blest, the gods to satisfy,

And many a matchless beast that day did die Upon the altars; nought unlucky seemed To be amid the joyous crowd that gleamed With gold and precious things, and only this

Seemed wanting to the King of Pheræ's bliss, That all these pageants should be soon past by, And hid by night the fair spring blossoms lie. Yet on the morrow-morn Admetus came,

A haggard man oppressed with grief and shame Unto the spot beside Boebeis’ shore Whereby he met his herdsman once before, And there again he found him flushed and glad,

And from the babbling water newly clad, Then he with downcast eyes these words began, “O thou, whatso thy name is, god or man, Hearken to me; meseemeth of thy deed

Some dread immortal taketh angry heed. “Last night the height of my desire seemed won, All day my weary eyes had watched the sun Rise up and sink, and now was come the night

When I should be alone with my delight; Silent the house was now from floor to roof, And in the well-hung chambers, far aloof, The feasters lay; the moon was in the sky,

The soft spring wind was wafting lovingly Across the gardens fresh scents to my sweet, As, troubled with the sound of my own feet, I passed betwixt the pillars, whose long shade

Black on the white red-veinéd floor was laid: So happy was I that the briar-rose, Rustling outside within the flowery close, Seemed but Love's odorous wing — too real all seemed

For such a joy as I had never dreamed. “Why do I linger, as I lingered not In that fair hour, now ne'er to be forgot While my life lasts?— Upon the gilded door

I laid my hand; I stood upon the floor Of the bride-chamber, and I saw the bride, Lovelier than any dream, stand by the side Of the gold bed, with hands that hid her face:

One cry of joy I gave, and then the place Seemed changed to hell as in a hideous dream. “Still did the painted silver pillars gleam Betwixt the scented torches and the moon;

Still did the garden shed its odorous boon Upon the night; still did the nightingale Unto his brooding mate tell all his tale: But, risen‘ twixt my waiting love and me,

As soundless as the dread eternity, Sprung up from nothing, could mine eyes behold A huge dull-gleaming dreadful coil that rolled In changing circles on the pavement fair.

Then for the sword that was no longer there My hand sank to my side; around I gazed, And‘ twixt the coils I met her grey eyes, glazed With sudden horror most unspeakable;

And when mine own upon no weapon fell, For what should weapons do in such a place, Unto the dragon's head I set my face, And raised bare hands against him, but a cry

Burst on mine ears of utmost agony That nailed me there, and she cried out to me, ‘ O get thee hence; alas, I cannot flee! They coil about me now, my lips to kiss.

O love, why hast thou brought me unto this?’ “Alas, my shame! trembling, away I slunk, Yet turning saw the fearful coil had sunk To whence it came, my love's limbs freed I saw,

And a long breath at first I heard her draw As one redeemed, then heard the hard sobs come, And wailings for her new accurséd home. But there outside across the door I lay,

Like a scourged hound, until the dawn of day; And as her gentle breathing then I heard As though she slept, before the earliest bird Began his song, I wandered forth to seek

Thee, O strange man, e'en as thou seest me, weak With all the torment of the night, and shamed With such a shame as never shall be named To aught but thee — Yea, yea, and why to thee

Perchance this ends all thou wilt do for me?— What then, and have I not a cure for that? Lo, yonder is a rock where I have sat Full many an hour while yet my life was life,

With hopes of all the coming wonder rife. No sword hangs by my side, no god will turn This cloudless hazy blue to black, and burn My useless body with his lightning flash;

But the white waves above my bones may wash, And when old chronicles our house shall name They may leave out the letters and the shame, That make Admetus, once a king of men —

And how could I be worse or better then?” As one who notes a curious instrument Working against the maker's own intent, The herdsman eyed his wan face silently,

And smiling for a while, and then said he,— “Admetus, thou, in spite of all I said, Hast drawn this evil thing upon thine head, Forgetting her who erewhile laid the curse

Upon the maiden, so for fear of worse Go back again; for fair-limbed Artemis Now bars the sweet attainment of thy bliss; So taking heart, yet make no more delay

But worship her upon this very day, Nor spare for aught, and of thy trouble make No semblance unto any for her sake; And thick upon the fair bride-chamber floor

Strew dittany, and on each side the door Hang up such poppy-leaves as spring may yield; And for the rest, myself may be a shield Against her wrath — nay, be thou not too bold

To ask me that which may not now be told. Yea, even what thou deemest, hide it deep Within thine heart, and let thy wonder sleep, For surely thou shalt one day know my name,

When the time comes again that autumn's flame Is dying off the vine-boughs, overturned, Stripped of their wealth. But now let gifts be burned To her I told thee of, and in three days

Shall I by many hard and rugged ways Have come to thee again to bring thee peace. Go, the sun rises and the shades decrease.” Then, thoughtfully, Admetus gat him back,

Nor did the altars of the Huntress lack The fattest of the flocks upon that day. But when night came, in arms Admetus lay Across the threshold of the bride-chamber,

And nought amiss that night he noted there, But durst not enter, though about the door Young poppy-leaves were twined, and on the floor, Not flowered as yet with downy leaves and grey,

Fresh dittany beloved of wild goats lay. But when the whole three days and nights were done, The herdsman came with rising of the sun, And said, “Admetus, now rejoice again,

Thy prayers and offerings have not been in vain, And thou at last mayst come unto thy bliss; And if thou askest for a sign of this, Take thou this token; make good haste to rise,

And get unto the garden-close that lies Below these windows sweet with greenery, And in the midst a marvel shalt thou see, Three white, black-hearted poppies blossoming,

Though this is but the middle of the spring.” Nor was it otherwise than he had said, And on that day with joy the twain were wed, And‘ gan to lead a life of great delight;

But the strange woeful history of that night, The monstrous car, the promise to the King, All these through weary hours of chiselling Were wrought in stone, and in Diana's wall

Set up, a joy and witness unto all. But neither so would wingéd time abide, The changing year came round to autumn-tide, Until at last the day was fully come

When the strange guest first reached Admetus’ home. Then, when the sun was reddening to its end, He to Admetus’ brazen porch did wend, Whom there he found feathering a poplar dart,

Then said he, “King, the time has come to part. Come forth, for I have that to give thine ear No man upon the earth but thou must hear.” Then rose the King, and with a troubled look

His well-steeled spear within his hand he took, And by his herdsman silently he went As to a peakéd hill his steps he bent, Nor did the parting servant speak one word,

As up they climbed, unto his silent lord, Till from the top he turned about his head From all the glory of the gold light, shed Upon the hill-top by the setting sun,

For now indeed the day was well-nigh done, And all the eastern vale was grey and cold; But when Admetus he did now behold, Panting beside him from the steep ascent,

One much-changed godlike look on him he bent. And said, “O mortal, listen, for I see Thou deemest somewhat of what is in me; Fear not! I love thee, even as I can

Who cannot feel the woes and ways of man In spite of this my seeming, for indeed Now thou beholdest Jove's immortal seed, And what my name is I would tell thee now,

If men who dwell upon the earth as thou Could hear the name and live; but on the earth. With strange melodious stories of my birth, Phoebus men call me, and Latona's son.

“And now my servitude with thee is done, And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth, This handful, that within its little girth Holds that which moves you so, O men that die;

Behold, to-day thou hast felicity, But the times change, and I can see a day When all thine happiness shall fade away; And yet be merry, strive not with the end,

Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend This year has won thee who shall never fail; But now indeed, for nought will it avail To say what I may have in store for thee,

Of gifts that men desire; let these things be, And live thy life, till death itself shall come, And turn to nought the storehouse of thine home, Then think of me; these feathered shafts behold,

That here have been the terror of the wold, Take these, and count them still the best of all Thine envied wealth, and when on thee shall fall By any way the worst extremity,

Call upon me before thou com'st to die, And lay these shafts with incense on a fire, That thou mayst gain thine uttermost desire.” He ceased, but ere the golden tongue was still

An odorous mist had stolen up the hill, And to Admetus first the god grew dim, And then was but a lovely voice to him, And then at last the sun had sunk to rest,

And a fresh wind blew lightly from the west Over the hill-top, and no soul was there; But the sad dying autumn field-flowers fair, Rustled dry leaves about the windy place,

Where even now had been the godlike face, And in their midst the brass-bound quiver lay. Then, going further westward, far away, He saw the gleaming of Peneus wan

‘ Neath the white sky, but never any man, Except a grey-haired shepherd driving down From off the long slopes to his fold-yard brown His woolly sheep, with whom a maiden went,

Singing for labour done and sweet content Of coming rest; with that he turned again, And took the shafts up, never sped in vain, And came unto his house most deep in thought

Of all the things the varied year had brought. Thenceforth in bliss and honour day by day His measured span of sweet life wore away. A happy man he was; no vain desire

Of foolish fame had set his heart a-fire; No care he had the ancient bounds to change, Nor yet for him must idle soldiers range From place to place about the burdened land,

Or thick upon the ruined cornfields stand; For him no trumpets blessed the bitter war, Wherein the right and wrong so mingled are, That hardly can the man of single heart

Amid the sickening turmoil choose his part; For him sufficed the changes of the year, The god-sent terror was enough of fear For him; enough the battle with the earth,

The autumn triumph over drought and dearth. Better to him than wolf-moved battered shields, O'er poor dead corpses, seemed the stubble-fields Danced down beneath the moon, until the night

Grew dreamy with a shadowy sweet delight, And with the high-risen moon came pensive thought, And men in love's despite must grow distraught And loiter in the dance, and maidens drop

Their gathered raiment, and the fifer stop His dancing notes the pensive drone that chid, And as they wander to their dwellings, hid By the black shadowed trees, faint melody,

Mournful and sweet, their soft good-night must be. Far better spoil the gathering vat bore in Unto the pressing shed, than midst the din Of falling houses in war's waggon lies

Besmeared with redder stains than Tyrian dyes; Or when the temple of the sea-born one With glittering crowns and gallant raiment shone, Fairer the maidens seemed by no chain bound,

But such as amorous arms might cast around Their lovely bodies, than the wretched band Who midst the shipmen by the gangway stand; Each lonely in her speechless misery,

And thinking of the worse time that shall be, When midst of folk who scarce can speak her name, She bears the uttermost of toil and shame. Better to him seemed that victorious crown,

That midst the reverent silence of the town He oft would set upon some singer's brow Than was the conqueror's diadem, blest now By lying priests, soon, bent and bloody, hung

Within the thorn by linnets well besung, Who think but little of the corpse beneath, Though ancient lands have trembled at his breath. But to this King — fair Ceres’ gifts, the days

Whereon men sung in flushed Lyæus’ praise Tales of old time, the bloodless sacrifice Unto the goddess of the downcast eyes And soft persuading lips, the ringing lyre

Unto the bearer of the holy fire Who once had been amongst them — things like these Seemed meet to him men's yearning to appease, These were the triumphs of the peaceful king.

And so, betwixt seed-time and harvesting, With little fear his life must pass away; And for the rest, he, from the self-same day That the god left him, seemed to have some share

In that same godhead he had harboured there: In all things grew his wisdom and his wealth, And folk beholding the fair state and health Wherein his land was, said, that now at last

A fragment of the Golden Age was cast Over the place, for there was no debate, And men forgot the very name of hate. Nor failed the love of her he erst had won

To hold his heart as still the years wore on, And she, no whit less fair than on the day When from Iolchos first she passed away, Did all his will as though he were a god,

And loving still, the downward way she trod. Honour and love, plenty and peace, he had; Nor lacked for aught that makes a wise man glad, That makes him like a rich well-honoured guest

Scarce sorry when the time comes, for the rest, That at the end perforce must bow his head. And yet — was death not much rememberéd, As still with happy men the manner is?

Or, was he not so pleased with this world's bliss, As to be sorry when the time should come When but his name should hold his ancient home While he dwelt nowhere? either way indeed,

Will be enough for most men's daily need, And with calm faces they may watch the world, And note men's lives hither and thither hurled, As folk may watch the unfolding of a play —

Nor this, nor that was King Admetus’ way, For neither midst the sweetness of his life Did he forget the ending of the strife, Nor yet for heavy thoughts of passing pain

Did all his life seem lost to him or vain, A wasteful jest of Jove, an empty dream; Rather before him did a vague hope gleam, That made him a great-hearted man and wise,

Who saw the deeds of men with far-seeing eyes, And dealt them pitying justice still, as though The inmost heart of each man he did know; This hope it was, and not his kingly place

That made men's hearts rejoice to see his face Rise in the council hall; through this, men felt That in their midst a son of man there dwelt Like and unlike them, and their friend through all;

And still as time went on, the more would fall This glory on the King's belovéd head, And round his life fresh hope and fear were shed. Yet at the last his good days passed away,

And sick upon his bed Admetus lay, ‘ Twixt him and death nought but a lessening veil Of hasty minutes, yet did hope not fail, Nor did bewildering fear torment him then,

But still as ever, all the ways of men Seemed dear to him: but he, while yet his breath Still held the gateway‘ gainst the arms of death, Turned to his wife, who, bowed beside the bed,

Wept for his love, and dying goodlihead, And bade her put all folk from out the room, Then going to the treasury's rich gloom To bear the arrows forth, the Lycian's gift.

So she, amidst her blinding tears, made shift To find laid in the inmost treasury Those shafts, and brought them unto him, but he, Beholding them, beheld therewith his life,

Both that now past, with many marvels rife, And that which he had hoped he yet should see. Then spoke he faintly, “Love,‘ twixt thee and me A film has come, and I am failing fast:

And now our ancient happy life is past; For either this is death's dividing hand, And all is done, or if the shadowy land I yet escape, full surely if I live

The god with life some other gift will give, And change me unto thee: e'en at this tide Like a dead man among you all I bide, Until I once again behold my guest,

And he has given me either life or rest: Alas, my love! that thy too loving heart Nor with my life or death can have a part. O cruel words! yet death is cruel too:

Stoop down and kiss me, for I yearn for you E'en as the autumn yearneth for the sun.” “O love, a little time we have been one, And if we now are twain weep not therefore;

For many a man on earth desireth sore To have some mate upon the toilsome road, Some sharer of his still increasing load, And yet for all his longing and his pain

His troubled heart must seek for love in vain, And till he dies still must he be alone — But now, although our love indeed is gone, Yet to this land as thou art leal and true

Set now thine hand to what I bid thee do, Because I may not die; rake up the brands Upon the hearth, and from these trembling hands Cast incense thereon, and upon them lay

These shafts, the relics of a happier day, Then watch with me; perchance I may not die, Though the supremest hour now draws anigh Of life or death — O thou who madest me,

The only thing on earth alike to thee, Why must I be unlike to thee in this? Consider, if thou dost not do amiss To slay the only thing that feareth death

Or knows its name, of all things drawing breath Upon the earth: see now for no short hour, For no half-halting death, to reach me slower Than other men, I pray thee — what avail

To add some trickling grains unto the tale Soon told, of minutes thou dost snatch away From out the midst of that unending day Wherein thou dwellest? rather grant me this

To right me wherein thou hast done amiss, And give me life like thine for evermore.” So murmured he, contending very sore Against the coming death; but she meanwhile

Faint with consuming love, made haste to pile The brands upon the hearth, and thereon cast Sweet incense, and the feathered shafts at last; Then, trembling, back unto the bed she crept,

And lay down by his side, and no more wept, Nay scarce could think of death for very love That in her faithful heart for ever strove ‘ Gainst fear and grief: but now the incense-cloud

The old familiar chamber did enshroud, And on the very verge of death drawn close Wrapt both their weary souls in strange repose, That through sweet sleep sent kindly images

Of simple things; and in the midst of these, Whether it were but parcel of their dream, Or that they woke to it as some might deem, I know not, but the door was opened wide,

And the King's name a voice long silent cried, And Phoebus on the very threshold trod, And yet in nothing liker to a god Than when he ruled Admetus’ herds, for he

Still wore the homespun coat men used to see Among the heifers in the summer morn, And round about him hung the herdsman's horn, And in his hand he bore the herdsman's spear

And cornel bow, the prowling dog-wolfs fear, Though empty of its shafts the quiver was. He to the middle of the room did pass, And said, “Admetus, neither all for nought

My coming to thee is, nor have I brought Good tidings to thee; poor man, thou shalt live If any soul for thee sweet life will give Enforced by none: for such a sacrifice

Alone the fates can deem a fitting price For thy redemption; in no battle-field, Maddened by hope of glory life to yield, To give it up to heal no city's shame

In hope of gaining long-enduring fame; For whoso dieth for thee must believe That thou with shame that last gift wilt receive, And strive henceforward with forgetfulness

The honied draught of thy new life to bless. Nay, and moreover such a glorious heart Who loves thee well enough with life to part But for thy love, with life must lose love too,

Which e'en when wrapped about in weeds of woe Is godlike life indeed to such an one. “And now behold, three days ere life is done Do the Fates give thee, and I, even I,

Upon thy life have shed felicity And given thee love of men, that they in turn With fervent love of thy dear love might burn. The people love thee and thy silk-clad breast,

Thine open doors have given thee better rest Than woods of spears or hills of walls might do. And even now in wakefulness and woe The city lies, calling to mind thy love

Wearying with ceaseless prayers the gods above. But thou — thine heart is wise enough to know That they no whit from their decrees will go.” So saying, swiftly from the room he passed;

But on the world no look Admetus cast, But peacefully turned round unto the wall As one who knows that quick death must befall: For in his heart he thought, “Indeed too well

I know what men are, this strange tale to tell To those that live with me: yea, they will weep, And o'er my tomb most solemn days will keep, And in great chronicles will write my name,

Telling to many an age my deeds and fame. For living men such things as this desire, And by such ways will they appease the fire Of love and grief: but when death comes to stare

Full in men's faces, and the truth lays bare, How can we then have wish for anything, But unto life that gives us all to cling?” So said he, and with closed eyes did await,

Sleeping or waking, the decrees of fate. But now Alcestis rose, and by the bed She stood, with wild thoughts passing through her head. Dried were her tears, her troubled heart and sore

Throbbed with the anguish of her love no more. A strange look on the dying man she cast, Then covered up her face and said, “O past! Past the sweet times that I remember well!

Alas, that such a tale my heart can tell! Ah, how I trusted him! what love was mine! How sweet to feel his arms about me twine, And my heart beat with his! what wealth of bliss

To hear his praises! all to come to this, That now I durst not look upon his face, Lest in my heart that other thing have place. That which I knew not, that which men call hate.

“O me, the bitterness of God and fate! A little time ago we two were one; I had not lost him though his life was done, For still was he in me — but now alone

Through the thick darkness must my soul make moan, For I must die: how can I live to bear An empty heart about, the nurse of fear? How can I live to die some other tide,

And, dying, hear my loveless name outcried About the portals of that weary land Whereby my shadowy feet should come to stand. “Alcestis! O Alcestis, hadst thou known

That thou one day shouldst thus be left alone, How hadst thou borne a living soul to love! Hadst thou not rather lifted hands to Jove, To turn thine heart to stone, thy front to brass,

That through this wondrous world thy soul might pass, Well pleased and careless, as Diana goes Through the thick woods, all pitiless of those Her shafts smite down? Alas! how could it be

Can a god give a god's delights to thee? Nay rather, Jove, but give me once again, If for one moment only, that sweet pain The love I had while still I thought to live!

Ah! wilt thou not, since unto thee I give My life, my hope?— But thou — I come to thee. Thou sleepest: O wake not, nor speak to me In silence let my last hour pass away,

And men forget my bitter feeble day.” With that she laid her down upon the bed, And nestling to him, kissed his weary head, And laid his wasted hand upon her breast,

Yet woke him not; and silence and deep rest Fell on that chamber. The night wore away Mid gusts of wailing wind, the twilight grey Stole o'er the sea, and wrought his wondrous change

On things unseen by night, by day not strange, But now half seen and strange; then came the sun, And therewithal the silent world and dun Waking, waxed many-coloured, full of sound,

As men again their heap of troubles found, And woke up to their joy or misery. But there, unmoved by aught, those twain did lie, Until Admetus’ ancient nurse drew near

Unto the open door, and full of fear Beheld them moving not, and as folk dead; Then, trembling with her eagerness and dread, She cried, “Admetus! art thou dead indeed?

Alcestis! livest thou my words to heed? Alas, alas, for this Thessalian folk!” But with her piercing cry the King awoke, And round about him wildly‘ gan to stare,

As a bewildered man who knows not where He has awakened: but not thin or wan His face was now, as of a dying man, But fresh and ruddy; and his eyes shone clear,

As of a man who much of life may bear. And at the first, but joy and great surprise Shone out from those awakened, new-healed eyes; But as for something more at last he yearned,

Unto his love with troubled brow he turned, For still she seemed to sleep: alas, alas! Her lonely shadow even now did pass Along the changeless fields, oft looking back,

As though it yet had thought of some great lack. And here, the hand just fallen from off his breast Was cold; and cold the bosom his hand pressed. And even as the colour lit the day

The colour from her lips had waned away; Yet still, as though that longed-for happiness Had come again her faithful heart to bless, Those white lips smiled, unwrinkled was her brow,

But of her eyes no secrets might he know, For, hidden by the lids of ivory, Had they beheld that death a-drawing nigh. Then o'er her dead corpse King Admetus hung,

Such sorrow in his heart as his faint tongue Refused to utter; yet the just-past night But dimly he remembered, and the sight Of the Far-darter, and the dreadful word

That seemed to cleave all hope as with a sword: Yet stronger in his heart a knowledge grew, That nought it was but her fond heart and true That all the marvel for his love had wrought,

Whereby from death to life he had been brought; That dead, his life she was, as she had been His life's delight while still she lived a queen. And he fell wondering if his life were gain,

So wrapt as then in loneliness and pain; Yet therewithal no tears would fill his eyes, For as a god he was. Then did he rise

And gat him down unto the Council-place, And when the people saw his well-loved face Then cried aloud for joy to see him there. And earth again to them seemed blest and fair.

And though indeed they did lament in turn, When of Alcestis’ end they came to learn, Scarce was it more than seeming, or, at least, The silence in the middle of a feast,

When men have memory of their heroes slain. So passed the order of the world again, Victorious Summer crowning lusty Spring, Rich Autumn faint with wealth of harvesting,

And Winter the earth's sleep; and then again Spring, Summer, Autumn, and the Winter's pain: And still and still the same the years went by. But Time, who slays so many a memory,

Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen; And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen, Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries. For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these,

The shouters round the throne upon that day. And for Admetus, he, too, went his way, Though if he died at all I cannot tell; But either on the earth he ceased to dwell,

Or else, oft born again, had many a name. But through all lands of Greece Alcestis’ fame Grew greater, and about her husband's twined Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined.

See I have told her tale, though I know not What men are dwelling now on that green spot Anigh Boebeis, or if Pheræ still, With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill

Still shows its white walls to the rising sun. — The gods at least remember what is done. Strange felt the wanderers at his tale, for now Their old desires it seemed once more to show

Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest, Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;— — Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain Some space to try such deeds as now in vain

They heard of amidst stories of the past; Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast From out their hands — they sighed to think of it, And how as deedless men they there must sit.

Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time, Whereby, in spite of hope long past away, In spite of knowledge growing day by day

Of lives so wasted, in despite of death, With sweet content that eve they drew their breath, And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more Than that dead Queen's beside Boebéis’ shore;

Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both, Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth, Perchance, to have them told another way.— So passed the sun from that fair summer day.

June drew unto its end, the hot bright days Now gat from men as much of blame as praise, As rainless still they passed, without a cloud, And growing grey at last, the barley bowed

Before the south-east wind. On such a day These folk amid the trellised roses lay, And careless for a little while at least, Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast:

Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide; But through the thick trees wandered far and wide

From sun to shade, and shade to sun again, Until they deemed the elders would be fain To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew: Then round about the grave old men they drew,

Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet The grass seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet Unto the elders, as they stood around. So through the calm air soon arose the sound

Of one old voice as now a Wanderer spoke. “O friends, and ye, fair loving gentle folk, Would I could better tell a tale to-day; But hark to this, which while our good ship lay

Within the Weser such a while agone, A Fleming told me, as we sat alone One Sunday evening in the Rose-garland, And all the other folk were gone a-land

After their pleasure, like sea-faring men. Surely I deem it no great wonder then That I remember everything he said, Since from that Sunday eve strange fortune led

That keel and me on such a weary way — Well, at the least it serveth you to-day.”