{"collection":"Northern European Mythology","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/neu/morris/ep2/ep203.htm","path":"neu/morris/ep2/ep203.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/neu/morris/ep2/ep203.htm","text":"The Earthly Paradise, (September-November), by William Morris, [1870]\nPARIS the son of Priam was wounded by one of the poisoned arrows of Hercules that Philoctetes bore to the siege of Troy; wherefore he had himself borne up into Ida that he might see the nymph \u0152none, whom he once had loved, because she, who knew many secret things, alone could heal him: but when he had seen her and spoken with her, she would deal with the matter in no wise, wherefore Paris died of that hurt.\nIN the last month of Troy's beleaguerment,\n When both sides, waiting for some God's great hand,\n But seldom o\u2019er the meads the war-shout sent,\n Yet idle rage would sometimes drive a band\n From town or tent about Troy-gate to stand\n All armed, and there to bicker aimlessly;\n And so at least the weary time wore by.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In such a fight, when wide the arrows flew,\n And little glory fell to any there,\n And nought there seemed for a stout man to do,\n Rose Philoctetes from the ill-roofed lair\n That hid his rage, and crept out into air, p. 6\n And strung his bow, and slunk down to the fight,\n \u2019Twixt rusty helms, and, shields that once were bright.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And even as he reached the foremost rank,\n A glimmer as of polished steel and gold\n Amid the war-worn Trojan folk, that shrank\n To right and left, his fierce eyes could behold;\n He heard a shout, as if one man were bold\n About the streams of Simoeis that day\u2014\n One heart still ready to play out the play.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therewith he heard a mighty bowstring twang,\n And a shaft screamed \u2019twixt hostile band and band,\n And close beside him fell, with clash and clang,\n A well-tried warrior from the Cretan land,\n And rolled in dust, clutching with desperate hand\n At the gay feathers of the shaft that lay\n Deep in his heart, well silenced from that day.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then of the Greeks did man look upon man,\n While Philoctetes from his quiver drew\n A dreadful shaft, and through his fingers ran\n The dull-red feathers; of strange steel and blue\n The barbs were, such as archer never knew,\n But black as death the thin-forged bitter point,\n That with the worm's blood fate did erst anoint.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He shook the shaft, and notched it, and therewith\n Forth from the Trojans rang that shout again, p. 7\n Whistled the arrow, and a Greek did writhe\n Once more upon the earth in his last pain;\n While the grey clouds, big with the threat of rain,\n Parted a space, and on the Trojans shone,\n And struck a glory from that shining one.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then Philoctetes scowled, and cried, \"O Fate,\n I give thee this, thy strong man gave to me.\n Do with it as thou wilt!\u2014let small or great\n E\u2019en as thou wilt before its black point be!\n Late grows the year, and stormy is the sea,\n The oars lie rotten by the gunwales now\n That nevermore a Grecian surf shall know.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He spake and drew the string with careless eyes,\n And, as the shaft flew forth, he turned about\n And tramped back slowly, noting in no wise\n How from the Greeks uprose a joyous shout,\n And from the Trojan host therewith brake out\n Confused clamour, and folk cried the name\n Of him wherethrough the weary struggle came,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Paris the son of Priam! then once more\n O\u2019erhead of leaguer and beleaguered town\n Grey grew the sky, a cold sea-wind swept o\u2019er\n The ruined plain, and the small rain drove down,\n While slowly underneath that chilling frown\n Parted the hosts; sad Troy into its gates,\n Greece to its tents, and waiting on the fates. p. 8\nNEXT day the seaward-looking gates none swung\n Back on their hinges, whatso Greek might fare,\n With seeming-careless mien, and bow unstrung,\n Anigh them; whatso rough-voiced horn might dare\n With well-known notes, the war-worn warders there;\n Troy slept amid its nightmares through the day,\n And dull with waking dreams the leaguer lay.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet in the streets did man say unto man,\n \"Hector is dead, and Troilus is dead;\n \u00c6neas turneth toward the waters wan;\n In his fair house Antenor hides his head;\n Fast from the tree of Troy the boughs are shred;\n And now this Paris, now this joyous one,\n Is the cry cried that biddeth him begone?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But on the morrow's dawn, ere yet the sun\n Had shone athwart the mists of last night's rain,\n And shown the image of the Spotless One\n Unto the tents and hovels of the plain\n Whose girth of war she long had made all vain,\n From out a postern looking towards the north\n A little band of silent men went forth.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And in their midst a litter did they bear\n Whereon lay one with linen wrapped around,p. 9\n Whose wan face turned unto the fresher air\n As though a little pleasure he had found\n Amidst of pain; some dreadful, torturing wound\n The man endured belike, and as a balm\n Was the fresh morn, with all its rest and calm,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0After the weary tossing of the night\n And close dim-litten chamber, whose dusk seemed\n Labouring with whispers fearful of the light,\n Confused with images of dreams long dreamed,\n Come back again, now that the lone torch gleamed\n Dim before eyes that saw nought real as true\n To vex the heart that nought of purpose knew.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Upon the late-passed night in e\u2019en such wise\n Had Paris lain. What time, like years of life,\n Had passed before his weary heart and eyes!\n What hopeless, nameless longings! what wild strife\n \u2019Gainst nought for nought, with wearying changes rife,\n Had he gone through, till in the twilight grey\n They bore him through the cold deserted way.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Mocking and strange the streets looked now, most meet\n For a dream's ending, for a vain life's end;\n While sounded his strong litter-bearers' feet,\n Like feet of men who through Death's country wend\n Silent, for fear lest they should yet offend\n The grim King satisfied to let them go,\n Hope bids them hurry, fear's chain makes them slow. p. 10\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In feverish doze he thought of bygone days,\n When love was soft, life strong, and a sweet name,\n The first sweet name that led him down love's ways,\n Unbidden ever to his fresh lips came;\n Half witting would he speak it, and for shame\n Flush red, and think what folk would deem thereof\n If they might know \u0152none was his love.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And now, \u0152none no more love of his,\n He worn with war and passion\u2014must he pray,\n \"O thou, I loved and love not, life and bliss\n Lie in thine hands to give or take away;\n O heal me, hate me not! think of the day\n When as thou thinkest still, e\u2019en so I thought,\n That all the world without thy love was nought.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yea, he was borne forth such a prayer to make,\n For she alone of all the world, they said,\n The thirst of that dread poison now might slake,\n For midst the ancient wise ones nurtured\n On peaceful Ida, in the lore long dead,\n Lost to the hurrying world, right wise she was,\n Mighty to bring most wondrous things to pass.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Was the world worth the minute of that prayer\n If yet her love, despised and cast aside,\n Should so shine forth that she should heal him there?\n He knew not and he recked not; fear and pride\n \u2019Neath Helen's kiss and Helen's tears had died, p. 11\n And life was love, and love too strong that he\n Should catch at Death to save him misery.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So, with soul drifting down the stream of love,\n He let them bear him through the fresh fair morn,\n From out Troy-gates; and no more now he strove\n To battle with the wild dreams, newly born\n From that past night of toil and pain forlorn;\n No farewell did he mutter \u2019neath his breath\n To failing Troy, no eyes he turned toward death.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Troy dwindled now behind them, and the way\n That round about the feet of Ida wound,\n They left; and up a narrow vale, that lay,\n Grassy and soft betwixt the pine-woods bound,\n 'They went, and ever gained the higher ground,\n For as a trench the little valley was\n To catch the runnels that made green its grass.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now ere that green vale narrowed to an end,\n Blocked by a shaly slip thrust bleak and bare\n From the dark pine-wood's edge, as men who wend\n Upon a well-known way, they turned them there;\n And through the pine-wood's dusk began to fare\n By blind ways, till all noise of bird and wind\n Amid that odorous night was left behind.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And in meanwhile deepened the languid doze\n That lay on Paris into slumber deep, p. 12\n O\u2019er his unconscious heart, and eyes shut close,\n The image of that very place \u2019gan creep,\n And twelve years younger in his dreamful sleep,\n Light-footed, through the awful wood he went,\n With beating heart, on lovesome thoughts intent.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Dreaming, he went, till thinner and more thin,\n And bright with growing day, the pine-wood grew,\n Then to an open, rugged space did win;\n Whence a close beech-wood was he passing through,\n Whose every tall white stem full well he knew;\n Then seemed to stay awhile for loving shame,\n When to the brow of the steep bank he came,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Where still the beech-trunks o\u2019er the mast-strewn ground\n Stood close, and slim and tall, but hid not quite\n A level grassy space they did surround\n On every side save one, that to the light\n Of the clear western sky, cold now, but bright,\n Was open, and the thought of the far sea,\n Toward which a small brook tinkled merrily.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Him seemed he lingered there, then stepped adown\n With troubled heart into the soft green place,\n And up the eastmost of the beech-slopes brown\n He turned about a lonesome, anxious face,\n And stood to listen for a little space\n If any came, but nought he seemed to hear p. 13\n Save the brook's babble, and the beech-leaves\u2019 stir.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And then he dreamed great longing o\u2019er him came;\n Too great, too bitter of those days to be\n Long past, when love was born amidst of shame;\n He dreamed that, as he gazed full eagerly\n Into the green dusk between tree and tree,\n His trembling hand slid down the horn to take\n Wherewith he erst was wont his herd to wake.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Trembling, he set it to his lips, and first\n Breathed gently through it; then strained hard to blow,\n For dumb, dumb was it grown, and no note burst\n From its smooth throat; and ill thoughts poisoned now\n The sweetness of his dream; he murmured low,\n \"Ah! dead and gone, and ne\u2019er to come again;\n Ah, past away! ah, longed for long in vain!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Lost love, sweet Helen, come again to me!\"\n Therewith he dreamed he fell upon the ground\n And hid his face, and wept out bitterly,\n But woke with fall and torturing tears, and found\n He lay upon his litter, and the sound\n Of feet departing from him did he hear,\n And rustling of the last year's leaves anear.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But in the self-same place he lay indeed,\n Weeping and sobbing, and scarce knowing why; p. 14\n His hand clutched hard the horn that erst did lead\n The dew-lapped neat round Ida merrily;\n He strove to raise himself, he strove to cry\n That name of Helen once, but then withal\n Upon him did the load of memory fall.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Quiet he lay a space, while o\u2019er him drew\n The dull, chill cloud of doubt and sordid fear,\n As now he thought of what he came to do,\n And what a dreadful minute drew anear;\n He shut his eyes, and now no more could hear\n His litter-bearers' feet; as lone he felt\n As though amid the outer wastes he dwelt.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Amid that fear most feeble, nought and vain\n His life and love seemed; with a dreadful sigh\n He raised his arm, and soul's and body's pain\n Tore at his heart with new-born agony\n As a thin quavering note; a ghost-like cry\n Rang from the long unused lips of the horn,\n Spoiling the sweetness of the happy morn.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He let the horn fall down upon his breast\n And lie there, and his hand fell to his side;\n And there indeed his body seemed to rest,\n But restless was his soul, and wandered wide\n Through a dim maze of lusts unsatisfied;\n Thoughts half thought out, and words half said, and deeds p. 15\n Half done, unfruitful, like o\u2019er-shadowed weeds.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0His eyes were shut now, and his dream's hot tears\n Were dry upon his cheek; the sun grown high\n Had slain the wind, when smote upon his ears\n A sudden rustling in the beech-leaves dry;\n Then came a pause; then footsteps drew anigh\n O\u2019er the deep grass; he shuddered, and in vain\n He strove to turn, despite his burning pain.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then through his half-shut eyes he seemed to see\n A woman drawing near, and held his breath,\n And clutched at the white linen eagerly,\n And felt a greater fear than fear of death,\n A greater pain than that love threateneth,\n As soft low breathing o\u2019er his head he heard,\n And thin fine linen raiment gently stirred.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then spoke a sweet voice close, ah, close to him!\n \"Thou sleepest, Paris? would that I could sleep!\n On the hill-side do I lay limb to limb,\n And lie day-long watching the shadows creep\n And change, till day is gone, and night is deep,\n Yet sleep not ever, wearied with the thought\n Of all a little lapse of time has brought.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Sleep, though thou calledst me! yet \u2019mid thy dream\n Hearken, the while I tell about my life,\n The life I led, while \u2019mid the steely gleam p. 16\n Thou wert made happy with the joyous strife;\n Or in the soft arms of the Greek king's wife\n Wouldst still moan out that day had come too soon,\n Calling the dawn the glimmer of the moon.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Wake not, wake not, before the tale is told!\n Not long to tell, the tale of those ten years!\n A gnawing pain that never groweth old,\n A pain that shall not be washed out by tears;\n A dreary road the weary foot-sole wears,\n Knowing no rest, but going to and fro,\n Treading it harder \u2019neath the weight of woe.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"No middle, no beginning, and no end;\n No staying place, no thought of anything,\n Bitter or sweet, with that one thought to blend;\n No least joy left that I away might fling\n And deem myself grown great; no hope to cling\n About me, nought but dull, unresting pain,\n That made all memory sick, all striving vain.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Thou\u2014hast thou thought thereof, perchance anights\n \u2014In early dawn, and shuddered, and then said,\n 'Alas, poor soul! yet bath she had delights,\n For none are wholly hapless but the dead.'\n Liar! O liar! my woe upon thine head,\n My agony that nought can take away!\n Awake, arise, O traitor, unto day!\" p. 17\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Her voice rose as she spoke, till loud and shrill\n It rang about the place; but when at last\n She ended, and the echoes from the hill,\n Woeful and wild, back o\u2019er the place were cast\n From her lost love a little way she passed\n Trembling, and looking round as if afeared\n At those ill sounds that through the morn she heard.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then still she stood, her clenched hands slim and white\n Relaxed, her drawn brow smoothed; with a great sigh\n Her breast heaved, and she muttered: \"Ere the light\n Of yesterday had faded from the sky\n I knew that he would seek me certainly;\n And, knowing it, yet feigned I knew it not,\n Or with what hope, what hope my heart was hot.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"That tumult in my breast I might not name\u2014\n Love should I call it?\u2014nay, my life was love\n And pain these ten years\u2014should I call it shame?\n What shame my weary waiting might reprove\n After ten years?\u2014or pride?\u2014what pride could move\n After ten years this heart within my breast?\n Alas! I lied\u2014I lied, and called it rest.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"I called it rest, and wandered through the night;\n Upon my river's flowery bank I stood,\n And thought its hurrying changing black and white\n Stood still beneath the moon, that hill and wood p. 18\n Were moving round me, and I deemed it good\n The world should change so, deemed it good, that day\n For ever into night had passed away.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"And still I wandered through the night, and still\n Things changed, and changed not round me, and the day\u2014\n This day wherein I am, had little will\n With dreadful truth to drive the night away\u2014\n God knows if for its coming I did pray!\n God knows if at the last in twilight-tide\n My hope\u2014my hope undone I more might hide.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then looked she toward the litter as she spake,\n And slowly drew anigh it once again,\n And from her worn tried heart there did outbreak\n Wild sobs and weeping, shameless of its pain,\n Till as the storm of passion \u2019gan to wane\n She looked and saw the shuddering misery\n Wherein her love of the old days did lie.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Still she wept on, but gentler now withal,\n And passed on till above the bier she stood,\n Watching the well-wrought linen rise and fall\n Beneath his faltering breath, and still her blood\n Ran fiery hot with thoughts of ill and good,\n Pity and scorn, and love and hate, as she,\n Half dead herself, gazed on his misery.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At last she spake: \"This tale I told e\u2019en now, p. 19\n Know\u2019st thou \u2019mid dreams what woman suffered this?\n Canst thou not dream of the old days, and how\n Full oft thy lips would say \u2019twixt kiss and kiss\n That all of bliss was not enough of bliss\n My loveliness and kindness to reward,\n That for thy Love the sweetest life was hard?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Yea, Paris, have I not been kind to thee?\n Did I not live thy wishes to fulfil?\n Wert thou not happy when thou lovedst me,\n What dream then did we have of change or ill?\n Why must thou needs change? I am unchanged still;\n I need no more than thee\u2014what needest thou\n But that we might be happy, yea e\u2019en now?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He opened hollow eyes and looked on her,\n And stretched a trembling hand out; ah, who knows\n With what strange mingled look of hope and fear,\n Of hate and love, their eyes met! Come so close\n Once more, that everything they now might lose\n Amid the flashing out of that old fire,\n The short-lived uttermost of all desire.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He spake not, shame and other love there lay\n Too heavy on him; but she spake again:\n \"E\u2019en now at the beginning of the day,\n Weary with hope and fear and restless pain,\n I said\u2014Alas, I said, if all be vain\n And he will have no pity, yet will I p. 20\n Have pity\u2014how shall kindness e\u2019er pass by?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He drew his hand aback, and laid it now\n Upon the swathings of his wound, but she\n Set her slim hand upon her knitted brow\n And gazed on him with bright eyes eagerly;\n Nor cruel looked her lips that once would be\n So kind, so longed for: neither spake awhile,\n Till in her face there shone a sweet strange smile.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She touched him not, but yet so near she came\n That on his very face he felt her breath;\n She whispered, \"Speak! thou wilt not speak for shame,\n I will not grant for love, and grey-winged Death\n Meanwhile above our folly hovereth;\n Speak! was it not all false? is it not done?\n Is not the dream dreamed out, the dull night gone?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Hearkenest thou, Paris? O look kind on me!\n I hope no more indeed, but couldst thou turn\n Kind eyes to me, then much for me and thee\n Might love do yet. Doth not the old fire burn?\n Doth not thine heart for words of old days yearn?\n Canst thou not say\u2014Alas, what wilt thou say,\n Since I have put by hope for many a day?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Paris, I hope no more, yet while ago\u2014\n Take it not ill if I must needs say this\u2014\n A while ago I cried; Ah! no, no, no! p. 21\n It is no love at all, this love of his,\n He loves her not, I it was had the bliss\n Of being the well-beloved\u2014dead is his love,\n For surely none but I his heart may move.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She wept still; but his eyes grew wild and strange\n With that last word, and harder his face grew\n Though her tear-blinded eyes saw not the change.\n Long beat about his heart false words and true,\n A veil of strange thought he might not pierce through,\n Of hope he might not name, clung round about\n His wavering heart, perplexed with death and doubt.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then trembling did he speak: \"I love thee still,\n Surely I love thee.\" But a dreadful pain\n Shot through his heart, and strange presage of ill,\n As like the ceasing of the summer rain\n Her tears stopped, and she drew aback again,\n Silent a moment, till a bitter cry\n Burst from her lips grown white with agony.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A look of pity came across his face\n Despite his pain and horror, and her eyes\n Saw it, and changed, and for a little space\n Panting she stood, as one checked by surprise\n Amidst of passion; then in tender wise,\n Kneeling, she \u2019gan the bandages undo\n That hid the place the bitter shaft tore through.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then when the wound and his still face and white p. 22\n Lay there before her, she \u2019gan tremble sore,\n For images of hope and past delight,\n Not to be named once, \u2019gan her heart flit o\u2019er;\n Blossomed the longing in her heart, and bore\n A dreadful thought of uttermost despair,\n That all if gained would be no longer fair.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In dull low words she spake: \"Yea, so it is,\n That thou art near thy death, and this thy wound\n I yet may heal, and give thee back what bliss\n The ending of thy life may yet surround:\n Mock not thyself with hope! the Trojan ground\n Holds tombs, not houses now, all Gods are gone\n From out your temples but cold Death alone.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Lo, if I heal thee, and thou goest again\n Back unto Troy, and she, thy new love, sees\n Thy lovesome body freed from all its pain,\n And yet awhile amid the miseries\n Of Troy ye twain lie loving, well at ease,\n Yet \u2019midst of this while she is asking thee\n What kind soul made thee whole and well to be,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"And thou art holding back my name with lies,\n And thinking, maybe, Paris, of this face\n E\u2019en then the Greekish flame shall sear your eyes,\n The clatter of the Greeks fill all the place,\n While she, my woe, the ruin of thy race,\n Looking toward changed days, a new crown, shall stand, p. 23\n Her fingers trembling in her husband's hand.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Thou I called love once, wilt thou die e\u2019en thus,\n Ruined \u2019midst ruin, ruining, bereft\n Of name and honour? O love, piteous\n That but for this were all the hard things cleft\n That lay \u2019twixt us and love; till nought was left\n \u2019Twixt thy lips and my lips! O hard that we\n Were once so full of all felicity!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"O love, O Paris, know\u2019st thou this of me\n That in these hills e\u2019en such a name I have\n As being akin to a divinity;\n And lightly may I slay and lightly save;\n Nor know I surely if the peaceful grave\n Shall ever hide my body dead\u2014behold,\n Have ten long years of misery made me old?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Sadly she laughed; and rising wearily\n Stood by him in the fresh and sunny morn;\n The image of his youth and faith gone by\n She seemed to be, for one short minute born\n To make his shamed lost life seem more forlorn;\n He shut his eyes and moaned, but once again\n She knelt beside him, and the weary pain\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Deepened upon her face. \"Hearken!\" she said,\n \"Death is anear thee; is then death so ill\n With me anigh thee\u2014since Troy is as dead, p. 24\n Ere many tides the Xanthus' mouth shall fill,\n And thou art reft of her that harmed me still,\n Whatso may change\u2014shall I heal thee for this,\n That thou may\u2019st die more mad for her last kiss?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She gazed at him with straining eyes; and he\u2014\n Despite himself love touched his dying heart,\n And from his eyes desire flashed suddenly,\n And o\u2019er his wan face the last blood did start\n As with soft love his close-shut lips \u2019gan part.\n She laughed out bitterly, and said, \"Why then\n Must I needs call thee falsest of all men,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Seeing thou liest not to save thy life?\u2014\n Yee listen once again\u2014fair is this place\n That knew not the beginning of the strife\n And recks not of its end\u2014and this my face,\n This body thou wouldst day-long once embrace\n And deem thyself right happy\u2014thine it is,\n Thine only, Paris, shouldst thou deem it bliss.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He looked into her eyes, and deemed he saw\n A strange and awful look a-gathering there,\n And sick scorn at her quivering fine lip draw;\n Yet trembling he stretched out his hand to her,\n Although self-loathing and strange hate did tear\n His heart that Death made cold, e\u2019en as he said,\n \"Whatso thou wilt shall be remembered;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Whatso thou wilt, O love, shall be forgot,\u2014 p. 25\n It may be I shall love thee as of old.\"\n As thunder laughs she laughed\u2014\"Nay, touch me not!\n Touch me not, fool!\" she cried, \"Thou grow\u2019st a-cold,\n And I am Death, Death, Death!\u2014the tale is told\n Of all thy days! of all those joyous days\n When thinking nought of me thou garneredst praise.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Turn back again, and think no more of me!\n I am thy Death! woe for thy happy days!\n For I must slay thee; ah, my misery!\n Woe for the God-like wisdom thou wouldst praise!\n Else I my love to life again might raise\n A minute, ah, a minute! and be glad\n While on my lips thy blessing lips I had!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Would God that it were yesterday again;\n Would God the red sun had died yester-eve,\n And I were no more hapless now than then!\n Would God that I could say, and not believe,\n As yesterday, that years past hope did leave\n My cold heart\u2014that I lived a death in life\u2014\n Ah! then within my heart was yet a strife!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"But now, but now, is all come to an end\u2014\n Nay, speak not; think not of me! think of her\n Who made me this; and back unto her wend,\n Lest her lot, too, should be yet heavier!\n I will depart for fear thou diest here,\n Lest I should see thy woeful ghost forlorn p. 26\n Here wandering ever \u2019twixt the night and morn.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"\u2014O heart grown wise, wilt thou not let me go?\n Will ye be never satisfied, O eyes,\n With gazing on my misery and my woe?\n O foolish, quivering heart, now grown so wise,\n What folly is it that from out thee cries\n To be all close to him once more, once more\n Ere yet the dark stream cleaveth shore from shore?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Her voice was a wail now, with quivering hand\n At her white raiment did she clutch and tear\n Unwitting, as she rose up and did stand\n Bent over his wide eyes and pale face, where\n No torturing hope was left, no pain, or fear;\n For Death's cold rest was gathering fast on him,\n And toward his heart crept over foot and limb.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A little while she stood, and spake no word,\n But hung above him, with white heaving breast,\n And moaning still as moans the grey-winged bird\n In autumn-tide o\u2019er his forgotten nest;\n And then her hands about her throat she pressed,\n As though to keep a cry back, then stooped down\n And set her face to his, while spake her moan:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"O love, O cherished more than I can tell,\n Through years of woe, O love, my life and bane,\n My joy and grief, farewell, farewell, farewell! p. 27\n Forgetfulness of grief I yet may gain;\n In some wise may come ending to my pain;\n It may be yet the Gods will have me glad!\n Yet, love, I would that thee and pain I had!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Alas! it may not be, it may not be,\n The falling blossom of the late spring-tide\n Shall hang a golden globe upon the tree\n When through the vale the mists of autumn glide:\n Yet would, O Love, with thee I might abide.\n Now, now that restful death is drawing nigh\u2014\n Farewell, farewell, how good it is to die!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0O strange, O strange, when on his lips once more\n Her lips were laid! O strange that he must die\n Now, when so clear a vision had come o\u2019er\n His failing heart, and keenest memory\n Had shown him all his changing life passed by;\n And what he was, and what he might have been,\n Yea, and should be, perchance, so clear were seen!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yea, then were all things laid within the scale,\n Pleasure and lust, love and desire of fame,\n Kindness, and hope, and folly\u2014all the tale\n Told in a moment, as across him came\n That sudden flash, bright as the lightning-flame,\n Showing the wanderer on the waste how he\n Has gone astray \u2019mid dark and misery.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Ah, and her face upon his dying face p. 28\n That the sun warmed no more! that agony\n Of dying love, wild with the tale of days\n Long past, and strange with hope that might not be\u2014\n All was gone now, and what least part had he\n In Love at all, and why was life all gone?\n Why must he meet the eyes of death alone?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Alone, for she and ruth had left him there;\n Alone, because the ending of the strife\n He knew, well taught by death, drew surely near;\n Alone, for all those years with pleasure rife\n Should be a tale \u2019mid Helen's coming life,\n And she and all the world should go its ways,\n \u2019Midst other troubles, other happy days.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And yet how was it with him? As if death\n Strove yet with struggling life and love in vain,\n With eyes grown deadly bright and rattling breathy\n He raised himself; while wide his blood did stain\n The linen fair, and seized the horn again,\n And blew thereon a wild and shattering blast\n Ere from his hand afar the thing he cast.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then, as a man who in a failing fight\n For a last onset gathers suddenly\n All soul and strength, he faced the summer light,\n And from his lips broke forth a mighty cry\n Of \"Helen, Helen, Helen!\"\u2014yet the sky\n Changed not above his cast-back golden head,\n And merry was the world though he was dead. p. 29\nBUT now when every echo was as still\n As were the lips of Paris, once more came\n The litter-bearers down the beech-clad hill\n And stood about him crying out his name,\n Lamenting for his beauty and his fame,\n His love, his kindness, and his merry heart,\n That still would thrust ill days and thoughts apart.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Homeward they bore him through the dark woods\u2019 gloom\n With heavy hearts presaging nothing good;\n And when they entered Troy again, a tomb\n For them and theirs it seemed.\u2014Long has it stood,\n But now indeed the labour and the blood,\n The love, the patience, and good-heart are vain\u2014\n The Greeks may have what yet is left to gain.\nI CANNOT tell what crop may clothe the hills,\n The merry hills Troy whitened long ago\u2014\n Belike the sheaves, wherewith the reaper fills\n His yellow wain, no whit the weaker grow\n For that past harvest-tide of wrong and woe;\n Belike the tale, wept over otherwhere,\n Of those old days is clean forgotten there. p. 30\nALAS too short seemed to those ancient men\n The little span of threescore years and ten,\n Too hard, too bitter, the dull years of life\n Beset at best with many a care and strife\n To bear withal Love's torment, and the toils\n Wherewith the days of youth and joy he spoils;\n Since e\u2019en so God makes equal Eld and Youth\n Tormenting Youth with lies and Eld with truth;\n Well-nigh they blamed the singer too, that he\n Must needs draw pleasure from men's misery;\n Nathless a little even they must feel\n How time and tale a long-past woe will heal,\n And make a melody of grief, and give\n Joy to the world that whoso dies shall live.\n Moreover, good it was for them to note\n The slim hand set unto the changing throat,\n The lids down drooped to hide the passionate eyes\n Whereto the sweet thoughts all unbid would rise;\n The bright-cheeked shame, the conscious mouth as love\n Within the half-hid gentle breast \u2019gan move,\n Like a swift-opening flower beneath the sun;\n The sigh and half frown as the tale was done,\n And thoughts uncertain, hard to grasp, did flit\n \u2019Twixt the beginning and the end of it\u2014\n And to their ancient eyes it well might seem. p. 31\n Lay tale in tale, as dream within a dream,\n Untold now the beginning, and the end\n Not to be heard by those whose feet should wend\n Long ere that tide through the dim ways of death.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But now the sun grew dull, the south wind's breath\n Ruffled the stream, and spake within the trees\n Of rain beyond the hills; the images\n The tale wrought changed with the changed deadening day,\n Till dim they grew and vanished quite away. p. 32\nNOW when September drew unto its end,\n Unto the self-same place those men did wend\n Where last they feasted; and the autumn day\n Was so alike to that one passed away,\n That, but for silence of the close stripped bare,\n And absence of the merry folk and fair,\n Whose feet the deep grass, making haste to grow\n Before the winter, minded nothing now\n But for the thinned and straightened boughs, well freed\n Of golden fruit; the vine-stocks that did need\n No pruning more, ere eager man and maid\n Brown fingers on the dusty bunches laid\u2014\n But for these matters, they might even deem\n That they had slept awhile and dreamed a dream,\n And woke up weary in the self-same place.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And now as each man saw his fellow's face\n They \u2019gan to smile, beholding this same thought\n Each in the other's eyes:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Or all is nought\n Whereof I think,\" at last a wanderer said,\n \"Or of my tale shall ye be well apaid;\n Meet is it for this silent company\n Sitting here musing, well content to see\n The shadows changing, as the sun goes by:\n A dream it is, friends, and no history p. 33\n Of men who ever lived; so blame me nought\n If wondrous things together there are brought,\n Strange to our waking world\u2014yet as in dreams\n Of known things still we dream, whatever gleams\n Of unknown light may make them strange, so here\n Our dreamland story holdeth such things dear\n And such things loathed, as we do; else, indeed,\n Were all its marvels nought to help our need.","title":"The Earthly Paradise (September-November): September: The Death of Paris","type":"page"}