{"collection":"Northern European Mythology","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/neu/morris/ep2/ep209.htm","path":"neu/morris/ep2/ep209.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/neu/morris/ep2/ep209.htm","text":"The Earthly Paradise, (September-November), by William Morris, [1870]\nTHERE was in a poor land a certain maid, lowly but exceeding beautiful, who, by a strange hap, was drawn from her low estate, and became a queen and the world's wonder.\nA GRECIAN-SPEAKING folk there dwelt of yore,\n Whose name my tale remembers not, between\n The snow-topped mountains and the sea-beat shore,\n Upon a strip of plain, and upland green,\n Where seldom was the worst of summer seen,\n And seldom the last bond of winter's cold;\n Easy was life \u2019twixt garden, field, and fold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0My tale says these dealt little with the sea,\n But for the mullet's flushed vermilion,\n And weight o\u2019 the tunny, and what things might be\n Behind the snowy tops but moon and sun\n They knew not, nor as yet had anyone\n Sunk shaft in hill-side there, or dried the stream\n To see if \u2019neath its sand gold specks might gleam. p. 278\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet rich enow they were; deep-uddered kine\n Went lowing towards the pails at eventide;\n The sheep cropped close unto the well-fenced vine,\n Whose clusters hung upon the southering side\n Of the fair hill; the brown plain far and wide\n Changed year by year through green to hoary gold,\n And the unherded, moaning bees untold\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Blind-eyed to aught but blossoms, ranged the land,\n Working for others; and the clacking loom\n Not long within the homestead still did stand;\n The spindles twirled within the women's room,\n And oft amidst the depth of winter's gloom,\n From off the poplar-block white chips would fly\n \u2019Neath some deft hand, watched of the standers-by.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Sometimes too would the foreign chapmen come,\n And beach their dromond in the sandy bay,\n And then the women-folk from many a home,\n With heavy-laden beasts would take their way,\n And round the black-keeled ship expend the day,\n And by the moon would come back, light enow,\n With things soon told, for that rough wealth to show.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therefore of delicate array, full oft\n Small lack there was in coffers of that land,\n And gold would shine on shoulders smooth and soft,\n And sparklike gems glitter from many a hand,\n And by the altar would the goodman stand p. 279\n Upon the solemn days of sacrifice,\n Clad in attire of no such wretched price.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But the next morn the yellow headed girls\n Would be afield, or \u2019twixt the vine-rows green,\n And on the goodman's forehead would no pearls,\n But rather sundrawn beaded drops be seen,\n As the bright share carved out the furrow clean,\n Or the thick swath fell \u2019neath the sturdy stroke:\n For all must labour midst that simple folk.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now, in a land where few were poor, if none\n Were lordly rich, a certain man abode,\n Who poorer was perchance than anyone\n That ruled a house; yea, somewhat of a load\n Of fears he bare adown life's latter road,\n For, touching now upon his sixtieth year,\n His wealth still waned, and still his house grew bare.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Why this should be none knew, for he was deft\n In all the simple craft of that fair land,\n Plough-stilt, and spade, and sickle, and axe-heft,\n As much as need be pressed his hardened hand,\n And creeping wanhope still did he withstand;\n Wedded he was, and his grey helpmate too\n Was skilled in all, and ever wrought her due.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet did his goods decrease: at end of dry\n He cut his hay, to lie long in the rain; p. 280\n And timorous must he let the time go by\n For vintaging; and August came in vain\n To his thin wheat; his sheep of wolves were slain;\n Lame went his horses, barren were his kine,\n His slaughtering-stock before the knife would pine.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0All this befell him more than most I say,\n And yet he lived on; gifts were plenty there,\n The rich man's wealth but seldom hoarded lay;\n And at a close-fist would the people stare,\n And point the finger as at something rare\u2014\n Yet ever giving is a burden still,\n And fast our goodman trundled down the hill.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Not always though had fortune served him thus,\n In earlier days rich had he been and great,\n But had no chick or child to bless his house,\n And much did it mislike him of his fate,\n And early to the Gods he prayed and late,\n To give him that if all they took besides,\n As to fate's feet will blind men still be guides.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So on a day when more than twenty years\n Of childless wedlock had oppressed his wife,\n She spake to him with smiles and happy tears;\n And said, \"Be glad, for ended is the strife\n Betwixt us and the Gods, and our old life\n Shall be renewed to us; the blossom clings\n Unto the bough long barren, the waste sings.\" p. 281\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Joyful he was at those glad words, and went\n A changed man through his homestead on that morn,\n And on fair things stored up he stared intent,\n And hugged himself on things he erst did scorn,\n When life seemed quickly ended and forlorn.\n And so the days passed, till the time was come\n When a new voice should wail on its cold home.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0March was it, but a foretaste of the June\n The earth had, and the budding linden-grove\n About the homestead, with the brown bird's tune\n Was happy, and the faint blue sky above\n The black-thorn blossoms made meet roof for love,\n For though the south wind breathed a thought of rain,\n No cloud as yet its golden breadth did stain.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0That afternoon within his well-hung hall,\n Amidst of many thoughts the goodman lay\n Until a gentle sleep on him \u2019gan fall,\n And he began to dream, but the sweet day\n The dream forgat not, nor could wipe away\n The pictures of his home that seemed so good,\n For midst his garden in his dream he stood;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Hand in hand with his wife he seemed to be,\n And both their eyes were lovingly intent\n Upon a little blossom fair to see\n Before their feet, that through the fresh air sent\n Sweet odours; but as over it they bent, p. 282\n The day seemed changed to cloudiness and rain,\n And the sweet flower, whereof they were so fain,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Was grown a goodly sapling, and they gazed\n Wondering thereat, but loved it nothing less.\n But as they looked a bright flame round it blazed,\n And hid it for a space, and weariness\n The souls of both the good folk did oppress,\n And on the earth they lay down side by side,\n And unto them it was as they had died.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet did they know that o\u2019er them hung the tree\n Grown mighty, thick-leaved, on each bough did hang\n Crown, sword, or ship, or temple fair to see;\n And therewithal a great wind through it sang,\n And trumpet blast there was; and armour rang\n Amid that leafy world, and now and then\n Strange songs were sung in tongues of outland men.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Amid these sounds the goodman heard at last\n A song in his own tongue, and sat upright\n And blinking at the broad bright sun that cast\n A straight beam through the window, making bright\n The dusky hangings; till his gathering sight\n Showed him outside two damsels, pail on head,\n Who went by, singing, to the milking shed.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And meeting them with jingling bit and trace p. 283\n Came the grey team from field; a merry lad\n Sat sideways on the foremost, broad of face,\n Freckled and flaxen-haired, whose red lips had\n A primrose \u2019twixt them, yet still blithe and glad,\n With muffled whistle, swinging, did he mock\n The maidens' song and the brown throstle-cock.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then rose the goodman, happy, for his dream\n Seemed nowise ill to think on; rather he\n Some echo of his hopes the thing did deem\n If hardly any certain prophecy\n Of happy things in time to come to be;\n And into the March sun he wandered forth,\n With life and wealth all grown of double worth.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0From barn to well-stocked field he went that eve,\n Smiling on all, and wondering how it was\n That any one in such a world might grieve,\n At least for long, at what might come to pass;\n The soft south-wind, the flowers amid the grass,\n The fragrant earth, the sweet sounds everywhere,\n Seemed gifts too great almost for man to bear.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Long wandered he, the happiest of all men\n Till day was gone, and the white moon and high\n Cast a long shadow on the white stones, when\n He came once more his homestead door anigh;\n And there a girl stood watching, and a cry p. 284\n Burst from her lips when she beheld him come;\n She said, \"O welcome to thy twice-blessed home!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Thy wife hath borne to thee a maiden fair,\n Come and behold it, and give thanks withal\n Unto the Gods, who thus have heard thy prayer.\"\n Sweetly that voice upon his ears did fall,\n \u2019Twixt him and utter bliss no bounding wall\n Seemed raised now, nor did end of life-seem nigh;\n Once more he had forgot that he must die.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So on the morrow high feast did he hold,\n And all the guests with gifts were satisfied,\n And gladdened were the Gods of field and fold,\n With many a beast that at their altars died.\n How should the spring of all that wealth be dried?\n Nought did he deal with untried things or strange,\n \u2019Twixt year and year how might the seasons change?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Well, by next year, grown had the child and thriven\n Unto his heart's desire, and in his hall\n Again was high feast held, and good gifts given\n To the departing guests; yet did it fall\n That somewhat his goods minished therewithal,\n But little grief it gave him; \"Ah, let be\n This year will raise the scale once more,\" said he.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But as the time passed, with the child's increase\n Did ill luck grow apace, till field by field p. 285\n Fell his lands from him; nought he knew of ease,\n Yet little good hap did his trouble yield;\n The Gods belike a new bag had unsealed\n Of hopeless longing for him, and his day\n Mid restless yearning still must pass away.\nSO things went on, till June of that same year\n Whereof I tell, when nineteen May-tides green\n The maid had looked on, and was grown so fair\n That never yet the like of her had been\n Within that land; and her divine soft mien,\n Her eyes and her soft speech, now blessed alone\n A house wherefrom all fair things else were gone.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet whoso gloomed thereat, not she it was\n Who with her grave set face and heart unmoved,\n Watched, wearied not nor pleased, each new day pass;\n Nor thought of change, she said. As well behoved,\n By many men ere now was she beloved;\n Wild words she oft had heard, and harder grown\n At bitter tears about her fair feet strown.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0For far apart from these she seemed to be,\n Their joys and sorrows moved her not, and they\n Looked upon her as some divinity,\n And cursed her not, though whiles she seemed to lay\n A curse on them unwitting, and the day p. 286\n Seemed grown unhappy, useless, as she came\n With eyes fulfilled of thoughts of life and shame\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Across their simple merriment. Meanwhile\n She laboured as need was, nor heeded aught\n What thing she did, nor yet did aught seem vile\n More than another that the long day brought\n Unto her hands; and as her father fought\n Against his bitter foe, she watched it all\n As though in some strange play the thing did fall.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And he, who loved her yet amidst of fear,\n Would look upon her, wondering, even as though\n He, daring not her soul to draw anear,\n Yet of her hopes and fears was fain to know,\n Was fain to hope that she one day would show\n In what wise he within her heart was borne;\n Yea, if that day he found in her but scorn.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0It fell then in the June-tide, mid these things,\n That on an eve within the bare great hall,\n When nigh the window the bat's flickering wings\n Were brushing, and the soft dew fast did fall,\n And o\u2019er the ferry far away did call\n The homeward-hastening traveller? that the three\n Sat resting in that soft obscurity.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Some tale belike unto the other two\n The goodman had been telling, for he said, p. 287\n \u201cWell, in the end no more the thieves might do,\n For when enough of them were hurt or dead\n Needs must they cry for quarter; by Jove's head,\n That parley as sweet music did I hear,\n Who for three hours had seen grim death anear.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cSo then their tall ship did we take in tow,\n And beached her in the bay with no small pain.\n The painted dragon-head, that ye note now\n Grin at Jove's temple-door with gapings vain,\n And her steel beaks the merchant-galleys\u2019 bane,\n We smote away; with every second oar\n We roofed that house of refuge nigh the shore.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThen fell we unto ransacking her hold,\n And left them store of meal, but took away\n Armour, fair cloths, and silver things and gold,\n Rich raiment, wine and honey; then we lay\n Upon the beach that latter end of day,\n And shared the spoil by drawing short and long\u2014\n That was before my fate \u2019gan do me wrong,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAnd good things gat I; two such casks of wine,\n And such a jar of honey, as would make\n The very Gods smile, had they come to dine\n E\u2019en in this bare hall; ah! my heart doth ache,\n O daughter Rhodope, for thy sweet sake\n When of the gold-sewn purple robe I tell\n That certes now had matched thy beauty well. p. 288\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat else? a crested helm all golden wrought,\n A bow and sheaf of arrows\u2014there they hang\n Since they with one thing else came not to nought\n Of all the things o\u2019er which the goodwife sang,\n When on the threshold first my spear-butt rang,\n And o\u2019er the bay the terror of the sea\n With clipped wings laboured slow and painfully.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cTake down the bow, goodwife; a thing of price\n Though unadorned, therefore it yet bides here;\n For trusty is it in the wood, and wise\n The long shafts are to find the dappled deer\n And mend our four days' fast with better cheer.\n But for the other thing\u2014the twilight fails\n Amid these half-remembered woeful tales;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"So light the taper for a little while\n To see a marvel.\" Therewith speedily\n The goodwife turned and lighted up her smile,\n And deep-set eyes turned full on Rhodope\n As hoping there some eagerness to see;\n But on the brightening stars her wide eyes stared\n E\u2019en when the taper through the darkness glared.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then to the great chest did the goodman go,\n And turning o\u2019er the coarser household gear\n That lay therein, much stuff aside did throw\n Ere from the lowest depths his hand did bear\n A silken cloth of red, embroidered fair, p. 289\n Wrapped about something; this upon the board\n He laid, and \u2019gan unfold the precious hoard.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0With languid eyes that hoped for little joy\n Did Rhodope, now turning, gaze thereon,\n And wait the showing forth of the fair toy,\n In days long past from fear and battle won;\n But yet a strange light in her bright eyes shone\n When now the goodman did the cloth unfold,\n And showed the gleam of precious gems and gold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And there upon the silken cloth now lay\n Twin shoes first made for some fair woman's feet,\n Wrought like the meadows of an April day,\n With gems amidst the sun of gold; most meet\n To show in kings\u2019 halls, when the music sweet\n Is at its softest, and the dance grown slow,\n Midst of white folds the feet of maids may show.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now unto these fair things went Rhodope,\n And, blushing faintly, \u2019gan the latchets touch,\n And drew her hand across them daintily,\n Then let it fall, smiling, that overmuch\n She thought of them, then turned away to such\n Rude work as then the season asked of her,\n With face firm set that weary life to bear.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then said the goodman, with a rueful smile p. 290\n Upon her, \u201cChick or child I had not then,\n But riches, wherewith fortune did beguile\n My heart to ask for more; and now again\n That thou grow\u2019st fairer than the seed of men,\n All goes from me\u2014and let these go withal,\n Since I am thrust so rudely to the wall!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cLong have I kept them; first, for this indeed,\n That few men of our land have will therefor\n To pay me duly; and the coming need\n Still did I fear would make the past less sore;\n And then withal a man well skilled in lore\n Grew dreamy o\u2019er them once, and said that they\n Bore with them promise of a changing day.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYet bread is life, and while we live we yet\n May turn a corner of this barren lane,\n And Jove's high-priest hath ever prayed to get\n These fair things, and prayed hitherto in vain:\n Belike a yoke of oxen might I gain\n To turn the home-field deeper, when the corn,\n Such as it is, to barn and stack is borne.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThe meal-ark groweth empty too, and thou,\n O fairest daughter, worthy to be clad\n In weed like this, shalt feel November blow\n No blessing to thee; cask-staves must be had\n Against the vintage, seeing that men wax glad p. 291\n Already o\u2019er the bunches, and the year\n Folk deem great wealth to all men's sons will bear.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"So, daughter, unto thee this charge I give\n To take these things tomorrow morn with thee\n Unto Jove's priest, and say, we needs must live;\n Therefore these fair shoes do I let him see,\n That he may say what he will give to me,\n That they may shine upon his daughter's feet,\n When she goes forth the sacrifice to meet.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now as he spake again a light flush came\n Into her cheek, and died away again;\n Then cried the goodwife; \"Ah, thou bearest shame,\n That we are fallen \u2019neath the feet of men,\n That thou goest like a slave! what didst thou then\n So coldly e\u2019en on this man's son to look,\n That he thy scornful eyes no more might brook?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But still sat Rhodope, as though of stone\n Her face was, and the goodman spake and said;\n \"Nay, mother, nay, she is not such an one\n As lightly to our highest to be wed\n Before the crown of love has touched her head:\n Be patient; hast thou ne\u2019er heard stories tell\n What things to such as her of old befell?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Kindly he smiled at her, as half he meant\n The words he said; but now her changeless eye p. 292\n Cast on him one hard glance, and then she bent\n Over her work, and with a half-choked sigh\n The goodman rose, and from a corner nigh\n Took up some willow-withes, and so began\n To shape the handle of a winnowing fan.\nBUT with the new day's sun might you behold\n The maiden's feet firm planted on the way\n Which led unto the vale, where field and fold\n About the temple of the Thunderer lay,\n And the priest wrought, a sturdy carle today\n Within the hay-field or behind the plough,\n Tomorrow dealing with high things enow.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0First betwixt sunny meads the highway ran\n With homesteads set therein, and vineyards green,\n Now merry with the voice of maid and man,\n Who shouted greetings the tall rows between,\n Whereto she answered softly, as a queen\n Who feels herself of other make to be\n Than those who worship her divinity.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The dark-eyed shepherd slowly by her passed,\n And from his face faded the merry smile,\n And down upon the road his eyes he cast,\n And strove with other names his heart to wile\n From thought of her; so coarse he seemed and vile p. 293\n Before her smileless face, o\u2019er which there shone\n Some glory, as of a bright secret sun,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0That was for her alone. The mother stood\n Within her door, and as the gown of grey\n Fluttered about her, and the coarse white hood\n Flashed from the oak-shade o\u2019er the sunlit way,\n She muttered after her; \"Ah, have thy day,\n If thou wert set high up as thou art low,\n On many a neck those feet of thine should go!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But heeding little of the hearts of these\n She went upon her way, and walking fast\n Soon left the tilled fields and the cottages,\n For toward the mountain-slopes the highway passed,\n And turned unto the south, and \u2019gan at last\n To mount aloft \u2019twixt heathery slopes set o\u2019er\n With red-trunked pines, and mossy rocks and hoar.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Still fast she went, though high the sun was grown,\n For on strange thoughts and wild her heart was set;\n Those things held in the bosom of her gown\n Seemed teaching hopes she might not soon forget;\n She clenched her hands harder and harder yet,\n And cried aloud; \u201cSo small, so quickly done,\n O idle, timorous life beneath the sun!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAnd here amid these fields and mountains grey,\n Drop after drop slowly it ebbs from me, p. 294\n And leaves no new thing gained; day like to day,\n Face like to face, as waves in some calm sea!\n With memory of our sad mortality\n Pipes the dull tune of earth, nought comes anigh\n To give us some bright dream before we die.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat say\u2019st thou\u2014'Beautiful thou art and livest,\n And men there are, strong, young and fair enow,\n To take with thankful heart e\u2019en what thou givest;\n Love and be loved then!'\u2014Nay, heart, dost thou know\n How through thin flame of love thou still wilt show\n The long years set with mocking images,\n Ready to trap me if I think of these?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAh, love they say, and love! Shall not love fade\n And turn a prison, barred with vain regret\n And vain remorse that we so lightly weighed,\n The woes wherein our stumbling feet were set,\n Stifling with thoughts we never may forget;\n Because life waneth, while we strive to turn\n And seek another thing for which to yearn.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cSo deem I of the life that holds me here,\n As though I were the shade of one long dead,\n Come back a while from Pluto's region drear\n To mine own land where unremembered\n My fathers are\u2014Lo, now, these words just said,\n This heathery slope my feet are passing o\u2019er,\n Yon grey-winged dove\u2014has it not been before? p. 295\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWould then that I were gone, and lived again\n Another life;\u2014if it must still be so,\n That life on life passes, forgotten, vain\n To still our longings, that no soul can know\n By what has been how this and this shall go\u2014\n Because methinks I yet have heard men tell\n How lives there were wherein great things befell.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cHow mid such life had I forgot the past,\n Nor thought about the future! but been glad\n While round my head a dreamy veil I cast,\n And seemed to strive with seeming good or bad;\n Till at the last some dream I might have had\n That nigh a god I was become to be,\n And, dying, yet should keep all memory;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Know what I was, nor change my hope and fear\n All utterly, but learn why I was born,\n Nor come to loathe what once to me was dear,\n Nor dwell amidst a world of ghosts forlorn,\n Nor see kind eyes, and hear kind words, with scorn.\n \u2014But ye, O fields, and hills, and steads of men,\n Why are ye fair to mock my longings then?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And therewithal panting she turned, and stood\n High up the hillside; a light fitful wind\n Sung mournful ditties through the pine-tree wood\n That edged the borders of the pass behind,\n And made most fitting music to her mind, p. 296\n But clear and hot the day of June did grow,\n And a fair picture spread out down below.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The green hill-slopes, besprinkled o\u2019er with kine,\n And a grey neat-herd wandering here and there,\n And then the greener squares of well-propped vine,\n The changing cornfields, and the homesteads fair,\n The white road winding on, that yet did bear\n Specks as of men and horses; the grey sea\n Meeting the dim horizon dreamily.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A little while she gazed, then, with a sigh,\n She turned again, and went on toward the pass,\n But slowly now, and somewhat wearily,\n And murmuring as she met the coarser grass\n Within the shade: \"What, something moved I was,\n By hope, and pity of myself! Well then,\n I shall not have that joy so oft again.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then with bent head, \u2019twixt rocky wall and wall,\n Slowly she went, and scarce knew what she thought,\n So many a picture on her heart did fall,\n Nor would she let one wish to her be brought\n Of good or better. Going so, distraught,\n The long rough road was nothing to her feet,\n Nor took she heed of what her eyes might meet.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But so far through the pass at last she came,\n That the road fell unto the temple-vale, p. 297\n And there she stopped and started, for her name\n She heard called out. She thought of many a tale\n Of gods who brought to mortals joy or bale,\n For so, despite herself, her thoughts would run,\n That all the joy of life was not yet done.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But from the hillside came a dappled hound\n That fawned upon her e\u2019en as one he knew,\n And when she raised her eyes, and looked around,\n She saw the man indeed he \u2019longed unto,\n A huntsman armed, and clad in gown of blue,\n Come clattering down the stones of the pass-side;\n So, standing still, his coming did she bide.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She smiled a smile that was not all of bliss,\n For this was he of whom her mother spake,\n The high-priest's son, who fain had made her his;\n And at the sight of him her heart did ache\n With hapless thoughts, and scorn and shame \u2019gan wake\n Within her mind, that still she strove to lull,\n Calling herself both cursed and beautiful.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So, while she gathered heart of grace to meet\n The few words they might speak together there,\n He was beside her; slim he was and fleet,\n Well knit, with dark-brown eyes and crisp black hair,\n Eager of aspect, round-chinned, fresh, and fair,\n And well attired as for that simple folk\n Who in those days might bear no great man's yoke. p. 298\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now his lip trembled, and he blushed blood-red,\n Then turned all pale again. \"O Rhodope,\n Right fair thou go\u2019st afoot this morn,\" he said;\n \"Hast thou some errand with my sire or me?\"\n And therewithal, as if unwittingly,\n Unto her hand did he stretch out his hand;\n But moveless as an image did she stand,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But that her gown was fluttering in the wind\n That came up from the pass. She spake as one\n That hath no care at heart: \"I thought to find\n Thy father, and to give to him alone\n A message from my father. Is he gone?\"\n He seemed to swallow something in his throat:\n \"These two nights, maiden, hath he been afloat,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Watching the tunnies; if thou turn\u2019st again\n Thou well mayst meet him coming from the sea.\"\n \"Nay,\" said she, \"neither wholly shall be vain\n My coming so far, since I have with me\n Poor offerings meet for the divinity\n From poor folk, which my mother bade me bear\n To bless this midmost month of the glad year.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"In a good hour,\" he said, \"for I have done\n Little against the roes whereof to tell,\n So I will fare with thee; and till the sun\n Is getting low, in our house shalt thou dwell,\n And in the evening, if it like thee well, p. 299\n With helmet on the head, and well-strung bow,\n Beside thee to thine own home will I go.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Nought spake she for a while, and his heart beat\n Quicker with hope of some small happiness;\n But at the last her eyes his eyes did meet.\n She spake: \u201cFew hearts this heart of mine will bless,\n And yet for thee will I do nothing less\n Than save thee from the anguish of the strife,\n Wherewith thou fain wouldst make my life thy life.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThou art unhappy now, but we may part,\n And to us both is left long lapse of time\n To gain new bliss. What wouldst thou? To my heart\n Cold now and alien are this folk and clime,\n And while I dwell with them no woe or crime,\n If so I may, shall stain my garments\u2019 hem;\n Thou art an image like the rest of them:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYea, but an image unto me alone,\n For unto thee this world is wide enow,\n Full of warm hearts enow\u2014so get thee gone\n Upon thy way. I am not fallen so low\n As unto thee dreams of false love to show,\n Or for my very heart's own weariness\n To give thee clinging life-long sharp distress.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Now fain I would unto the temple-stead;\n And, if thou mayst, do thou go otherwhere, p. 300\n For good it were that all thy hopes were dead,\n Since nought but bitter fruit they now can bear.\"\n He gazed at her as one who doth not hear,\n Or hears an outland tongue ill understood;\n Wild love and hate made wild-fire of his blood.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yea, she belike was nigher unto death\n Than she might know; yet did he turn at last\n And, clutching tight his short-sword's gold-wrought sheath,\n Slowly along the seaward way he passed,\n Nor backward at her any look he cast,\n For fate would not that his blind eyes should see\n How on the way her tears fell plenteously.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet not long there she stayed, but set her face\n Unto the downward road, but had not fared\n A many yards from that their meeting-place,\n Before upon the wind a sound she heard,\n As though some poor wretch a great sorrow bared\n Unto the eyes of heaven, and then her feet\n With quicker steps the stony way did meet.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And soon she said: \"O fate, all left behind,\n I follow thee adown the bitter road\n With weary feet, and heavy eyes and blind,\n That leadeth to thy far unknown abode;\n No need, then, with thy stings my flesh to goad,\n Keep them for those that strive with thee in vain,\n And leave me to my constant weary pain.\" p. 301\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now the pass, widening, to her eyes did show\n The little vale hemmed in by hills around,\n Wherein was Jove's house fair and great enow,\n Some three miles thence, but on a rising ground,\n And with fair fields as a green girdle bound,\n And guarded well by long low houses white,\n Orchards for fruit, and gardens for delight.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Far off, like little spots of white, she saw\n The long-winged circling pigeons glittering\n Above the roofs, the noise of rook and daw\n Came sweet upon the wind from the dark ring\n Of elms that edged the cornfields; with wide wing\n The fork-tailed restless kite sailed over her,\n Hushing the twitter of the linnets near.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She stayed now, gazing downward; at her feet\n A dark wood clad the hollow of the hill,\n And its black shade a little lake did meet,\n Whose waters smooth a babbling stream did still,\n Then toward the temple-stead stretched on, until\n Green meads with oaks beset \u2019gan hem it in,\n And from its nether end the stream did win.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She gazed and saw not, heard and did not hear,\n But said: \u201cOnce more have I been vehement,\n Have spoken out, as if I knew from where\n Come good and ill, and whither they are sent,\n As though I knew whereon I was intent; p. 302\n So, knowing that I know not, e\u2019en as these\n Who think themselves as gods and goddesses\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"To know both good and evil must I do.\n Now ne\u2019er again in this wise shall it be\n While here I dwell, nor shall false hope shine through\n My prison bars, false passion jeer at me\n With what might hap if I were changed and free;\n The end shall come at last, and find me here,\n Desiring nought, and free from hope or fear.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So saying, but with face cleared not at all,\n Rather with trembling lips, upon her way\n Once more she went; short now did shadows fall,\n It grew unto the hottest of the day,\n And round the mountain-tops the sky waxed grey\n For very heat; June's sceptre o\u2019er the earth,\n If rest it gave, kept back some little mirth.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At last upon the bridge the stream that crossed\n Just ere it met the lake she set her feet,\n And walked on swiftly, e\u2019en as one clean lost\n In thought, till at its end her skirt did meet\n A bough of briar-rose, whose pale blossoms sweet\n Were draggled in the dust; she stooped thereto\n And from her hem its hooked green thorns she drew.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then drawing a deep breath, she cast aside\n The broken bough; and from the dusty road p. 303\n She turned, and o\u2019er the parapet she eyed\n The broad blue lake, the basking pike's abode,\n And the dark oakwood where the pigeons cooed;\n And as she gazed, some little touch of bliss\n Came over her amidst her loneliness.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Drowsy she felt, and weary with the way,\n And mid such listlessness that brought no pain,\n She drew her arms from off the coping grey,\n And o\u2019er the bridge went slowly back again,\n As though no whit of purpose did remain\n Within her mind; but when the other end\n She passed, along the stream she \u2019gan to wend.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She watched its eddies till it widened out\n Into the breezy lake, and even there\n Began the wood; so then she turned about,\n And shading her grave eyes with fingers fair,\n Beneath the sun beheld temple glare\n O\u2019er the far tree-tops; then down\n Within the shade on last year's oak-leaves brown.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0There as she lay, at last her fingers stole\n Unto the things that on her bosom lay,\n She drew them forth and slowly \u2019gan unroll\n The silken cloth, until a wandering ray\n Upon the shoes\u2019 bright \u2019broideries \u2019gan to play\n Through the thick leaves; and with a flickering smile\n She \u2019gan her mind with stories to beguile. p. 304\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Pondering for whom those dainty things were wrought,\n And in what land; and in what wondrous wise\n She missed the gift of them; and what things brought\n The sea-thieves to her land\u2014until her eyes\n Fell on her own gear wrought in homely guise,\n And with a half smile she let fall the gold\n And glistening gems her listless hand did hold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then long she lay there, gazing at the sky\n Between the thick leaves, growing drowsier,\n While slowly the grey rabbit hobbled by,\n And the slim squirrel twisted over her\n As one to heed not; as if none were near\n The woodpecker slipped up the smooth-barked tree,\n The water-hen clucked nigh her fearlessly.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But in a little while she woke, and still\n Felt as if dreaming, all seemed far away\n Save present rest, both hope and fear and ill;\n The sun was past the middle of the day,\n But bathed in flood of light the world still lay,\n And all was quiet, but for faint sounds made\n By the wood creatures wild and unafraid.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0From out her wallet now coarse food she drew,\n And ate with dainty mouth, then o\u2019er the strip\n Of dazzling sunlight where the daisies grew\n Unto the babbling streamlet's rushy lip\n She went, and kneeling down thereby did dip p. 305\n Her hollow hand into the water grey\n And drank, then back again she went her way.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0There \u2019neath the tree-bole lay the glittering shoes,\n And over them she stood awhile and gazed,\n Then stooped adown as though one might not choose;\n And from the grass one by the latchet raised,\n And with the eyes of one by slumber dazed\n Did off her own foot-gear, and one by one\n Set the bright things her shapely feet upon.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then to the thick wood slowly did she turn,\n And through its cool shade wandered till once more\n Thinner it grew, and spots of light did burn\n Upon her jewelled feet, till lay before\n Her upraised eyes a bay with sandy shore;\n And \u2019twixt the waves and birds' abiding place\n Was stretched a treeless, sunlit, grassy space.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Friendly the sun, the bright flowers, and the grass\n Seemed after the dark wood; with upraised gown\n Slowly unto the water did she pass,\n And on the grassy edge she sat her down;\n And since right swift these latter hours had flown\n Less did the sun burn; there awhile she lay\n Watching a little breeze sweep up the bay.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Shallow it was, a shore of hard white sand\n Met the green herbage, and as clear as glass p. 306\n The water ran in ripples o\u2019er that strand,\n Until it well-nigh touched the flowery grass;\n A dainty bath for weary limbs it was,\n And so our maiden thought belike, for she\n \u2019Gan put her raiment from her languidly.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Until at last from out her poor array,\n Pure did she rise e\u2019en as that other One\n Rose up from out the ragged billows grey,\n For earth's dull days and heavy to atone;\n How like another sun her gold hair shone;\n In the green place, as down she knelt, and raised\n The glittering shoes, and long time on them gazed,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0As on strange guides that thus had brought her there,\n Then cast them by, so that apart they fell,\n And in the sunlight glittering lay and fair,\n Like the elves\u2019 blossoms, hard and lacking smell;\n Then to the sward she stooped, and bud and bell\n Of the June's children gat into her hand,\n And left the grass for the scarce-covered sand.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She stood to watch the thin waves mount her feet\n Before she tried the deep, then toward the wide,\n Sun-litten space she turned, and \u2019gan to meet\n The freshness of the water cool, and sighed\n For pleasure as the little rippling tide\n Lapped her about, and slow she wandered on\n Till many a yard from shore she now had won. p. 307\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0There, as she played, she heard a bird's harsh cry,\n And looking to the steep hill-side could see\n A broad-winged eagle hovering anigh,\n And stood to watch his sweeping flight and free\n Dark \u2019gainst the sky, then turned round leisurely\n Unto the bank, and saw a bright red ray\n Shoot from a great gem on the sea-thieves\u2019 prey.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then slowly through the water did she move,\n Down on the changing ripple gazing still,\n As loth to leave it, and once more above\n Her golden head rang out the erne's note shrill,\n Grown nigher now; she turned unto the hill,\n And saw him not, and once again her eyes\n Fell on the strange shoes\u2019 jewelled \u2019broideries.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And even therewithal a noise of wings\n Flapping, and close at hand\u2014again the cry,\n And then the glitter of those dainty things\n Was gone, as a great mass fell suddenly,\n And rose again, ere Rhodope could try\n To raise her voice, for now might she behold\n Within his claws the gleam of gems and gold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Awhile she gazed at him as, circling wide,\n He soared aloft, and for a space could see\n The gold shoe glitter, till the rock-crowned side\n Of the great mountain hid him presently,\n And she \u2019gan laugh that such a thing should be p. 308\n So wrought of fate, for little did she fear\n The lack of their poor wealth, or pinching cheer.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But when she was aland again and clad,\n And turned back through the wood, a sudden thought\n Shot through her heart, and made her somewhat glad;\n \"Small things,\" she said, \"her feet had thither brought:\n Perchance this strange hap should not be for nought.\"\n And therewithal stories she \u2019gan to tell\n Unto her heart how such things once befell,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0How as it had been it might be again.\n Then from her odorous breast she took the shoe\n Yet left, and turned it o\u2019er and o\u2019er in vain,\n If yet she might therein find aught of new\n To tell her what all meant; and thus she drew\n Unto the wood's edge, and once more sat down\n Upon the fresh grass and the oak-leaves brown.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And there beneath the quickly sinking sun\n She took again her foot-gear cast aside,\n And, scarce beholding them now, did them on;\n And while the pie from out the oak-boughs cried\n Over her head, arose and slowly hied\n Unto the road again, and backward turned\n Up through the pass. Blood-red behind her burned\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The sunless sky, and scarce awake she seemed,\n As \u2019gainst the hill she toiled, and when at last p. 309\n Beneath the moon far off the grey sea gleamed,\n And all the rugged mountain road was passed,\n Back from her eyes the wandering locks she cast,\n And o\u2019er her cheeks warm ran the tears, as she\n Told herself tales of what she yet might be.\nBUT cold awakening had she when she came\n Unto the half-deserted homestead gate,\n And she must think hoed she would take the blame\n That from her mother did her deed await,\n Without a slave-like frightened frown at fate;\n Must harden yet her heart once more to face\n Her father's wondering sigh at his hard case.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So when within the dimly-lighted hall\n Her mother's wrath brake out, as she did hear\n Her cold words, and her father's knife did fall\n Clattering adown; then seemed all life so drear,\n Hapless and loveless, and so hard to bear,\n So little worth the bearing, that a pang\n Of very hate from out her heart up-sprang.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0With cold eyes, but a smile on her red lips,\n She watched them; how her father stooped again\n And took his knife, and how once more the chips\n Flew from the bowl half finished, but in vain,\n Because he saw it not; she watched the rain p. 310\n Of tears wherewith her mother did bewail\n That all her joy in her one child should fail.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But when her mother's tears to sobs were turned\n The goodman rose and took her hand in his,\n And then, with sunken eyes for love that yearned,\n Gazed hard at her, and said, \u201cNay, child, some bliss\n Awaits thee surely yet; enough it is;\n Trouble and hunger shall not chase me long,\n The walls of one abiding-place are strong;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"And thither now I go apace, my child.\"\n Askance she looked at him with steady eyes,\n But when she saw that midst his words he smiled\n With trembling lips, then in her heart \u2019gan rise\n Strange thoughts that troubled her like memories\n And changed her face; she drew her hands from him,\n And yet before her eyes his face waxed dim.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then down the old man sat, and now began\n To talk of how their life went, and their needs,\n In cheerful strain; and, even as a man,\n Unbeaten yet by fortune's spiteful deeds,\n Spoke of the troublous twisted way that leads\n To peace and happiness, till to a smile\n The goodwife's tearful face he did beguile.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So slipped the night away, and the June sun\n Rose the next morn as though no woe there were p. 311\n Upon the earth, and never anyone\n Was blind with love or bent by hopeless care;\n But small content was in the homestead there,\n Despite the bright-eyed June, for unto two\n That dwelt there life still held too much to do.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0While to the third, empty of deeds it seemed,\n A dragging dulness changed by here a pain\n And there a hope, waking or sleeping dreamed,\n But, waking still or sleeping, dreamed in vain;\n For how could anything be loss or gain\n When still the order of the world went round,\n And still the wall of death all hopes did bound?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So said she oft, and fell to hating men;\n Nevertheless with hope still beat her heart,\n And changing thoughts that rose and fell again\n Would stir within her as she sat apart,\n And to her brow the unbidden blood would start,\n And she would rise, nor know whereon she trod,\n And forth she walked as one who walks with God.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Oftener indeed that dull and heavy mood\n Oppressed her, and when any were anigh,\n Little she spake, either of bad or good,\n Nor would she heed the folk that were thereby\n So much as thereon to look scornfully;\n Unless perchance her father stood anear,\n And then her set hard face she strove to clear. p. 312\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And if he, fearful, answered with no smile\n Unto the softening eyes, yet when he went\n About his labour, would he so beguile\n His heart with thought of her, that right content\n He \u2019gan to feel with what the Gods had sent;\n The little flame of love that in him burned,\n Hard things and ill to part of pleasure turned.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Withal his worldly things went not so ill\n As for a luckless man; the bounteous year\n More than before his barn and vats did fill\n With the earth's fruit, and bettered was his cheer,\n So that he watched the winter draw anear\n Calmly this tide, and deemed he yet might live,\n Some joy unto his daughter's heart to give.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But for the one shoe that the erne had left,\n The goodwife's word was, \"Take the cursed thing,\n And when the gems from out it are all reft,\n Into the fire the weaver's rag go fling;\n Would in like wise the fond desires, that cling\n To Rhodope's proud heart, we thus might burn,\n That she to some good life at last might turn!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"I think some poison with a double curse\n Hath smitten her, and double wilfulness,\n For surely now she groweth worse and worse,\n Since the bright rag her wayworn foot did press\u2014\n Well then\u2014and surely thou wilt do no less p. 313\n Than as I bid\u2014a many things we need,\n More than this waif of cast-off-royal weed.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0With querulous voice she spake, because she saw\n Her husband look at Rhodope, as she\n Still through her fingers did the grey thread draw\n From out the rock, and sitting quietly\n Seemed not to heed what all the talk might be;\n But for the goodman's self he answered not\n Until at last the goodwife waxed o\u2019er hot;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And laid hard word on word, till she began\n To say, \"Alas, and wherefore was I wed\n To such an one as is a foredoomed man?\n Lo, all this grief hast thou brought on my head,\n So wander forth, and dream as do the dead\n When to the shadowy land they first are brought!\n Surely thou knowest that we lack for nought!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then blind with rage from out the place she went,\n But still the goodman stood awhile, and gazed\n At Rhodope, who sat as if intent\n Upon her work, nor aught her fair head raised.\n At last he spake: \u201cWell, never was I praised\n For wisdom overmuch before this day,\n And can I now be certain of the way?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"True is it that our needs are many and sore, p. 314\n And that those gems would help us plenteously,\n Yet do I grudge now more than heretofore\n The very last of that strange gift to see.\n What sayest thou, how dost thou counsel me,\n O daughter? didst thou ever hear folk tell\n Of the strange dream that at thy birth befell?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Blood-red her face grew as she looked on him,\n And with her foot the twirling spindle stayed.\n \"Yea,\" said she, \"something have I heard, but dim\n My memory is, and little have I weighed\n The worth thereof.\" The goodman smiled and said,\n \"Nay, child, as little wise as I may be,\n Yet know I that thou liest certainly.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"And so no need there is to tell the tale,\n Or ask thee more what thou wouldst have me do;\n Have thou thy will, for fate will still prevail,\n Though oft we deem we lead her thereunto\n Where lies our good\u2014Daughter, keep thou the shoe,\n And let the wise men with their wisdom play,\n While we go dream about a happier day.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0While he was speaking had she laid adown\n The rock, and risen unto her feet, and now\n Upon her bosom lay his visage brown,\n As round him both her fair arms did she throw;\n Softly she said, \"Somewhat thy need I know, p. 315\n Remember this whatever happeneth,\n Let it make sweet the space \u2019twixt this and death!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Hard is the world; I, loved ere I was born,\n This once alone perchance thy heart shall feel,\n And thou shalt go about, of love forlorn,\n And little move my heart of stone and steel:\n Ah, if another life our life might heal,\n And love become no more the sport of time,\n Chained upon either hand to pain and crime!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A little time she hung about him thus,\n And then her arms from round his neck unwound,\n And went her ways; his mouth grew piteous\n When he had lost her fluttering gown's light sound,\n And fast his tears \u2019gan fall upon the ground.\n At last he turned: \"So is it now,\" he said,\n \"With me as with a man soon to be dead.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Wise is he all at once, and knows not why,\n And brave who erst was timorous; fair of speech,\n Whose tongue once stammered with uncertainty,\n Because his soul to the dark land doth reach.\n And is it so that love to me doth teach\n New things, because he needs must get him gone,\n And leave me with his memories all alone?\" p. 316\nSO the year passed, as has been writ afore,\n With better hopes; the pinching winter-tide\n Went by, and spring his tender longings bore\n Into all hearts, and scattered troubles wide,\n Nor yet to see the fruit of them would bide,\n But left the burning summer next to deal\n With hearts of men, and hope from them to steal.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now came the time round even to the day\n When Rhodope had made her journey vain\n Unto the valley where the temple lay,\n And now, too, when the morn was on the wane,\n Before the homestead door she stood again,\n For to the town she needs must go to bring,\n For their poor household work, some needful thing.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So with slow feet she crossed the threshold o\u2019er\n With brow a little knitted, as if she\n Dealt with some troublous thought, that oft before\n Had mazed her mind: then no less, steadily\n Through the fair day she went on toward the sea,\n For by the port, and lying low adown,\n Stretched out their unwalled simple market-town.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Some mile of highway had she got to pace,\n Ere she might reach the first house of the street\n That led unto the lowly market-place;\n So on she went, and still her eyes did meet\n The elm-tree shade that flickered o\u2019er her feet. p. 317\n Though thronged beyond its wont the white way was,\n With folk well clad, who toward the town did pass,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Swiftly she went, till come half-way belike,\n Then stayed her feet and looked up suddenly;\n There by the way-side the hot sun did strike\n Upon a patch of grass, whereon did lie\n A grey old hound, and \u2019gainst an elm thereby\n His master leaned, a shepherd older yet,\n Whose deep-sunk eyes her eyes unwitting met.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therewith a knot of folk she had just passed\n Passed her in turn, maidens and youths they were,\n Blithe with their life and youth; on her they cast\n Such looks as if they had a mind to jeer,\n Yet held back, some by wonder, some by fear,\n Went on a space until they deemed them free,\n Then through the summer day outburst their glee.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Her deep eyes followed them, and yet, indeed,\n As images she saw them; there a space\n Musing she stood, then turned, and at slow speed\n Went back again to her abiding-place,\n Just as the old man moved his puckered face\n To speak some word to her; and so at last,\n O\u2019er her own threshold inward her feet passed.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then to her sleeping-room she went, and knelt\n Beside a chest, and raised the lid, and drew p. 318\n From out the dark where year-long it had dwelt,\n Remembered yet the while, the precious shoe,\n And dreamy over it awhile she grew,\n Then set it in her bosom, and went forth,\n Pondering o\u2019er what her fond desires were worth.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Still folk thronged on the highway; as she went\n Some fragment of their talk would reach her ear\n Howso upon her dreams she was intent;\n Of new-come men they spake, their ways and gear,\n How glorious of array, how great they were,\n How huge and fair their galley, that last eve\n The little black-quayed haven did receive.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0That talk of strange and great things raised at last\n New and wild hopes in her, but none the less\n Straightway unto her journey's end she passed,\n And did what she must do, nor cared to guess\n Why in the market-place all folk did press\n Around a glitter as of steel and gold\n That in the midst thereof she did behold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet, her work done, she gat her back again\n Unto the market-place, and curiously\n \u2019Gan eye the concourse, yea, at last, was fain\n Unto the heart thereof to come anigh;\n Her heart beat; strange she felt and knew not why,\n As on she went, and still the wondering folk\n To right and left before her beauty broke. p. 319\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A temple midmost of the market-place,\n Raised to the Mother of the Gods there stood,\n An ancient house in guise of other days,\n And e\u2019en amid that simple folk deemed rude;\n Such as it was the country-folk thought good\n To meet and talk there, o\u2019er such things as they\n Found hard to deal with as day passed by day.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So when she drew anigh its steps, thereon\n She saw indeed a goodly company,\n For there sat strange men, young and old, who shone\n In such attire as scarce she thought could be,\n And by these glittering folk from over sea\n Were the land's fathers, and the chief-priest dight\n To do a solemn sacrifice aright.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0E\u2019en as she came into the foremost rank,\n Bright gleamed the slayer's falchion in the sun,\n And silently the rose-crowned heifer sank\n Upon the time-worn pavement; yet not one\n Of all the sea-farers might gaze upon\n Victim or priest, for forth stood Rhodope\n Lone on the steps, a glorious thing to see.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0For on a tripod by the altar's side,\n Gleaming, as that day year agone it gleamed,\n The shoe her foot had pressed she now espied,\n And o\u2019er her soul a sudden light there streamed,\n While from her eager eyes such glory beamed, p. 320\n That all folk stared astonished, all must wait\n For her first word as for the stroke of fate.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yea, there she stood, that all fair things did lack,\n Clad in a gown of dark grey woollen stuff,\n The wares she had just dealt for at her back,\n And all about her homely, coarse, and rough,\n Yet, since her beauty blessed them, good enough:\n For, as a goddess wandering on the earth,\n How might she deem earth's richest gauds of worth?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Gently, yet with no flush on her smooth cheek,\n She mounted up the steps, and spake out clear:\n \"Perchance a match for yon fair thing ye seek\n Ye seem to prize so much; it lieth here,\n And both of them on this day was-a-year\n Were on my feet. My father will be glad\n Because great joy in them the old man had.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then rose a great shout up into the sky,\n And in despite herself the blood would rise\n Unto her cheek and brow, as quietly\n From her white fragrant bosom, a world's prize,\n She drew the mass of blazing \u2019broideries,\n And laid it by its fellow, and her hand\n Trembled, as there sun-litten she did stand.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then cried a grey-beard, clad in gems and gold:\n \"Praise to the Gods who do all things aright, p. 321\n And thus have given my weak eyes to behold\n Now, at the end of life, so fair a sight,\n Have given withal unto the worth and might\n Of the great king so fair a mate as thee\u2014\n How good, how good it is thine eyes to see!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She was pale now, though never a word she spake,\n And held her head, as though a crown it wore\n And \u2019gan \u2019neath gold, and golden hair to ache\n With new-born longings, fears unknown before,\n And calmly her deep eyes the men passed o\u2019er\n Who sat there marvelling; till the old man said:\n \"Wonder not overmuch, O glorious maid,\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"At all these things! The Gods who wrought thee thus,\n And kept thee here apart from ill men's eyes\n To show thee forth so much more marvellous,\n Have led our hearts unto thee in this wise;\n For the great king did solemn sacrifice\n Unto the Gods well-nigh a year agone,\n And in the bright sun bright the altar shone.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"But e\u2019en as to its highest shot the flame,\n And to the awful Gods our hearts did turn,\n A cry from out the far blue sky there came,\n And a bright thing \u2019twixt flame and sun did burn,\n And some there were who said they could discern\n An eagle, like a faint speck, far above\n The altar, whereon lay this gift of love. p. 322\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"How this may be I know not, but the king\n Trembled, and toward the altar stretched his hand,\n And drew to him the strange-sent, fair-wrought thing,\n And, thereon staring, a long while did stand,\n And left the place, not giving such command\n As he was wont, and still from that day forth\n Took little heed of things once held of worth.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cSilent and pale, and strange-eyed still he grew,\n And yet said nought hereon for many days,\n Until at last he bade us take this shoe\n And diligently search in every place\n That we might come to, till we saw the face\n Of her whose foot had touched it. \u2018Certainly,\n Whereso she is, she hath been wrought for me.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201c'Whereso she is, and by what name men name\n Her loveliness and love unknown: to now,\n Young am I, and have heretofore had shame\n To bend to love, e\u2019en as my folk bend low\n Before my throne, but now my pride doth grow\n As a quenched candle in a golden house,\n And through the dark I wander timorous.'\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"We marvelled at his word, but deemed some God\n Possessed his heart; but thenceforth constantly\n Have we gone over the wide world, and trod\n Rough ways enow, been tossed o\u2019er many a sea,\n And dealt with many a lie, until to thee p. 323\n The Gods have brought us, O thou wondrous one!\n That we might see thee ere our days are done.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Ah me!\" she said, \"what thing do ye demand?\n Is it a little thing that I should go,\n Leaving my people and my father's land, .\n To wed some proud great man I do not know?\n I look for no glad life; yea, it is so\n That if a grain of love were left in me\n In vain your keel had cleft our girdling sea.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"No need to speak; I know what ye would say\u2014\n \u2014That where I go, still I and love shall rule,\n That where I go I bear about the day\n Made golden by my beauty\u2014base and dull,\n Mid hollow shows to strive with knave and fool,\n With death, and nothing done, to end it all!\n \u2014Yet fear ye not! for surely I shall fall\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Where the Gods cast me, nor turn round about\n To gaze on bygone time\u2014so it shall be\n E\u2019en as ye will.\" They stared at her, in doubt\n If her sweet lips had spoken; yea, and she\n Flushed \u2019neath their eyes fixed on her wonderingly,\n Wondering herself at the new fear, new scorn\n That with beginning of new days was born.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But they, abased before the rough-clad maid,\n Now led her to an empty ivory chair, p. 324\n And each man knee unto the pavement laid,\n And, unashamed, did reverence to her there;\n And ever did she seem to grow more fair\n Before their eyes, till fear arose in them\n As they bent down to her rude garment's hem.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And then the rites unto the Gods went on,\n While she sat musing on the wondrous tale;\n And when all these at last were duly done,\n They prayed her give command when they should sail;\n She raised her face, grown quiet now and pale,\n And said in a low voice: \u201cToday were best,\n For here at least may I have nought of rest.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThe old is gone, the new is not yet come,\n Familiar things with strange eyes I behold,\n And nowhere now I seem to have a home.\n But when I go from homespun unto gold,\n My father and mother, poor folk bent and old,\n Beaten by fortune, needs must go with me,\n And share my new proud life beyond the sea.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAnd since the old man loveth me too well,\n And hitherto small joy from me hath gained,\n Meet is it that my lips alone should tell\n How all is changed, and weal that long hath waned\n Is waxen now, and the cold rain that rained\n Upon his life's grey day hath met the sun,\n And blossoms spring from the dull earth and dun. p. 325\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"And, O ye folk, midst whom my feet have dwelt,\n And whom I leave now, if so be, that I\n Hard anger in my heart at whiles have felt\n \u2019Gainst things that pressed upon me wearily,\n Yet now the kindness of time past draws nigh,\n And ye will be my folk still, when I go\n Unto a land where e\u2019en your name none know.\"\nThen, midst their marvelling silence, she arose,\n And took her cast-down fardel up again,\n And went her ways; and they, by whom all close\n Her body passed, must tremble, and be fain\n To think of common things to dull the pain\n Of longing, as her lovely majesty,\n Too sweet and strange for earth, brushed swiftly by.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And yet of earth she was, and as she went\n Through the shrunk shadow to her old abode,\n Fresh hope a new joy through her body sent,\n The clear cold vision of her soul to cloud;\n And less the striving world seemed like a load\n To weary her, than a strange curious toy,\n To solace life with foolish grief and joy.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Still grew that hope in her, and when she carne\n Unto the homestead, and her father met\n Anigh the byre, then doubt, and fear, and shame,\n Amid the joy of change did she forget,\n As firm feet mid the loitering kine she set, p. 326\n And cried aloud, \"O father, turn and gaze\n On Fortune's friend, the Queen of glorious days!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He turned and stared upon her glittering eyes\n And godlike mien, and \u2019gan to speak, but she\n Cried out, \"The very Gods may call us wise,\n For great days have they given to thee and me,\n Things stranger than these meadows shall we see,\n And thou shalt wonder that thou ere didst keep\n These kine, as Ph\u0153bus erst Admetus' sheep!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then did she pour the whole tale out on him\n Eager at first, but faltered to behold\n How he fell trembling in his every limb;\n Through the new fever that her heart did fold,\n Again shame thrust its steely point and cold:\n \"Alas,\" she thought, \"when all the tale is done,\n Why go we thus alone beneath the sun?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He tried to speak, and the words came at last;\n \"If thou art glad, then surely I am glad\u2014\n \u2014And yet, we thought our evil time had passed;\n Surely the days grew not so wholly bad!\n Ah me, a growing hope of late I had\n Of quiet days and sweet\u2014yet shame of me,\n That I should dull the joy that gladdeth thee!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Daughter, thy bidding I will surely do,\n And go with thee; nathless bethink thee yet, p. 327\n How yesterday shall seem full long ago,\n When with to-morrow's dew the grass is wet.\n Child, I will pray thee never to forget\n This face of mine, this heart that loves thee well;\n Let distance though, and time that sweet tale tell!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She cried: \u201cAh, wilt thou have me lonelier\n Than the Gods made me? As day passes day\n The life of fear and hope that happened here,\n Most oft no doubt shall seem full far away;\n Yet be thou nigh, to be a scarce-felt stay\n To my mazed steps, a green close fresh and sweet,\n On life's hard way, to cool my weary feet.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"I will not take my bidding back; go thou,\n And get thee ready swiftly to be gone.\n The sails are flapping in the haven now,\n And we depart before the clay is done.\n O be thou glad, thou shalt not be alone!\n Canst thou not see e\u2019en now how this my face\n I softened to thee by the happy days?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He said no more, but eyed her lovingly,\n Upon his worn old face a trembling smile;\n Then turned him toward the house with one great sigh,\n And she was left alone a little while,\n Her restlessness with strange dreams to beguile,\n And though bright things those dreams did nowise lack,\n Yet oft oft-conquered cold fear would come back. p. 328\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But midst her thoughts from out the house there came\n Her father and her mother, and she gazed\n Upon the twain with something more than shame,\n As she beheld what timid eyes and mazed\n The goodwife to her queenly beauty raised,\n And how with patient mien her father went,\n On all her motions lovingly intent.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then to the market-place passed on the three,\n And though her grey gown only covered her,\n Her mother bore some shreds of bravery\n And clad her father was in scarlet gear,\n Worn now and wretched, that he once did bear\n When long ago at his rich board he sat,\n And all that land's best cheer the glad guests gat.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And as they stood there now, the simple folk,\n Grown used unto the wonder of the tale,\n Warmed with new joy, and into shouts outbroke;\n The goodwife flushed, but the old man turned pale,\n And gazed round helpless, his limbs seemed to fail\n As though age pressed him sore; while Rhodope\n Grew softer-eyed and spake majestically;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Fain am I, lords, that we depart straightway;\n For if a dream this is, I long full sore\n E\u2019en in my dream to feel the wind-blown spray,\n And hear the well-timed rolling of the oar,\n And ere dark night behold the lessening shore p. 329\n From your dreamed dromond's deck\u2014so pass we on,\n If e\u2019en so far as this my dream hath won.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then said they: \"All is ready in due wise,\n E\u2019en as thou bad\u2019st, the ship has been warped round\n And rideth toward the sea, and sacrifice\n Has there been done, and goodly gifts been found\n For this land's folk: but wilt thou not be crowned\n And clad in fair array of gold, that we\n May show thy beauty meetly to the sea?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Nay,\" said she, \"in this lowly guise of mine\n Let the king first behold me standing there\n The Gods' gift, that his heart may more incline\n Towards mine, if thus he note me strange and fair,\n Grown up a queen, yet with no wondrous care\n For what I should be. Make no more delay,\n Low looks the sun upon the watery way.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So seaward now with these all people moved\n Rejoicing, though belike they scarce knew why,\n And Rhodope \u2019gan feel herself beloved;\n And as the south wind breathed deliciously\n O\u2019er flowers and sweet things, and the sun did die\n Amid soft golden haze, her loveliness\n She \u2019gan to feel, and all the world to bless.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In her slim hand her father's hand she took,\n Her red lips trembled, and her eyes were wet p. 330\n With tears that fell not; but the old man shook\n As one who sees death; then a hand she set\n Upon his shoulder, and said, \"Long years yet,\n With loving eyes these eyes shalt thou behold\n Among the glimmer of fair things and gold.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But nought he answered, and they came full soon\n To where the gangway ran from out the ship\n On to the black pier; white yet was the moon,\n And the sun's rim nigh in the sea did dip,\n And from the place where sky met ocean's lip,\n Ran a great road of gold across the sea,\n Where played the unquiet waves impatiently.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now was her foot upon the gangway plank;\n Now over the green depths and oars blood-red\n Fluttered her gown, and from the low green bank\n Above the sea a cry came, as her head\n Gleamed golden in the way that westward led,\n And on the deck her feet were, but no more\n She looked back then unto the peopled shore.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But with one hand held back as if to take\n Her father's hand, she went on toward the prow;\n And there she stood, and watched the billows break,\n Nor noted when men back the ropes did throw,\n And scarce knew when the sea fell from the bow\n And the ship moved, nor turned, till, cold and grey,\n And darkling fast, the waste before her lay. p. 331\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But at the last she turned on well-poised feet,\n And gazed adown the twilight decks, and heard\n The freshening wind about the cordage beat,\n The master's and rough helmsman's answering word,\n And all alone she felt now, and afeard,\n In spite of all the folk who stood around,\n Unto her lightest service straightly bound.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A terror seized her; down the deck she passed,\n Her gown driven close against her, and her hair\n Loosed by the driving wind; till at the mast\n She stayed, and muttered: \"Ah, he is not there!\n And I, where am I? the dream seemed so fair\n When it began; but now am I alone,\n Waiting, I know not what, till life be done.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Trembling she drew her hand across her brow\n As one who wakes; and then, grown calm once more,\n She went with steady feet unto the prow,\n And ran the line of reverent faces o\u2019er\n With anxious eyes, and stayed at last before\n The ancient grey-haired man, the chief of these,\n And spoke amid the washing of the seas:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Where is my father? I am fain to speak\n Of many things with him, we two alone;\n For mid these winds and waves my heart grows weak\n With memory of the days for ever gone.\"\n The moon was bright, the swaying lanterns shone p. 332\n On her pale face, and fluttering garment's hem\u2014\n \u2014Each stared on each, and silence was on them.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And midst that silence a new lonely pain,\n Like sundering death, smote on her, till he spoke:\n \u201cO queen, what sayst thou? the old man was fain,\n He told us, still to dwell among his folk;\n He said, thou knew\u2019st he might not bear the yoke\n Of strange eyes watching him\u2014what say I more,\n Surely thou know\u2019st he never left the shore?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"I deemed him wise and true: but give command\n If so thou willest; certes no great thing\n It is, in two hours space to make the land,\n Though much the land-wind now is freshening.\"\n One slender hand to the rough shroud did cling,\n As her limbs failed; she raised the other one,\n And moved her lips to bid the thing be done:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet no words came, she stood upright again,\n And dropped her hand and said, \"I strive with change,\n I strive with death the Gods\u2019 toy, but in vain:\n No otherwise than thus might all be strange.\"\n Therewith she turned, her unseeing eyes did range\n Wide o\u2019er the tumbling waste of waters grey,\n As swift the black ship went upon her way.\nDARK night upon the cold still eve did fall\n Amidst the tale, and now the fair guest-hall\n Was lit with nought but firelight, as they sat,\n Silent, soft-hearted, and compassionate\n Midst their own flickering shadows; yet too old\n They were, to talk about the story told,\n Too old, and knew too well what each man thought,\n And feared in any pleasure to be caught,\n That hid a snare of sadness at its end.\n So slowly did the tale's sweet sorrow blend\n With their own quenched desires, and past regret,\n And dear-loved follies they might scarce forget;\n That in these latter days indeed, were grown\n Nought but a tale, for others to bemoan,\n Who had not learned with sorrow's self to deal;\n Who had no need an hour of bliss to steal,\n With trembling hands, from the dark treasury\n Of time long unregarded, long gone by,\n Where cobwebbed o\u2019er amid the dust it lay.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But these stole not, nor strove, from day to day\n Enough of pleasure to their lot did fall\n To stay them, that on death they should not call\n With change or rest to end the weary tide;\n Though careless now, his coming did they bide. p. 334\nSCARCE aught was left of autumn-tide to die\n When next they met; the north-east wind rushed by\n The house anigh the woods, wherein they were,\n And in the oaks and hollies might they hear\n Its roar grow greater with the dying morn:\n A hard grey day it was, yet scarce forlorn,\n Since scarcely aught of tender or of sweet\n Was left the year, its ruggedness to meet.\n Bare was the country-side of work and folk:\n There from the hill-side stead straight out the smoke,\n Over the climbing row of corn-ricks, sailed;\n And few folk stirred; a blue-clad horseman hailed\n A shepherd from the white way, little heard\n \u2019Twixt ridge and hollow by November seared;\n The ferryman stared long adown the road\n That led unto his tottering thatched abode,\n Ere the dark speck into a goodwife turned;\n The smouldering weed-heap by the garden burned;\n Side-long the plough beside the field-gate lay,\n With no one nigh to. scare the birds away,\n That twittered mid the scanty wisps of straw.\n So round the fire the ancient folk did draw,\n And, mid the day-dreams, that hung round about,\n Rather beheld the wild-wood dim with doubt,\n And twilight of the cloudy leafless tide, p. 335\n Than the scant-peopled fallow country-side,\n Whose fields the woods hemmed in: the world grew old\n Unto their eyes, and lacked house, field, and fold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then spake a wanderer; \"Long the tale I tell\n Though in few years the deeds thereof befell,\n In a strange land and barren, far removed\n From southlands and their bliss; yet folk beloved,\n Yearning for love, striving \u2019gainst change and hate,\n Strong, uncomplaining, yet compassionate,\n Have dwelt therein\u2014a strange and awful land\n Where folk, as in the hollow of God's hand,\n Beset with fearful things yet fearing nought,\n Have lived their lives and wondrous deeds have wrought\u2014\n Wild deeds, as other men. Yet these at least,\n If death from but a rough and homely feast\n Drew them away, lived not so full of care, .\n They and their sons, but that their lives did bear\n The fruit of deeds recorded. Bear with me\n If I shall seem to hold this history\n Of a few freemen of the farthest north,\n A handful, as a thing of too much worth;\n Because this Iceland was my fathers' home,\n Nay, somewhat of the selfsame stock they come\n As these I tell of: know withal that we\n Have ever deemed this tale as true to be,\n As though those very Dwellers in Laxdale, p. 336\n Risen from the dead had told us their own tale;\n Who for the rest while yet they dwelt on earth\n Wearied no God with prayers for more of mirth\n Than dying men have; nor were ill-content\n Because no God beside their sorrow went\n Turning to flowery sward the rock-strewn way,\n Weakness to strength, or darkness into day.\n Therefore, no marvels hath my tale to tell,\n But deals with such things as men know too well;\n All that I have herein your hearts to move,\n Is but the seed and fruit of bitter love.\"","title":"The Earthly Paradise (September-November): November: The Story of Rhodope","type":"page"}