ADMETUS. HEROES. In rich Virginian woods, The scarlet creeper reddens over graves, Among the solemn trees enlooped with vines; Heroic spirits haunt the solitudes,— The noble souls of half a million braves, Amid the murmurous pines. Ah! who is left behind, Earnest and eloquent, sincere and strong, To consecrate their memories with words Not all unmeet? with fitting dirge and song To chant a requiem purer than the wind, And sweeter than the birds? Here, though all seems at peace, The placid, measureless sky serenely fair, The laughter of the breeze among the leaves, The bars of sunlight slanting through the trees, The reckless wild-flowers blooming everywhere, The grasses' delicate sheaves,— Nathless each breeze that blows, Each tree that trembles to its leafy head With nervous life, revives within our mind, Tender as flowers of May, the thoughts of those Who lie beneath the living beauty, dead,— Beneath the sunshine, blind. For brave dead soldiers, these: Blessings and tears of aching thankfulness, Soft flowers for the graves in wreaths enwove, The odorous lilac of dear memories, The heroic blossoms of the wilderness, And the rich rose of love. But who has sung their praise, Not less illustrious, who are living yet? Armies of heroes, satisfied to pass Calmly, serenely from the whole world's gaze, And cheerfully accept, without regret, Their old life as it was, With all its petty pain, Its irritating littleness and care; They who have scaled the mountain, with content Sublime, descend to live upon the plain; Steadfast as though they breathed the mountain-air Still, wheresoe'er they went. They who were brave to act, And rich enough their action to forget; Who, having filled their day with chivalry, Withdraw and keep their simpleness intact, And all unconscious add more lustre yet Unto their victory. On the broad Western plains Their patriarchal life they live anew; Hunters as mighty as the men of old, Or harvesting the plenteous, yellow grains, Gathering ripe vintage of dusk bunches blue, Or working mines of gold; Or toiling in the town, Armed against hindrance, weariness, defeat, With dauntless purpose not to serve or yield, And calm, defiant, they struggle on, As sturdy and as valiant in the street, As in the camp and field. And those condemned to live, Maimed, helpless, lingering still through suffering years, May they not envy now the restful sleep Of the dear fellow-martyrs they survive? Not o'er the dead, but over these, your tears, O brothers, ye may weep! New England fields I see, The lovely, cultured landscape, waving grain, Wide haughty rivers, and pale, English skies. And lo! a farmer ploughing busily, Who lifts a swart face, looks upon the plain,— I see, in his frank eyes, The hero's soul appear. Thus in the common fields and streets they stand; The light that on the past and distant gleams, They cast upon the present and the near, With antique virtues from some mystic land, Of knightly deeds and dreams. ADMETUS. To my friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson. He who could beard the lion in his lair, To bind him for a girl, and tame the boar, And drive these beasts before his chariot, Might wed Alcestis. For her low brows' sake, Her hairs' soft undulations of warm gold, Her eyes clear color and pure virgin mouth, Though many would draw bow or shiver spear, Yet none dared meet the intolerable eye, Or lipless tusk, of lion or boar. This heard Admetus, King of Thessaly, Whose broad, fat pastures spread their ample fields Down to the sheer edge of Amphrysus' stream, Who laughed, disdainful, at the father's pride, That set such value on one milk-faced child. One morning, as he rode alone and passed Through the green twilight of Thessalian woods, Between two pendulous branches interlocked, As through an open casement, he descried A goddess, as he deemed,—in truth a maid. On a low bank she fondled tenderly A favorite hound, her floral face inclined above the glossy, graceful animal, That pressed his snout against her cheek and gazed Wistfully, with his keen, sagacious eyes. One arm with lax embrace the neck enwreathed, With polished roundness near the sleek, gray skin. Admetus, fixed with wonder, dare not pass, Intrusive on her holy innocence And sacred girlhood, but his fretful steed Snuffed the air, and champed and pawed the ground; And hearing this, the maiden raised her head. No let or hindrance then might stop the king, Once having looked upon those supreme eyes. The drooping boughs disparting, forth he sped, And then drew in his steed, to ask the path, Like a lost traveller in an alien land. Although each river-cloven vale, with streams Arrowy glancing to the blue Aegean, Each hallowed mountain, the abode of gods, Pelion and Ossa fringed with haunted groves, The height, spring-crowned, of dedicate Olympus, And pleasant sun-fed vineyards, were to him Familiar as his own face in the stream, Nathless he paused and asked the maid what path Might lead him from the forest. She replied, But still he tarried, and with sportsman's praise Admired the hound and stooped to stroke its head, And asked her if she hunted. Nay, not she: Her father Pelias hunted in these woods, Where there was royal game. He knew her now,— Alcestis,—and he left her with due thanks: No goddess, but a mortal, to be won By such a simple feat as driving boars And lions to his chariot. What was that To him who saw the boar of Calydon, The sacred boar of Artemis, at bay In the broad stagnant marsh, and sent his darts In its tough, quivering flank, and saw its death, Stung by sure arrows of Arcadian nymph? To river-pastures of his flocks and herds Admetus rode, where sweet-breathed cattle grazed, Heifers and goats and kids, and foolish sheep Dotted cool, spacious meadows with bent heads, And necks' soft wool broken in yellow flakes, Nibbling sharp-toothed the rich, thick-growing blades. One herdsman kept the innumerable droves— A boy yet, young as immortality— In listless posture on a vine-grown rock. Around him huddled kids and sheep that left The mother's udder for his nighest grass, Which sprouted with fresh verdure where he sat. And yet dull neighboring rustics never guessed A god had been among them till he went, Although with him they acted as he willed, Renouncing shepherds' silly pranks and quips, Because his very presence made them grave. Amphryssius, after their translucent stream, They called him, but Admetus knew his name,— Hyperion, god of sun and song and silver speech, Condemned to serve a mortal for his sin To Zeus in sending violent darts of death, A raising hand irreverent, against The one-eyed forgers of the thunderbolt. For shepherd's crook he held the living rod Of twisted serpents, later Hermes' wand. Him sought the king, discovering soon hard by, Idle as one in nowise bound to time, Watching the restless grasses blow and wave, The sparkle of the sun upon the stream, Regretting nothing, living with the hour: For him, who had his light and song within, Was naught that did not shine, and all things sang. Admetus prayed for his celestial aid To win Alcestis, which the god vouchsafed, Granting with smiles, as grant all gods, who smite With stern hand, sparing not for piteousness, But give their gifts in gladness. Thus the king Led with loose rein the beasts as tame as kine, And townsfolk thronged within the city streets, As round a god; and mothers showed their babes, And maidens loved the crowned intrepid youth, And men aloud worship, though the very god Who wrought the wonder dwelled unnoted nigh, Divinely scornful of neglect or praise. Then Pelias, seeing this would be his son, As he had vowed, called for his wife and child. With Anaxibia, Alcestis came, A warm flush spreading o'er her eager face In looking on the rider of the woods, And knowing him her suitor and the king. Admetus won Alcestis thus to wife, And these with mated hearts and mutual love Lived a life blameless, beautiful: the king Ordaining justice in the gates; the queen, With grateful offerings to the household gods, Wise with the wisdom of the pure in heart. One child she bore,—Eumelus,—and he throve. Yet none the less because they sacrificed The firstlings of their flocks and fruits and flowers, Did trouble come; for sickness seized the king. Alcestis watched with many-handed love, But unavailing service, for he lay With languid limbs, despite his ancient strength Of sinew, and his skill with spear and sword. His mother came, Clymene, and with her His father, Pheres: his unconscious child They brought him, while forlorn Alcestis sat Discouraged, with the face of desolation. The jealous gods would bind his mouth from speech, And smite his vigorous frame with impotence; And ruin with bitter ashes, worms, and dust, The beauty of his crowned, exalted head. He knew her presence,—soon he would not know, Nor feel her hand in his lie warm and close, Nor care if she were near him any more. Exhausted with long vigils, thus the queen Held hard and grievous thoughts, till heavy sleep Possessed her weary sense, and she dreamed. And even in her dream her trouble lived, For she was praying in a barren field To all the gods for help, when came across The waste of air and land, from distant skies, A spiritual voice divinely clear, Whose unimaginable sweetness thrilled Her aching heart with tremor of strange joy: "Arise, Alcestis, cast away white fear. A god dwells with you: seek, and you shall find." Then quiet satisfaction filled her soul Almost akin to gladness, and she woke. Weak as the dead, Admetus lay there still; But she, superb with confidence, arose, And passed beyond the mourners' curious eyes, Seeking Amphryssius in the meadow-lands. She found him with the godlike mien of one Who, roused, awakens unto deeds divine: "I come, Hyperion, with incessant tears, To crave the life of my dear lord the king. Pity me, for I see the future years Widowed and laden with disastrous days. And ye, the gods, will miss him when the fires Upon your shrines, unfed, neglected die. Who will pour large libations in your names, And sacrifice with generous piety? Silence and apathy will greet you there Where once a splendid spirit offered praise. Grant me this boon divine, and I will beat With prayer at morning's gates, before they ope Unto thy silver-hoofed and flame-eyed steeds. Answer ere yet the irremeable stream Be crossed: answer, O god, and save!" She ceased, With full throat salt with tears, and looked on him, And with a sudden cry of awe fell prone, For, lo! he was transmuted to a god; The supreme aureole radiant round his brow, Divine refulgences on his face,—his eyes Awful with splendor, and his august head With blinding brilliance crowned by vivid flame. Then in a voice that charmed the listening air: "Woman, arise! I have no influence On Death, who is the servant of the Fates. Howbeit for thy passion and thy prayer, The grace of thy fair womanhood and youth, Thus godlike will I intercede for thee, And sue the insatiate sisters for this life. Yet hope not blindly: loth are these to change Their purpose; neither will they freely give, But haggling lend or sell: perchance the price Will counterveil the boon. Consider this. Now rise and look upon me." And she rose, But by her stood no godhead bathed in light, But young Amphryssius, herdsman to the king, Benignly smiling. Fleet as thought, the god Fled from the glittering earth to blackest depths Of Tartarus; and none might say he sped On wings ambrosial, or with feet as swift As scouring hail, or airy chariot Borne by the flame-breathing steeds ethereal; But with a motion inconceivable Departed and was there. Before the throne Of Ades, first he hailed the long-sought queen, Stolen with violent hands from grassy fields And delicate airs of sunlit Sicily, Pensive, gold-haired, but innocent-eyed no more As when she laughing plucked the daffodils, But grave as on fulfilling a strange doom. And low at Ades' feet, wrapped in grim murk And darkness thick, the three gray women sat, Loose-robed and chapleted with wool and flowers, Purple narcissi round their horrid hair. Intent upon her task, the first one held The tender thread that at a touch would snap; The second weaving it with warp and woof Into strange textures, some stained dark and foul, Some sanguine-colored, and some black as night, And rare ones white, or with a golden thread Running throughout the web: the farthest hag With glistening scissors cut her sisters' work. To these Hyperion, but they never ceased, Nor raised their eyes, till with soft, moderate tones, But by their powerful persuasiveness Commanding all to listen and obey, He spoke, and all hell heard, and these three looked And waited his request: I come, a god, At pure mortal queen's request, who sues For life renewed unto her dying lord, Admetus; and I also pray this prayer." "Then cease, for when hath Fate been moved by prayer?" "But strength and upright heart should serve with you." "I ask ye not forever to forbear, But spare a while,—a moment unto us, A lifetime unto men." "The Fates swerve not For supplications, like the pliant gods. Have they not willed a life's thread should be cut? With them the will is changeless as the deed. O men! ye have not learned in all the past, Desires are barren and tears yield no fruit. How long will ye besiege the thrones of gods With lamentations? When lagged Death for all Your timorous shirking? We work not like you, Delaying and relenting, purposeless, With unenduring issues; but our deeds, Forever interchained and interlocked, Complete each other and explain themselves." "Ye will a life: then why not any life?" "What care we for the king? He is not worth These many words; indeed, we love not speech. We care not if he live, or lose such life As men are greedy for,—filled full with hate, Sins beneath scorn, and only lit by dreams, Or one sane moment, or a useless hope,— Lasting how long?—the space between the green And fading yellow of the grass they tread." But he withdrawing not: "Will any life Suffice ye for Admetus?" "Yea," the crones Three times repeated. "We know no such names As king or queen or slave: we want but life. Begone, and vex us in our work no more." With broken blessings, inarticulate joy And tears, Alcestis thanked Hyperion, And worshipped. Then he gently: "Who will die, So that the king may live?" And she: "You ask? Nay, who will live when life clasps hands with shame, And death with honor? Lo, you are a god; You cannot know the highest joy of life,— To leave it when 't is worthier to die. His parents, kinsmen, courtiers, subjects, slaves,— For love of him myself would die, were none Found ready; but what Greek would stand to see A woman glorified, and falter? Once, And only once, the gods will do this thing In all the ages: such a man themselves Delight to honor,—holy, temperate, chaste, With reverence for his daemon and his god." Thus she triumphant to they very door Of King Admetus' chamber. All there saw Her ill-timed gladness with much wonderment. But she: "No longer mourn! The king is saved: The Fates will spare him. Lift your voice in praise; Sing paeans to Apollo; crown your brows With laurel; offer thankful sacrifice!" "O Queen, what mean these foolish words misplaced? And what an hour is this to thank the Fates?" "Thrice blessed be the gods!—for God himself Has sued for me,—they are not stern and deaf. Cry, and they answer: commune with your soul, And they send counsel: weep with rainy grief, And these will sweeten you your bitterest tears. On one condition King Admetus lives, And ye, on hearing, will lament no more, Each emulous to save." Then—for she spake Assured, as having heard an oracle— They asked: "What deed of ours may serve the king?" "The Fates accept another life for his, And one of you may die." Smiling, she ceased. But silence answered her. "What! do ye thrust Your arrows in your hearts beneath your cloaks, Dying like Greeks, too proud to own the pang? This ask I not. In all the populous land But one need suffer for immortal praise. The generous Fates have sent no pestilence, Famine, nor war: it is as though they gave Freely, and only make the boon more rich By such slight payment. Now a people mourns, And ye may change the grief to jubilee, Filling the cities with a pleasant sound. But as for me, what faltering words can tell My joy, in extreme sharpness kin to pain? A monument you have within my heart, Wreathed with kind love and dear remembrances; And I will pray for you before I crave Pardon and pity for myself from God. Your name will be the highest in the land, Oftenest, fondest on my grateful lips, After the name of him you die to save. What! silent still? Since when has virtue grown Less beautiful than indolence and ease? Is death more terrible, more hateworthy, More bitter than dishonor? Will ye live On shame? Chew and find sweet its poisoned fruits? What sons will ye bring forth—mean-souled like you, Or, like your parents, brave—to blush like girls, And say,'Our fathers were afraid to die!' Ye will not dare to raise heroic eyes Unto the eyes of aliens. In the streets Will women and young children point at you Scornfully, and the sun will find you shamed, And night refuse to shield you. What a life Is this ye spin and fashion for yourselves! And what new tortures of suspense and doubt Will death invent for such as are afraid! Acastus, thou my brother, in the field Foremost, who greeted me with sanguine hands From ruddy battle with a conqueror's face,— These honors wilt thou blot with infamy? Nay, thou hast won no honors: a mere girl Would do as much as thou at such a time, In clamorous battle,'midst tumultuous sounds, Neighing of war-steeds, shouts of sharp command, Snapping of shivered spears; for all are brave When all men look to them expectantly; But he is truly brave who faces death Within his chamber, at a sudden call, At night, when no man sees,—content to die When life can serve no longer those he loves." Then thus Acastus: "Sister, I fear not Death, nor the empty darkness of the grave, And hold my life but as a little thing, Subject unto my people's call, and Fate. But if 't is little, no greater is the king's; And though my heart bleeds sorely, I recall Astydamia, who thus would mourn for me. We are not cowards, we youth of Thessaly, And Thessaly—yea, all Greece—knoweth it; Nor will we brook the name from even you, Albeit a queen, and uttering these wild words Through your umwonted sorrow." Then she knew That he stood firm, and turning from him, cried To the king's parents: "Are ye deaf with grief, Pheres, Clymene? Ye can save your son, Yet rather stand and weep with barren tears. O, shame! to think that such gray, reverend hairs Should cover such unvenerable heads! What would ye lose?—a remnant of mere life, A few slight raveled threads, and give him years To fill with glory. Who, when he is gone, Will call you gentlest names this side of heaven,— Father and mother? Knew ye not this man Ere he was royal,—a poor, helpless child, Crownless and kingdomless? One birth alone Sufficeth not, Clymene: once again You must give life with travail and strong pain. Has he not lived to outstrip your swift hopes? What mother can refuse a second birth To such a son? But ye denying him, What after-offering may appease the gods? What joy outweigh the grief of this one day? What clamor drown the hours' myriad tongues, Crying, 'Your son, your son? where is your son, Unnatural mother, timid foolish man?" Then Pheres gravely: "These are graceless words From you our daughter. Life is always life, And death comes soon enough to such as we. We twain are old and weak, have served our time, And made our sacrifices. Let the young Arise now in their turn and save the king." "O gods! look on your creatures! do ye see? And seeing, have ye patience? Smite them all, Unsparing, with dishonorable death. Vile slaves! a woman teaches you to die. Intrepid, with exalted steadfast soul, Scorn in my heart, and love unutterable, I yield the Fates my life, and like a god Command them to revere that sacred head. Thus kiss I thrice the dear, blind, holy eyes, And bid them see; and thrice I kiss this brow, And thus unfasten I the pale, proud lips With fruitful kissings, bringing love and life, And without fear or any pang, I breathe My soul in him." "Alcestis, I awake. I hear, I hear—unspeak thy reckless words! For, lo! thy life-blood tingles in my veins, And streameth through my body like new wine. Behold! thy spirit dedicate revives My pulse, and through thy sacrifice I breathe. Thy lips are bloodless: kiss me not again. Ashen thy cheeks, faded thy flower-like hands. O woman! perfect in thy womanhood And in thy wifehood, I adjure thee now As mother, by the love thou bearest our child, In this thy hour of passion and of love, Of sacrifice and sorrow, to unsay Thy words sublime!" "I die that thou mayest live." "And deemest thou that I accept the boon, Craven, like these my subjects? Lo, my queen, Is life itself a lovely thing,—bare life? And empty breath a thing desirable? Or is it rather happiness and love That make it precious to its inmost core? When these are lost, are there not swords in Greece, And flame and poison, deadly waves and plagues? No man has ever lacked these things and gone Unsatisfied. It is not these the gods refuse (Nay, never clutch my sleeve and raise thy lip),— Not these I seek; but I will stab myself, Poison my life and burn my flesh, with words, And save or follow thee. Lo! hearken now: I bid the gods take back their loathsome gifts: O spurn them, and I scorn them, and I hate. Will they prove deaf to this as to my prayers? With tongue reviling, blasphemous, I curse, With mouth polluted from deliberate heart. Dishonored be their names, scorned be their priests, Ruined their altars, mocked their oracles! It is Admetus, King of Thessaly, Defaming thus: annihilate him, gods! So that his queen, who worships you, may live." He paused as one expectant; but no bolt From the insulted heavens answered him, But awful silence followed. Then a hand, A boyish hand, upon his shoulder fell, And turning, he beheld his shepherd boy, Not wrathful, but divinely pitiful, Who spake in tender, thrilling tones: "The gods Cannot recall their gifts. Blaspheme them not: Bow down and worship rather. Shall he curse Who sees not, and who hears not,—neither knows Nor understands? Nay, thou shalt bless and pray,— Pray, for the pure heart purged by prayer, divines And seeth when the bolder eyes are blind. Worship and wonder,—these befit a man At every hour; and mayhap will the gods Yet work a miracle for knees that bend And hands that supplicate." Then all they knew A sudden sense of awe, and bowed their heads Beneath the stripling's gaze: Admetus fell, Crushed by that gentle touch, and cried aloud: "Pardon and pity! I am hard beset." ______________________ There waited at the doorway of the king One grim and ghastly, shadowy, horrible, Bearing the likeness of a king himself, Erect as one who serveth not,—upon His head a crown, within his fleshless hands A sceptre,—monstrous, winged, intolerable. To him a stranger coming 'neath the trees, Which slid down flakes of light, now on his hair, Close-curled, now on his bared and brawny chest, Now on his flexile, vine-like veined limbs, With iron network of strong muscle thewed, And godlike brows and proud mouth unrelaxed. Firm was his step; no superfluity Of indolent flesh impeded this man's strength. Slender and supple every perfect limb, Beautiful with the glory of a man. No weapons bare he, neither shield: his hands Folded upon his breast, his movements free Of all incumbrance. When his mighty strides Had brought him nigh the waiting one, he paused: "Whose palace this? and who art thou, grim shade?" "The palace of the King of Thessaly, And my name is not strange unto thine ears; For who hath told men that I wait for them, The one sure thing on earth? Yet all they know, Unasking and yet answered. I am Death, The only secret that the gods reveal. But who are thou who darest question me?" "Alcides; and that thing I dare not do Hath found no name. Whom here awaitest thou?" "Alcestis, Queen of Thessaly,—a queen Who wooed me as the bridegroom woos the bride, For her life sacrificed will save her lord Admetus, as the Fates decreed. I wait Impatient, eager; and I enter soon, With darkening wing, invisible, a god, And kiss her lips, and kiss her throbbing heart, And then the tenderest hands can do no more Than close her eyes and wipe her cold, white brow, Inurn her ashes and strew flowers above." "This woman is a god, a hero, Death. In this her sacrifice I see a soul Luminous, starry: earth can spare her not: It is not rich enough in purity To lose this paragon. Save her, O Death! Thou surely art more gentle than the Fates, Yet these have spared her lord, and never meant That she should suffer, and that this their grace, Beautiful, royal on one side, should turn Sudden and show a fearful, fatal face." "Nay, have they not? O fond and foolish man, Naught comes unlooked for, unforeseen by them. Doubt when they favor thee, though thou mayest laugh When they have scourged thee with an iron scourge. Behold, their smile is deadlier than their sting, And every boon of theirs is double-faced. Yea, I am gentler unto ye than these: I slay relentless, but when have I mocked With poisoned gifts, and generous hands that smite Under the flowers? for my name is Truth. Were this fair queen more fair, more pure, more chaste, I would not spare her for your wildest prayer Nor her best virtue. Is the earth's mouth full? Is the grave satisfied? Discrown me then, For life is lord, and men may mock the gods With immortality." "I sue no more, But I command thee spare this woman's life, Or wrestle with Alcides." "Wrestle with thee, Thou puny boy!" And Death laughed loud, and swelled To monstrous bulk, fierce-eyed, with outstretched wings, And lightnings round his brow; but grave and firm, Strong as a tower, Alcides waited him, And these began to wrestle, and a cloud Impenetrable fell, and all was dark. ______________________ "Farewell, Admetus and my little son, Eumelus,—O these clinging baby hands! Thy loss is bitter, for no chance, no fame, No wealth of love, can ever compensate for a dead mother. Thou, O king, fulfill The double duty: love him with my love, And make him bold to wrestle, shiver spears, Noble and manly, Grecian to the bone; And tell him that his mother spake with gods. Farewell, farewell! Mine eyes are growing blind: The darkness gathers. O my heart, my heart!" No sound made answer save the cries of grief From all the mourners, and the suppliance Of strick'n Admetus: "O have mercy, gods! O gods, have mercy, mercy upon us!" Then from the dying woman's couch again Her voice was heard, but with strange sudden tones: "Lo, I awake—the light comes back to me. What miracle is this?" And thunders shook The air, and clouds of mighty darkness fell, And the earth trembled, and weird, horrid sounds Were heard of rushing wings and fleeing feet, And groans; and all were silent, dumb with awe, Saving the king, who paused not in his prayer: "Have mercy, gods!" and then again, "O gods, Have mercy!" Through the open casement poured Bright floods of sunny light; the air was soft, Clear, delicate as though a summer storm Had passed away; and those there standing saw, Afar upon the plain, Death fleeing thence, And at the doorway, weary, well-nigh spent, Alcides, flushed with victory. TANNHAUSER. To my mother. May, 1870. The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours, At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight, Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard, Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed With apprehension and rare utterance Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light, And large repose, the peaceful valley lay, In the late splendor of the afternoon, And level sunbeams lit the serious face Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west, Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs, Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms, That in the distance loomed as soft and fair And purple as their shadows on the grass. The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air, Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in, Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light. The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home, In the near meadow, reverently knelt, And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast, Whispering his "Ave Mary," as he heard The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight, Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course. "Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!" He murmured bitterly beneath his breath. "Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the gods! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt? The world is governed by one cruel God, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living gods, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul's vision and her hope To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven. Yea, I am lost already,—even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts. O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?" He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering gods. With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs. Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side; Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the rifts Of their huge crags, and made small darker spots Upon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horse Stumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones, Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly fared Through the weird, perilous pass. As darkness waxed, And an oppressive mystery enwrapped The roadstead and the rocks, Sir Tannhauser Fancied he saw upon the mountain-side The fluttering of white raiment. With a sense Of wild joy and horror, he gave pause, For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat, Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought, That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff. The white thing seemed descending,—now a cloud It looked, and now a rag of drifted mist, Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous, And now an apparition clad in white, Shapely and real,—then he lost it quite, Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face. As with wide eyes he stood, he was aware Of a strange splendor at his very side, A presence and a majesty so great, That ere he saw, he felt it was divine. He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell prone, In speechless adoration, on the earth, Before the matchless goddess, who appeared With no less freshness of immortal youth Than when first risen from foam of Paphian seas. He heard delicious strains of melody, Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained, Float in the air, while in the distance rang, Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones, The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs, Clattering in sudden freedom down the pass. A voice that made all music dissonance Then thrilled through heart and flesh of that prone knight, Triumphantly: "The gods need but appear, And their usurped thrones are theirs again!" Then tenderly: "Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise; Worship me not, for I desire thy love. Look on me, follow me, for I am fain Of thy fair, human face." He rose and looked, Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul. Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted, Rained in a glittering shower to the ground, And cast forth lustre. Round her zone was clasped The scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold, Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars. She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth; Her eyes, her slightest gesture would suffice To bind all men in blissful slavery. She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side, With feet that left their print in flowers divine,— Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth, Impurpled amaranth and asphodel, Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scents Richer than all the roses of mid-June. The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixed Upon her brightness, as she lightly leapt From crag to crag, with flying auburn hair, Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on, Higher and higher up the haunted cliff. At last amidst a grove of pines she paused, Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste, Delight, and wonder. Then upon his hand She placed her own, and all his blood at once Tingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek, At the supreme caress; but the mere touch Infused fresh life, and when she looked at him With gracious tenderness, he felt himself Strong suddenly to bear the blinding light Of those great eyes. "Dear knight," she murmured low, "For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,— To grace my weary home in banishment?" His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke, In tones abrupt that startled his own ears With their strange harshness; but with thanks profuse She guided him, still holding his cold hand In her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave, Whence a rare glory issued, and a smell Of spice and roses, frankincense and balm. They entering stood within a marble hall, With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther end The goddess led him to a spiral flight Of stairs, descending always 'midst black gloom Into the very bowels of the earth. Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way, The knight's feet touching not the solid stair, But sliding down as in a vexing dream, Blind, feeling but that hand divine that still Empowered him to walk on empty air. Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze, In vast palace filled with reveling folk. Cunningly pictured on the ivory walls Were rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green, And all the summer landscape's various pomp. The precious canopy aloft was carved In semblance of the pleached forest trees, Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethrough A light pierced, more resplendent than the day. O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floor Of burnished metal, fretted and embossed With all the marvelous story of her birth Painted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts, And carved by heavenly artists,—crystal seas, And long-haired Nereids in their pearly shells, And all the wonder of her lucent limbs Sphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throne She took her seat, the knight beside her still, Singing on couches of fresh asphodel, And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers came In glittering phalanx to adore their queen. Beautiful girls, with shining delicate heads, Crested with living jewels, fanned the air With flickering wings from naked shoulders soft. Then with preluding low, a thousand harps, And citherns, and strange nameless instruments, Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies, And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds, With changing lustres like a summer sea. Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled, And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw, But of strong, stalwart men like him were none. He gazed thereon bewitched, until the hand Of Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell again Upon his own, and roused him from his trance. He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloud Auroral, flaming as at sunrising, Arose from nothing, floating over them In luminous folds, like that vermilion mist Penciled upon the throne, and as it waxed In density and brightness, all the throng Of festal dancers, less and less distinct, Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream, And vanished altogether; and these twain, Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud, Now with a glory inconceivable, Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each. All hours came laden with their own delights In that enchanted place, wherein Time Knew no divisions harsh of night and day, But light was always, and desire of sleep Was satisfied at once with slumber soft, Desire of food with magical repast, By unseen hands on golden tables spread. But these the knight accepted like a god, All less was lost in that excess of joy, The crowning marvel of her love for him, Assuring him of his divinity. Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appeared Like the vague trouble of a transient dream,— The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughts Beyond his own control, the constant thirst For something fairer than his life, more real Than airy revelations of his Muse. Here was his soul's desire satisfied. All nobler passions died; his lyre he flung Recklessly forth, with vows to dedicate His being to herself. She knew and seized The moment of her mastery, and conveyed The lyre beyond his sight and memory. With blandishment divine she changed for him, Each hour, her mood; a very woman now, Fantastic, voluble, affectionate, And jealous of the vague, unbodied air, Exacting, penitent, and pacified, All in a breath. And often she appeared Majestic with celestial wrath, with eyes That shot forth fire, and a heavy brow, Portentous as the lowering front of heaven, When the reverberant, sullen thunder rolls Among the echoing clouds. Thus she denounced Her ancient, fickle worshippers, who left Her altars desecrate, her fires unfed, Her name forgotten. "But I reign, I reign!" She would shrill forth, triumphant; "yea, I reign. Men name me not, but worship me unnamed, Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts; Not with bent knees and empty breath of words, But with devoted sacrifice of lives." Then melting in a moment, she would weep Ambrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile, Accusing her own base ingratitude, In craving worship, when she had his heart, Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin, Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glance Of lovely helplessness, entreated him Not to desert her, like the faithless world, For these unbeautiful and barbarous gods, Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove, Until he took from her the heavy curse Of immortality. With closer vows, The knight then sealed his worship and forswore All other aims and deeds to serve her cause. Thus passed unnoted seven barren years Of reckless passion and voluptuous sloth, Undignified by any lofty thought In his degraded mind, that sometime was Endowed with noble capability. From revelry to revelry he passed, Craving more pungent pleasure momently, And new intoxications, and each hour The siren goddess answered his desires. Once when she left him with a weary sense Of utter lassitude, he sat alone, And, raising listless eyes, he saw himself In a great burnished mirror, wrought about With cunning imagery of twisted vines. He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes, For his who in the flush of manhood rode Among the cliffs, and followed up the crags The flying temptress; and there fell on him A horror of her beauty, a disgust For his degenerate and corrupted life, With irresistible, intense desire, To feel the breath of heaven on his face. Then as Fate willed, who rules above the gods, He saw, within the glass, behind him glide The form of Venus. Certain of her power, She had laid by, in fond security, The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser, With surfeited regard, beheld her now, No fairer than the women of the earth, Whom with serenity and health he left, Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved, She knew her destiny; and when he turned, He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thus An alien face, and eyes with vision true, That for long time with glamour had been blind. Hiding the hideous rage within her breast, With girlish simpleness of folded hands, Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien, She spoke: "Behold, my love, I have cast forth All magic, blandishments and sorcery, For I have dreamed a dream so terrible, That I awoke to find my pillow stained With tears as of real woe. I thought my belt, By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power, Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed, I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone, Wrinkled by every year that I have seen. Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer, So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose, And drew the glittering girdle from my zone, Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said, 'If it be this he loves, then let him go! I have no solace as a mortal hath, No hope of change or death to comfort me Through all eternity; yet he is free, Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains, Bound in perpetual imprisonment.' Tell me my vision was a baseless dream; See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,— In pity, look on me, before thy word Condemns me to immortal misery!" As she looked down, the infernal influence Worked on his soul again; for she was fair Beyond imagination, and her brow Seemed luminous with high self-sacrifice. He bent and kissed her head, warm, shining, soft, With its close-curling gold, and love revived. But ere he spoke, he heard the distant sound Of one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleam Of violent anger flashed across the face Upraised to his in feigned simplicity And singleness of purpose. Then he sprang, Well-nigh a god himself, with sudden strength to vanquish and resist, beyond her reach, Crying, "My old Muse calls me, and I hear! Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream; I will be gone from this accursed hall!" Then she, too, rose, dilating over him, And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs, Unto her girdle, and her head appeared Refulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully: "Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now, To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape? ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE: Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool." But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes, Against that blinding lustre, heeded not Her thundered words, and cried in sharp despair, "Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat, The very bases of the hall gave way, The roof was rived, the goddess disappeared, And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff, Amidst the morning sunshine and fresh air.