And even therewith stalked forth into the way

  From out the thicket a huge wolf and grey,

  And stood with yellow eyes that glared on me;

  And I stared too; my folly made me see

  No wolf, but some dread deity, in him;

  But trembling as I was in every limb,

  E’en as his growling smote upon my heart,

  Tighter my fingers clutched the dreadful dart,

  I made a shift in stirrups up to stand,

  And hurled the quivering shaft from out my hand;

  Then fire seemed all around me, and a pang

  Crushed down my heart as from the thicket rang

  A dreadful cry: clear saw I, even as he

  Who meets the Father’s visage suddenly;

  No wolf was there; but o’er the herbage ran

  With staggering steps a pale and bleeding man:

  His left hand on the shaft, whose banded wood

  Over the barbs within his bosom stood,

  His right hand raised against me, as he fell

  Close to my horse-hoofs; and I knew full well

  That this my brother’s last farewell should be,

  And thus his face henceforward should I see.

  “What else? it matters not; the priest I saw,

  And armed men from the thicket toward me draw,

  With scared eyes fixed on mine; I drew my sword,

  And sat there, waiting for a dreadful word,

  Bidding the rush of many men on me;

  But they began to draw round silently,

  And ere the circle yet was fully made,

  I, who at first might even thus have stayed

  For death and curses, felt the love of life

  Stir up my heart again to hope and strife;

  Yea, even withal I saw in one bright gleam

  The latter ending of my dreaded dream.

  So, crying out, strongly my horse I spurred,

  And as he, rearing up, dashed forth, I heard

  Clatter of arms and cries, a spear flew o’er

  My bended head, a well-aimed arrow tore

  My helm therefrom; yet then a cry there came:

  ‘Take him alive, nor bring a double shame

  Upon the great house!’ Even therewith I drave

  Against a mighty man as wave meets wave;

  Back flew my right arm, and my sword was gone,

  Whirled off as from a sling the wave-worn stone,

  And my horse reeled, but he before me lay

  Rolled over, horse and man, and in my way

  Was no one now, as I spurred madly on:

  And so in no long time the race I won,

  For nobly was I mounted; and I deem

  That to the most of those men did it seem

  No evil thing that I should ‘scape away.

  “O King, I think this happed but yesterday,

  And now already do I deem that I

  Did no good deed in seeking not to die,

  For I am weary, and the Gods made me

  A luckless man among all folk to be —

  I care not if their purpose I undo,

  Since now I doubt not that the thing is so —

  — And yet am I so made, that, having life,

  Must I, though ever worsted in the strife,

  Cling to it still too much to gain the rest

  Which yet I know of all things is the best.

  Then slay me, King! to now, I pray for this,

  And no least portion of thy hoarded bliss;

  Slay me, and let the oak-boughs say their say

  Over my bones through the wild winter day!

  Slay me, for I am fain thereto to go,

  Where no talk is of either bliss or woe.”

  “Nay,” said the King, “didst thou not eat and drink

  When hunger drave thee e’ennow? yea, and shrink

  When my men’s spears were pointed at thy breast?

  Be patient; thou indeed shalt gain thy rest,

  But many a thing has got to come ere then:

  For all things die, and thou midst other men

  Shalt scarce remember thou hast had a friend.

  At worst before thou comest to the end

  Joy shalt thou have, and sorrow: wherefore come;

  With me thou well mayst have no hapless home.

  Dread not the Gods; ere long time has gone by

  Thy soul from all guilt will we purify,

  And sure no heavy curse shall lie on thee.

  Nay, did their anger cause this thing to be?

  Perchance in heaven they smile upon thy gain —

  — Lo, for a little while a burning pain,

  Then yearning unfulfilled a little space,

  Then tender memories of a well-loved face

  In quiet hours, and then — forgetfulness —

  How hadst thou rather borne, still less and less

  To love what thou hadst loved, till it became

  A thing to be forgotten, a great shame

  To think thou shouldst have wasted life thereon?

  Come then — thou spakest of a kingdom won

  Thy dream foretold, and shall not this be too,

  E’en as the dreadful deed thou cam’st to do?

  To horse! and unto Argos let us wend,

  Begin thy life afresh with me for friend.

  Wide is the world, nor yet for many a day

  Will every evil thing be cleared away

  That bringeth scathe to men within its girth;

  Surely a man like thee can win the mirth

  That cometh of the conquering of such things;

  For not in vain art thou the seed of kings

  Unless thy face belie thee — nay, no more:

  Why speak I vain words to a heart still sore

  With sudden death of happiness? yet come

  And ride with us unto our lovely home.”

  Hipponoüs to the King’s word answered nought,

  But sat there brooding o’er his dreary thought,

  Nor seemed to hear; and when the Argive men

  Brought up to him his battle-steed again,

  Scarce witting of the company or place,

  He mounted, and with set and weary face

  Rode as they bade him at the King’s left hand:

  Nor did the sight of the fair well-tilled land,

  When that they gained from out the tangled wood,

  Do aught in dealing with his mournful mood;

  Nor Argos’ walls as from the fields they rose,

  Such good things with their mightiness to close

  From chance of hurt; scarce saw he the fair gate,

  Dainty to look on, yet so huge of weight;

  Nor did the streets’ well-ordered houses draw

  His eyes to look at them; unmoved he saw

  The south-land merchants’ dusky glittering train;

  About the fountain the slim maids in vain

  Drew sleek arms from the water, or turned round

  With shaded eyes at the great horn’s hoarse sound.

  The sight of the King’s house, deemed of all men

  A wonder mid the houses kings had then,

  Drew from him but a troubled frown, as though

  Men’s toilsome folly he began to know;

  The carven Gods within the banquet-hall,

  The storied hangings that bedight the wall,

  Made his heart sick to think of labour vain,

  Telling once more the oft-told tale of pain.

  Cold in the damsel’s hand his strong hand lay,

  When to the steaming bath she led the way;

  And when another damsel brought for him

  Raiment wherein the Tyrian dye showed dim

  Amid the gold lines of the broideries,

  Her face downcast because she might not please,

  He heeded not. When to the hall he passed,

  And by the high seat he was set at last,

  Then Prœtus, smiling from his mild eyes, laid

  A hand upon his combed-out hair and said:

  “Surely for no good luck this golden hair

  Has come to Argos, and this visage fair,

  To make us, who were well enow before,

  Seem to our maids like churls at the hall-door,

  Prying about when men to war are gone

  And girls and children sit therein alone.”

  But nought Hipponoüs heeded the King’s say,

  But, turning, roughly put his hand away,

  And frowning muttered, and still further drew,

  As a man touched amid his dream might do.

  In sooth he dreamed, and dreary was his dream;

  A bitter thing the world to him did seem;

  The void of life to come he peopled now

  With folk of scornful eyes and brazen brow;

  And one by one he told the tale of days

  Wherein an envious mock was the world’s praise;

  Where good deeds brought ill fame, and truth was not,

  Hate was remembered, love was soon forgot;

  No face was good for long to look upon,

  And nought was worthy when it once was won;

  And narrow, helpless, friendless was the way,

  That led unto the last most hopeless day

  Of hopeless days, in tangled, troubled wise.

  So thought he, till the tears were in his eyes

  Since he was young yet, for hope lying dead.

  But on his fixed eyes and his weary head

  The happy King of Argos gazed awhile,

  Till from his eye faded the scornful smile

  That lingered on his lips; and now he turned,

  As one who long ago that task had learned,

  And unto the great men about him spoke,

  And was a merry king of merry folk.

  So passed the feast and all men drew to sleep,

  And e’en Hipponoüs his soul might steep

  In sweet forgetfulness a little while;

  And somewhat did the fresh young day beguile

  His treasured sorrow when he woke next morn,

  And somewhat less he felt himself forlorn:

  Nor did the King forget him, but straight sent

  Unto the priests, and told them his intent

  That this his guest should there be purified,

  Since he with honour in his house should bide.

  So was Jove’s house made ready for that thing,

  And thither amid songs and harp-playing,

  White-robed and barefoot, was Hipponoüs brought;

  Who, bough in hand, for peace the God besought.

  Noiseless the white bulls fell beneath the stroke

  Of the gold-girdled, well-taught temple folk:

  Up to the roof arose the incense-cloud;

  The chanted prayer of men, now low now loud,

  Thrilled through the brazen leaves of the great door;

  Thick lay the scattered herbs upon the floor,

  And in the midst at last the hero stood,

  Freed of the guilt of shedding kindred blood.

  And then the chief priest cried, “Bellerophon,

  With this new hapless name that thou hast won,

  Go forth, go free, be happy once again,

  But no more called Hipponoüs of men.”

  Then forth Bellerophon passed wearily,

  Although so many prayers had set him free;

  Yet somewhat was he ready to forget,

  And turn unto the days that might be yet.

  But when before King Prœtus’ throne he came,

  The King called out on him by his new name;

  “O fair Bellerophon, like me, be wise,

  And set things good to win before thine eyes,

  Lands, and renown, and riches, and a life

  That knows from day to day so much of strife

  As makes men happy, since the age of gold

  Is past, if e’er it was, as a tale told.”

  “O King,” he said, “thou sittest in full day,

  Thou strivest to put thoughts of night away;

  My life has not yet left the morning-tide,

  And I, who find the world that seemed so wide,

  Now narrowed to a little troublous space

  Where help is not, astonied turn my face

  Unto the coming hours, nor know at all

  What thing of joy or hope to me will fall.

  Be patient, King; perchance within a while

  No marfeast I may be, but learn to smile

  Even as thou, who lovest life so much.

  Who knows but grief may vanish at a touch,

  As joy does? and a long way off is death:

  Some folk seem glad even to draw their breath.”

  “Yea,” said the King, “thou hast it, for indeed

  I fain would live, like most men — but what need

  Unto a fevered man to talk of wine?

  Thy heart shall love life when it grows like mine.

  But come thou hence, and I will show to thee

  What things of price the Gods have given to me.

  Not good it is to harp on the frayed string;

  And thou, so seeing many a lovely thing,

  Mayst hide thy weary pain a little space.”

  And therewith did King Prœtus from that place

  Draw forth Bellerophon, and so when he

  In his attire was now clad royally,

  From out the precinct to his palace fair

  Did the King bring him; and he showed him there

  His stables, where the war-steeds stood arow

  Over the dusty grain: then did they go

  To armouries, where sword and spear and shield

  Hung bloodless, ready for the fated field:

  The treasury showed he, where things richly wrought

  Together into such a place were brought,

  That he who stole the oxen of a God,

  For all his godlike cunning scarce had trod

  Untaken on its floor — withal he showed

  The chamber where the broidered raiment glowed,

  Where the spice lay, and scented unguents fit

  To touch Queen Venus’ skin and brighten it;

  The ivory chairs and beds of ivory

  He showed him, and he bid his tired eyes see

  The stories wrought on brazen doors, the flowers

  And things uncouth carved on the wood of bowers;

  The painted walls that told things old and new.

  Things come to pass, and things that onward drew.

  But all the while Bellerophon’s grave face

  And soon-passed smile seemed unmeet for that place,

  And ever Prœtus felt a pang of fear,

  As if it told of times a-drawing near,

  When all the wealth and beauty that was his

  Should not avail to buy one hour of bliss.

  And sometimes when he watched his wandering eyes

  And heard his stammering speech, would there arise

  Within his heart a feeling like to hate,

  Mingled with scorn of one so crushed by fate:

  For ever must the rich man hate the poor.

  Now at the last they stood before a door

  Adorned with silver, wrought of precious wood;

  Then Prœtus laughed, and said, “O guest, thy mood

  Is hard to deal with; never any leech

  Has striven as I thy sickness’ heart to reach;

  And I grow weary and must get me aid.”

  Therewith upon the lock his hand he laid

  And pushed the door aback, and then the twain

  The daintiest of all passages did gain,

  And as betwixt its walls they passed along

  Nearer they drew unto the measured song

  Of sweet-voiced women; and the King spake then:

  “Drive fire out with fire, say all wise men;

  Here mayst thou set thine eyes on such an one,

  That thou no more wilt think of days agone,

  But days to come; for here indeed my spouse

  Watches the damsels in the weaving-house,

  Or in the pleasance sits above their play;

  And certes here upon no long-passed day,

  Unless my eyes were bleared with coming eld,

  Fair sights for such as thou have I beheld.”

  Across the exile’s brow a frown there came,

  As though his sorrow of such things thought shame,

  Yet mayhap his eye brightened as he heard

  The song grow louder and the hall they neared;

  But the King smiled, and swiftlier led him on,

  Until unto the door thereof they won.

  NOW noble was that hall and fair enow,

  Betwixt whose slim veined pillars set arow,

  And marble lattice wrought like flowering trees,

  Showed the green freshness of the summer seas,

  Made cheery by the sun and many a ship,

  Whose black bows smoothly through the waves did slip.

  In bowls whereon old stories pictured were

  The bright rose-laurels trembled in the air,

  That from the sea stole through the lattices,

  And round them hummed a few bewildered bees.

  Midmost the pavement wrought by toil of years,

  A tree was set, gold-leaved like that which bears

  Unto the maids of Hesperus strange fruit;

  A many-coloured serpent from the root

  Curled upward round the stem, and, reaching o’er

  A four-square silver laver, did outpour

  Bright glittering water from his throat of brass;

  And at each corner of the basin was

  A brazen hart who seemed at point to drink;

  And these the craftsman had not made to shrink

  Though in the midst Diana’s feet pressed down

  The forest greensward, and her girded gown

  Cleared from the brambles fell about her thigh,

  And eager showed her terrible bright eye.

  But ‘twixt the pillars and that marvellous thing

  Were scattered those they had e’en now heard sing;

  Their song had sunk now, and a murmuring voice,

  But mingled with the clicking loom’s sharp noise

  And splashing of the fountain, where a maid

  With one hand lightly on a brass deer laid,

  One clasped about her own foot, knelt to watch

  Her brazen jar the tinkling water catch;

  Withal the wool-comb’s sound within the fleece

  Began and grew, and slowly did decrease,

  And then began as still it gat new food;

 

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