As if by force, and for the city’s sake,

  Three damsels chosen by lot for that same end,

  And bind their hands, and with them straightly wend

  Unto the temple of Diana; there

  The priest should lead them to the altar fair

  And midst old songs should raise aloft the knife

  As if to take from each her well-loved life;

  Therewith the King, with a great company,

  Through the great door would come and respite cry,

  And offer ransom: a great golden horn,

  A silver image of a flowering thorn,

  Three white harts with their antlers gilt with gold,

  A silk gown for a huntress, every fold

  Thick wrought with gold and gems; then to and fro

  An ancient song was sung, to bid men know

  That of such things the goddess had no need;

  Yet in the end the maidens all were freed,

  The harts slain in their place, the dainty things

  Hung o’er the altar from fair silver rings,

  And then, midst semblance of festivity

  And joyful songs, the solemn day went by.

  All this they told Bellerophon, and said

  Moreover, that the white-foot well-girt Maid

  These gifts must have, because a merry rout

  Of feasters, knowing neither fear nor doubt,

  With love and riot did her grove defile

  In the old days; and therefore nought more vile

  Than three fair maids’ lives would she have at first,

  And with that burden was the city cursed

  For many years; “But in these latter days,

  She to whom we to-morrow give great praise,

  Will take these signs of our humility,

  And let the folk in other wise go free.”

  So on the morn joyful the city was,

  Nor did men look for aught to come to pass

  More than in other years; but lo, a change!

  For there betid great portents dire and strange.

  For first, when in the car of cedar-wood,

  Decked with green boughs, the golden goddess stood,

  And the white oxen strained at yoke and trace,

  In no wise might they move her from the place,

  Though they had drawn well twenty times that weight.

  So when the priests had come in all their state

  To pray her, and no lighter she would grow,

  They said she did it for that folk might know

  She fain would have a shrine built o’er the way,

  And that all rites should there be wrought that day.

  So was it done, and now all things seemed well

  A little space, and nought there was to tell

  Until the King had brought the ransom due,

  And the loosed bonds men from the maidens drew;

  Then fell the third maid down before the King,

  And cried from foaming mouth a shameful thing

  Unmeet for maids; then from the frightened folk

  That filled the street a clamour there outbroke,

  And some cried out to slay the woman there,

  And some to burn her wanton body fair,

  And some to cast her forth into the sea

  And purge the town of that iniquity.

  But when the King had bidden lead her forth,

  And try if she indeed were one of worth,

  Or if her maidenhood were nought and vain,

  The tossing street grew somewhat stilled again,

  And o’er the sinking tumult called a priest:

  “Abide, let see if she will take the beast

  E’en as her wont is! but if so it be

  That of our old crime she has memory

  And threatens us with something strange and new,

  Yet mid your fear do all in order due,

  Nor make two faults of one, that ye may bear

  A double punishment from year to year.”

  Then were the harts brought forth; the first one stood

  Fearless as he were lonely in the wood,

  While to his throat drew nigh the sharp-edged knife,

  Nor did the second strive to keep his life;

  But when the third and biggest drew anigh,

  He tossed his gilded antlers angrily

  And smote his foot against the marble floor,

  While from his throat came forth a low hoarse roar;

  And as the girl whose office was to smite

  His drawn-back throat came forth confused and white,

  And raised a wavering hand aloft, then he

  His branching horns from the priests’ hands shook free,

  And as the affrighted girl fell back, turned round,

  And gathered up his limbs for one last bound;

  But even therewith a soldier from the band

  That stood about the King raised up his hand,

  And in the beast’s heart thrust his well-steeled spear,

  And as he smote, like one who knew no fear,

  He cried aloud:

  “O foolish Artemis,

  Men’s ways thou knowest not, putting from thee this,

  The gift once offered! think no more of us

  That we will pray with eyes all piteous

  Before thee, or give gifts from trembling hands;

  But get thee gone straightway to other lands,

  Where folk will yet abide thee — for we know

  How long a way it is for thee to go

  From heaven to earth, how far thine arms will reach,

  And no more now thy good-will do beseech!”

  He stooped, and from the beast his weapon drew,

  Then turned and passed his fear-struck fellows through,

  Or ere the swords from out the scabbards came;

  And so folk say, that no man knew his name

  Or whence he was.

  But from the concourse broke

  In pale and murmuring knots the frightened folk;

  And if the priests had heart yet for a word

  Of comfort, neither so had they been heard;

  But they slunk off too, more perchance afraid

  Because they were the nigher to the Maid.

  Now had the morn begun with cloud and sun;

  But, little heeded there of any one

  Mid that beginning of fear’s agony,

  Slowly the clouds were swallowing up the sky;

  So ere the sun had wholly sunk in them,

  Great drops fell slowly from a black cloud’s hem

  Amid that troubled folk, who felt as though

  They from that place of terror needs must go,

  Yet, going, scarce could feel their unnerved feet;

  Then gleamed a lightning-flash adown the street,

  The clattering thunder, made ten times more loud,

  Because of dread, hushed all the murmuring crowd,

  And brought a many trembling to their knees,

  And some set off a-running toward the quays,

  That they might go they knew not where or why;

  But therewithal such rain fell from the sky,

  As though some river of the upper world

  Had burst his banks, the furious south-wind hurled

  The folk’s wet raiment upward as it tore

  Along the ground, and the white rain-spray bore

  Seaward along: yet so it came to pass

  That no more terror from the sky there was;

  The wind grew steady, but from roof of grey

  Fast fell the rain upon the ruined day,

  Till trembling still, and shivering with the cold,

  Home went all folk, and soon the Maid of gold

  Stood lonely in the rain-beat way and drear,

  Amid drenched cloths and garlands, once made fair

  To make the day more joyous. — You had thought

  That now already had the Maiden brought

  Upon the city all the dreaded ill,

  So lifeless was it grown and lone and still.

  But now to tell of Prince Bellerophon;

  Upon that day so chanced it he had gone

  Unto the hills, in chase the hours to spend

  Until the tide of feasting should have end;

  For since he was an alien in that place,

  Beside the King he might not show his face

  Unto the goddess; so that morn he stood

  Upon a hill’s top that from out a wood

  Rose bare; thence looking east, he saw the sky

  Grow black and blacker as the rain drew nigh,

  And deemed it good to go, but, as he turned,

  Afar a jagged streak of lightning burned,

  Paling the sunshine that the dark woods lit,

  And rocks about him; through his mind did flit

  Something like fear thereat; and still he gazed

  Out to the east, but not again there blazed

  That fire from out the sky. Now was he come

  To such a place, that thence fair field, and home

  Of toiling men, and wood, and broad bright stream

  Lay down below, and many a thing did gleam

  Beneath the zenith’s brightness, brighter yet

  For horror of the far clouds’ stormful threat,

  And clear the air was with the coming rain —

  So then as he would turn his head again,

  Out in the far horizon like a spark

  Some flame broke out against the storm-clouds dark,

  And seemed to grow beneath his eyes; he stood,

  And, gazing, saw across the day’s dark mood

  Another and another, nigh the first;

  Then, as the distant thunder’s threatening cursed

  The country-side, and trembling beast and man,

  The spark-like three flames into one thread ran,

  That shot aloft amidst, yet further spread

  At either end; and to himself he said:

  “Ah, is it so? what tidings then draw near?

  In warlike lands soon should I look to hear

  Of armies marching on through war and wrack;

  Good will it be in haste to get me back

  Unto the foolish folk that trust in me.”

  Then did he mount and ride off hastily

  Adown the slopes; but not so fast withal

  But that upon him did the full storm fall

  In no long time; and so through pelting rain

  And howling wind he reached the gate again;

  And so unto the palace went, to hear

  From pale lips tales of all that day of fear;

  And when about those bale-fires seen afar

  He spake, and bade make ready for some war,

  Folk listened coldly; for they thought to see

  Some strange, portentous sign of misery

  Set in the heavens upon the morrow morn,

  And the old tale of war seemed well outworn.

  Yet ere the night beyond its midst was worn,

  Another tale unto their ears was borne

  That cast into their hearts the ancient fear,

  And the Gods’ threatening easier seemed to bear

  Than this that fell on them.

  At dead of night

  The grey clouds drew apart, the moon shone bright

  Over a dripping world; and some folk slept

  Wearied by fear, if some their tired limbs kept

  Ready for flight; then clattering horse-hooves came

  To the east gate, and one called out the name

  Of him who had the guard; so said the man

  That forth he went into the moonlight wan,

  And saw nought but the tall black-shadowed trees

  Waving their dripping boughs in the light breeze,

  So went back scared. But in a while again

  The galloping of horse did he hear plain,

  But he and his sat fast and spake no word,

  And scarce fhr fear might they hold spear or sword.

  Nigher the sound came, till it reached the gate;

  Then as the warders did abide their fate,

  Thinking to see the gates burst open wide,

  And death in some strange shape betwixt them ride,

  The gates were smitten on with hasty blows,

  And breathless cries of wild entreaty rose

  Up through the night:

  “Open, O open, ye

  Who sit in peace, and let in misery!

  Do ye not see the red sky at our backs?

  And how the earth all quiet places lacks,

  And shakes beneath the myriad hooves of steel?

  Open, ah open, as ye hope for weal!

  For ships lie at your quays with sails all bent

  And oars made ready — Open, we are spent!

  Do ye not hear them? Open, Lycian men!”

  With staring eyes still sat the warders when

  That cry they heard, and knew not what should be;

  And the great gates of oak, clenched mightily

  With iron end-long and athwart, seemed fair

  Unto their eyes; but as they cowered there

  A clash of steel again their dull ears heard

  That came from out the town, and more afeard

  They grew, if it might be; then torches came

  Into the place of guard, and mid their flame

  A shining one in arms, with wrathful eyes

  ‘Neath his bright helm, who cried:

  “Why in this guise

  Sit ye, O Lycians? Get each to his home!

  For know that yesterday three keels did come

  Laden with spindles and all women’s gear,

  And none need lack e’en such a garment here

  As well befits him — lutes the Gods have sent,

  And combs and golden pins, to that intent

  That ye may all be merry — what say I?

  Ye may be turned to women verily,

  Because the Gods are wise, and thriftless deed

  Mislikes them, and forsooth is little need

  That thews and muscles go with suchlike hearts

  As ye have, while all wise and manly parts

  Are played by girls, weak-handed, soft, and white.

  “Get to the tower-top, look ye through the night,

  And ye shall see the cleared sky made all red

  And murky ‘neath the moon with signs of dread;

  Come forth and meet them! What! the Gods ye fear,

  And what they threaten? Life to you is dear?

  Ah, fools, that think not how to all on earth

  The very death is born along with birth;

  That some men are but dying twenty years,

  That some men on this sick-bed of all tears

  Must lie for forty years, for eighty some,

  Or ever they may reach their peaceful home!

  Ah, give to birth the name of death, and wait

  With brave hearts rather for the stroke of fate,

  And hope, since ye gained death when ye were born,

  That ye from death by dying may be torn —

  — Unless ye deem that if this day ye live,

  The next a deathless life to you will give.

  “Come, then! these few behind me may ye see

  Who think it worse to live on wretchedly

  Than cast the die amidst of noble strife

  For honoured death or fearless glorious life —

  — Yea, yea! and is the foe upon us then?”

  For even as he spake they heard again

  The smiting on the door, and as the sword

  Leapt from the exile’s sheath with his last word,

  Again the cry, made dim by the thick door,

  Smote on their ears:

  “Lycians, are ye no more

  Within your guarded town? A voice we heard

  As if of one who bade us not be feared —

  He was a god belike, and no more men

  Dwell in your town: ah, will ye open then?

  Do ye not hear that noise upon the wind,

  And do ye think that ye fair days shall find

  If our red blood shall stain your ancient gate?”

  Then, as if these were maddened by some fate,

  Down rained the blows upon the unyielding oak,

  And the scared guards shrank back behind the folk

  Bellerophon brought with him; therewith he

  Sheathed his bright blade, and shot back mightily

  The weight of iron bolt, and therewithal

  Stepped aside swiftly; back the gates did fall

  Upon their hinges, and a wretched throng

  Stood, horse and foot, the glimmering spears among,

  Cowering and breathless, and with eyes that turned

  Over their shoulders, as though still they yearned

  To see no more the quiet moonlit way

  Beyond the open gates. But now, when they

  Were ordered somewhat, and the gates again

  Shut fast, Bellerophon cried out:

  “O men,

  Full fast ye fled, meseems! and who were these,

  That made you tremble at the wet-leaved trees

  And quivering acres of the bearded rye?”

  Then spake an old man: “Fair sir, manfully

  Thou speakest, and thy words are full of hope;

  And yet with these no power thou hast to cope,

  Who for each rye-head raise a spear aloft

  Who know as much of fear, or pity soft,

  As do the elm-trees; whom the Gods drive on

  Until the world once happy they have won

  And made it desert, peopled by the ghosts

  Of those who happy died before their hosts;

  Or else lived on in fear and misery

  A little while before God let them die —

  Devils are these; but what scorn shall we get

  When thou hast heard that these are women! — yet

  Keep thou thy scorn till thou art face to face

  With these a minute ere the fearful chase.”

  Loud laughed Bellerophon, and said, “See ye,

  O tremblers, what foreknowledge was in me,

  When I said e’en now ye should change your parts

  With women! Throw the gates wide, fearful hearts,

  And let us out, that with a word or two

  All that is needed herein we may do!”

  The old man said, “Laugh, then, while yet your eyes

  Are still unblasted with the miseries

  These days have brought on us! — Lo, if I tell

  Half of the dreadful things that there befell,

  Ye will not listen, — if I tell the shape

 

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