And men there were who said that they had heard

  The sound of lions roaring, and, afeard,

  Had watched all-armed, with barred doors, through the night.

  Then as men’s faces paled with sore affright,

  Unto the doom-hall came more folk, and more,

  And tales of such-like things they still told o’er,

  Of fresh deaths and of burnings, and still nought

  They had to tell of what this fear had wrought.

  Now ye shall know that Prince Bellerophon

  In a swift ship had sailed a while agone

  ‘Gainst a Tyrrhenian water-thief, who then

  Wrought great scathe on the peaceful merchantmen

  That sought those waters; so the King sent forth

  Another captain that he held of worth,

  And eighty men with him in company,

  Well armed, the truth of all these things to see.

  At sunset from the town did they depart,

  And none among them seemed to lack good heart,

  And wise they were in war; but ere the sun

  Through all the hours of the next day had run,

  One ancient brave man only of the band

  Came back again, no weapon in his hand,

  No shield upon his neck — but carrying now

  His son’s dead body on his saddle-bow,

  A lad of eighteen winters, fair and strong;

  But when men asked what thing had wrought that wrong,

  Nought might he answer, but with bowed-down head

  Still sat beside the armed body dead,

  As one who had no memory; but when folk

  Searched the youth’s body for the deadly stroke,

  No wound at all might they find anywhere;

  So still the old man sat with hopeless stare,

  And though he seemed right hale and sound of limb,

  And ate and drank what things were brought to him,

  Yet speechless did he live for three more days,

  Then to the silent land he went his ways.

  Now a great terror on the city fell,

  Even as that whereof we had to tell

  In the past summer; day by day there came

  Folk fleeing to the gates, who thought no shame

  To tell how dreams had scared them, or some sign

  In earth, or sky, or milk, or bread, or wine,

  Or in some beast late given unto a god;

  And on the beaten ways once more there trod

  The feet of homeless folk; the country-side

  Grew waste and bare of men-folk far and wide;

  And whatso armèd men the King did send,

  But little space upon their way did wend

  Ere they turned back in terror; nigher drew

  The belt of desolation, yet none knew

  What thing of ill it was that wrought this woe,

  More than the man who first the tale did show.

  Meanwhile men’s eyes unto the sea were turned

  Watching, until the Sea-hawk’s image burned

  Upon the prow Bellerophon that bore,

  And his folk cast the hawser to the shore,

  And long it seemed to them did he delay.

  Yet since all things have end, upon a day

  The Sea-hawk’s great sweeps beat the water green,

  And her long pennon down the wind was seen,

  As nigh the noontide toward the quays she passed,

  With sound of horns and singing; on the mast

  Hung the sea-robbers’ fair shields, lip to lip,

  And high above the clamour of the ship,

  Out from the topmast, a great pennoned spear

  The terror of the seas aloft did bear,

  The head of him who made the chapmen quake.

  New hope did that triumphant music wake

  Within men’s hearts, as now with joyous shout

  The bay-crowned shipmen shot the gangway out

  Unto the shore, and once more as a god

  The wise Bellerophon among them trod,

  As to the Father’s house he took his way,

  The tenth of all the spoil therein to lay.

  But when he came into the greatest square

  Where was the temple, a great throng was there,

  And on the high steps of the doom-hall’s door,

  A clear-voiced, gold-clad herald stood, before

  A row of spears; and now he cried aloud,

  Over the raised heads of the listening crowd:

  “Hearken, O Lycians! King Jobates saith;

  Upon us lies the shadow of a death

  I may not deal with; old now am I grown,

  And at the best am but one man alone;

  But since such men there are, as yet may hope

  With this vague unseen death of man to cope,

  He whereby such a happy end is wrought

  Shall nowise labour utterly for nought

  As at my hands; lest to the gods we seem

  To hold too fast to wealth, lest all men deem

  We are base-born and vile: so know hereby,

  That to the man who ends this woe will I

  Give my fair daughter named Philonoë,

  And this land’s rule and wealth to share with me.

  And if it be so that he may not take

  The maiden, let him give her for my sake

  To whom he will; or if that may not be,

  A noble ransom shall he have of me

  And be content. — May the gods save us yet,

  And in fair peace these fears may we forget!”

  He ended, and the folk about the place,

  Seeing the shipmen come, on these did gaze,

  And in their eyes were mingled hope and doubt;

  But at the last the shadow of a shout

  They raised for Prince Bellerophon; and he

  Stood at the door one moment silently,

  And wondered; for he knew nought of the things

  That there had fallen while the robber-kings

  He chased o’er ridge and furrow of the sea;

  Because folk deemed ill-omened it would be

  To tell thereof ere all things due were paid

  Unto the Father, and the fair tenth laid

  Before his altar. Yet he could not fail

  To see that in some wise the folk must ail;

  Such haggard eyes, such feverish faces were

  About him; yea, the clamour and the cheer

  That greeted him were eager with the pain

  Of men who needs must hope yet once again

  Before they fall into the jaws of death.

  So as the herald spake, he held his breath,

  His heart beat fast, and in his eyes there burned

  The light of coming triumph, as he turned

  Unto a street that led from out the place,

  And up the steep way saw the changeless grace

  Of the King’s palace, and the sun thereon,

  That calmly o’er its walls of marble shone,

  For all the feverish fears of men who die:

  One moment thus he stood, and smiled, then high

  Lifted his sword, and led the spear-wood through

  The temple-door and toward the altar drew.

  BUT when all rites to Jove were duly done,

  Unto the King went up Bellerophon,

  To tell him of his fare upon the sea;

  So in the chamber named of porphyry

  He found Jobates pacing to and fro,

  As on the day when first he bade him go

  And win the Solymi.

  “O King,” he said,

  “All hail to thee! the water-thief is dead,

  His keel makes sport for children of the sea.”

  “And I, Bellerophon, have news for thee,

  And see thou to it! The gods love so well

  The fair wide world, that fear and death and hell

  In this small land will they shut up for aye.

  And thou — when thou hadst luck to get away,

  Why must thou needs come back here, to abide

  In very hell? I say the world is wide,

  And thou art young; far better had it been,

  When o’er the sea-thief’s bulwarks first were seen

  Men’s wrathful eyes, the war-shout to have stayed;

  Then might ye twain, strong in each other’s aid,

  Have won some fair town and good peace therein:

  For here with us stout heart but death shall win.”

  Now on a table nigh the King’s right hand

  Bellerophon beheld a casket stand

  That well he knew; thereby a letter lay,

  Whose face he had not seen before that day,

  And as he noted it a half-smile came

  Across his face, for a look like to shame

  Was in the King’s eyes as they met his own.

  Cheerly he spake: “O King, I have been thrown

  Into thine hands, and with this city fair

  Both weal and woe have I good will to share.

  Young am I certes, yet have ever heard

  That whether men live careless or afeard

  Death reaches them; of endless heaven and hell

  Strange stories oft have I heard people tell;

  Yet knew I no man yet that knows the road

  Which leadeth either to the blest abode

  Or to the land of pain. Not overmuch

  I fear or hope the gates of these to touch —

  Unless we twain be such men verily

  As on the earth make heaven and hell to be;

  And if these countries are upon the earth,

  Then death shall end the land of heaven and mirth,

  And death shall end the land of hell and pain.

  Yea, and say all these tales be not in vain,

  Within mine hand do I hold hope — within

  This gold-wrought scabbard — such a life to win

  As will not let hope fall off utterly,

  Until such time is come that I must die

  And no more need it. But the time goes fast;

  Into mine ears a tale the townsmen cast

  With eager words, almost before my feet

  The common earth without Jove’s fane could meet;

  I heard thy herald too say mighty things —

  How sayest thou about the oaths of kings?”

  The King’s eyes glistened: “O Corinthian,”

  He said, “if there be such a twice-cursed man

  As rules the foolish folk and punisheth,

  And yet must breathe out lies with every breath,

  Let him be thrice cursed, let the Gods make nought

  Of all his prayers when he in need is caught!”

  “What sayest thou,” then said Bellerophon,

  “If a man sweareth first to such an one,

  And then to such another, and the twain

  Cannot be kept, but one still maketh vain

  The other?”

  Then the King cast down his eyes:

  “What sayest thou, my son? What mysteries

  Lie in these words of thine? Go forth and break

  This chain of ours, and then return to take

  Thy due reward — oft meseems so it is

  That these our woes are forged to make thy bliss.”

  Then laughed Bellerophon aloud, and said,

  “The Gods are kind to mortals, by my head!

  But so much do they love me certainly

  That more than once I shall not have to die;

  And I myself do love myself so well

  That each night still a pleasant tale shall tell

  Of the bright morn to come to me. But thou,

  Think of thy first vow and thy second vow!

  For so it is that I may come again

  Despite of all: and what wilt thou do then?

  Ponder meanwhile if from ill deeds can come

  Good hap to bless thee and thy kingly home!”

  And even with that last word was he gone,

  And the King, left bewildered and alone,

  Sat down, and strove to think, and said at last:

  “Good were it if the next three months were passed;

  I should be merrier, nigher though I were

  Unto that end of all that all men fear.”

  Then sent he for his captain of the guard,

  And said to him, “Now must thou e’en keep ward

  Closer than heretofore upon the gates,

  Because we know not now what thing awaits

  The city, and Bellerophon will go

  The truth of all these wondrous things to know:

  So let none pass unquestioned; nay, bring here

  Whatever man bears tales of woe or fear

  Into the city; fain would I know all —

  Nay, speak, what thinkest thou is like to fall?”

  “Belike,” the man said, “he will come again,

  And with my ancient master o’er us reign;

  E’en as I came in did he pass me by,

  And nowise seemed he one about to die.”

  “Nay,” said the King, “thou speak’st but of a man;

  Shall he prevail o’er what made corpses wan

  Of many a stout war-hardened company?”

  “Methinks, O King, that such might even be,”

  The captain said; “he is not of our blood;

  He goes to meet the beast in other mood

  Than has been seen among us, nor know I

  Whether to name him mere man that shall die,

  Or half a god; for death he feareth not,

  Yet in his heart desire of life is hot;

  Life he scorns not, yet will his laughter rise

  At hearkening to our timorous miseries,

  And all the self-wrought woes of restless men.”

  “Ah,” said the King, “belike thou lov’st him then?”

  “Nay, for I fear him, King,” the captain said,

  “And easier should I live if he were dead;

  Besides, it seems to me our woes began

  When down our streets first passed this godlike man,

  And all our fears are puppets unto him;

  That he may brighter show by our being dim,

  The Gods have wrought them as it seems to me.”

  “What wouldst thou do then that the man might be

  A glorious memory to the Lycian folk,

  A god who from their shoulders raised a yoke

  Dreadful to bear; then, as he came, so went,

  When he had fully wrought out his intent?”

  “Nay, King, what say’st thou? Hast thou then forgot

  Whereto he goes this eve? Nay, hear’st thou not

  His horse-hooves’ ring e’en now upon the street?

  Look out! look out! thine eyes his eyes shall meet,

  And see the sun upon his armour bright!

  Yet the gold sunset brings about the night,

  And the red dawn is quenched in dull grey rain.”

  Then swiftly did the King a window gain,

  And down below beheld Bellerophon,

  And certes round about his head there shone

  A glory from the west. Then the King cried:

  “O great Corinthian, happy mayst thou ride,

  And bring us back our peace!”

  The hero turned,

  And through his gold hair still the sunset burned,

  But half his shaded face was grey. He stayed

  His eager horse, and round his mouth there played

  A strange smile as he gazed up at the King,

  And his bright hauberk tinkled ring by ring.

  But as the King shrank back before his gaze,

  With his left hand his great sword did he raise

  A little way, then back into the sheath

  He dropped it clattering, and cried:

  “Life or death,

  But never death in life for me, O King!”

  Therewith he turned once more; with sooty wing

  The shrill swifts down the street before him swept,

  And from a doorway a tired wanderer leapt

  Up to his feet, with wondering look to gaze

  Upon that golden hope of better days.

  Then back the King turned; silent for awhile

  He sat beneath his captain’s curious smile,

  Thinking o’er all the years gone by in vain.

  At last he said:

  “Yea, certes, I were fain

  If I my life and honour so might save

  That he not half alone, but all should have.”

  “Yea,” said the captain, “good the game were then,

  For thou shouldst be the least of outcast men;

  So talk no more of honour; what say I, —

  Thou shouldst be slain in short time certainly,

  Who hast been nigh a god before to-day!

  Be merry, for much lieth in the way

  ‘Twixt him and life: and, to unsay the word

  I said before, be not too much afeard

  That he will come again. The Gods belike

  Have no great will such things as us to strike,

  But will grow weary of afflicting us;

  Because with bowed heads, and eyes piteous,

  We take their strokes. When thou sitt’st down to hear

  A minstrel’s tale, with nothing great or dear

  Wouldst thou reward him, if he thought it well

  Of wretched folk and mean a tale to tell;

  But when the godlike man is midst the swords

  He cannot ‘scape; or when the bitter words,

  That chide the Gods who made the world and life,

  Fall from the wise man worsted in the strife;

  Or when some fairest one whose fervent love

  Seems strong the world from out its curse to move,

  Sits with cold breast and empty hands before

  The hollow dreams that play about death’s door —

  When these things pierce thine ears, how art thou moved!

  Though in such wise thou lov’st not nor art loved,

  Though with weak heart thou lettest day wear day

  As bough rubs bough; though on thy feeble way

  Thou hast no eye to see what things are great,

  What things are small, that by the hand of fate

  Are laid before thee. Shall we marvel then,

  If the Gods, like in other things to men,

  (For so we deem them) think no scorn to sit

  To see the play, and weep and laugh at it,

 

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