Complete Works of William Morris, page 475
Made for the gate of the bulwark half open,
And stood there and stared at the swallowing sea,
Then turned, and uncertain went wandering back sternward,
And sat down on the deck by the side of the helmsman,
Wrapt in dreams of despair; so I bade them turn shoreward,
And slowly he rose as the side grated stoutly
‘Gainst the stones of the quay and they cast forth the hawser. —
Unkingly, unhappy, he went his ways homeward.
A COUNCILLOR
But by other ways yet had thy wisdom to travel;
How else did ye work for the winning him peace?
MASTER OLIVER
We bade gather the knights for the goodliest tilting,
There the ladies went lightly in glorious array;
In the old arms we armed him whose dints well he knew
That the night dew had dulled and the sea salt had sullied:
On the old roan yet sturdy we set him astride;
So he stretched forth his hand to lay hold of the spear
Neither laughing nor frowning, as lightly his wont was
When the knights are awaiting the voice of the trumpet.
It awoke, and back beaten from barrier to barrier
Was caught up by knights’ cries, by the cry of the king. —
— Such a cry as red Mars in the Council-room window
May awake with some noon when the last horn is winded,
And the bones of the world are dashed grinding together.
So it seemed to my heart, and a horror came o’er me,
As the spears met, and splinters flew high o’er the field,
And I saw the king stay when his course was at swiftest,
His horse straining hard on the bit, and he standing
Stiff and stark in his stirrups, his spear held by the midmost,
His helm cast a-back, his teeth set hard together;
E’en as one might, who, riding to heaven, feels round him
The devils unseen: then he raised up the spear
As to cast it away, but therewith failed his fury,
He dropped it, and faintly sank back in the saddle,
And, turning his horse from the press and the turmoil,
Came sighing to me, and sore grieving I took him
And led him away, while the lists were fallen silent
As a fight in a dream that the light breaketh through. —
To the tune of the clinking of his fight-honoured armour
Unkingly, unhappy, he went his ways homeward.
A COUNCILLOR
What thing worse than the worst in the budget yet lieth?
MASTER OLIVER
To the high court we brought him, and bade him to hearken
The pleading of his people, and pass sentence on evil.
His face changed with great pain, and his brow grew all furrowed,
As a grim tale was told there of the griefs of the lowly;
Till he took up the word, mid the trembling of tyrants,
As his calm voice and cold wrought death on ill doers —
— E’en so might King Minos in marble there carven
Mid old dreaming of Crete give doom on the dead,
When the world and its deeds are dead too and buried. —
But lo, as I looked, his clenched hands were loosened,
His lips grew all soft, and his eyes were beholding
Strange things we beheld not about and above him.
So he sat for a while, and then swept his robe round him
And arose and departed, not heeding his people,
The strange looks, the peering, the rustle and whisper;
But or ever he gained the gate that gave streetward,
Dull were his eyes grown, his feet were grown heavy,
His lips crooned complaining, as onward he stumbled; —
Unhappy, unkingly, he went his ways homeward.
A COUNCILLOR
Is all striving over then, fair Master Oliver?
MASTER OLIVER
All mine, lords, for ever! help who may help henceforth
I am but helpless: too surely meseemeth
He seeth me not, and knoweth no more
Me that have loved him. Woe worth the while, Pharamond,
That men should love aught, love always as I loved!
Mother and sister and the sweetling that scorned me,
The wind of the autumn-tide over them sweepeth,
All are departed, but this one, the dear one —
I should die or he died and be no more alone,
But God’s hatred hangs round me, and the life and the glory
That grew with my waning life fade now before it,
And leaving no pity depart through the void.
A COUNCILLOR
This is a sight full sorry to see
These tears of an elder! But soft now, one cometh.
MASTER OLIVER
The feet of the king: will ye speak or begone?
A NORTHERN LORD
I will speak at the least, whoever keeps silence,
For well it may be that the voice of a stranger
Shall break through his dreaming better than thine;
And lo now a word in my mouth is a-coming,
That the king well may hearken: how sayst thou, fair master,
Whose name now I mind not, wilt thou have me essay it?
MASTER OLIVER
Try whatso thou wilt, things may not be worser. [Enter KING.
Behold, how he cometh weighed down by his woe!
(To the KING)
All hail, lord and master! wilt thou hearken a little
These lords high in honour whose hearts are full heavy
Because thy heart sickeneth and knoweth no joy? —
(To the COUNCILLORS)
Ah, see you! all silent, his eyes set and dreary,
His lips moving a little — how may I behold it?
THE NORTHERN LORD
May I speak, king? dost hearken? many matters I have
To deal with or death. I have honoured thee duly
Down in the north there; a great name I have held thee;
Rough hand in the field, ready righter of wrong,
Reckless of danger, but recking of pity.
But now — is it false what the chapmen have told us,
And are thy fair robes all thou hast of a king?
Is it bragging and lies, that thou beardless and tender
Weptst not when they brought thy slain father before thee,
Trembledst not when the leaguer that lay round thy city
Made a light for these windows, a noise for thy pillow?
Is it lies what men told us of thy singing and laughter
As thou layst in thy lair fled away from lost battle?
Is it lies how ye met in the depths of the mountains,
And a handful rushed down and made nought of an army?
Those tales of your luck, like the tide at its turning,
Trusty and sure howso slowly it cometh,
Are they lies? Is it lies of wide lands in the world,
How they sent thee great men to lie low at thy footstool
In five years thenceforward, and thou still a youth?
Are they lies, these fair tidings, or what see thy lords here —
Some love-sick girl’s brother caught up by that sickness,
As one street beggar catches the pest from his neighbour?
KING PHARAMOND
What words are these of lies and love-sickness?
Why am I lonely among all this brawling?
O foster-father, is all faith departed
That this hateful face should be staring upon me?
THE NORTHERN LORD
Lo, now thou awakest; so tell me in what wise
I shall wend back again: set a word in my mouth
To meet the folks’ murmur, and give heart to the heavy;
For there man speaks to man that thy measure is full,
And thy five-years-old kingdom is falling asunder.
[KING draws his sword.
Yea, yea, a fair token thy sword were to send them;
Thou dost well to draw it; (KING brandishes his sword over the
lord’s head, as if to strike him): soft sound is its whistle;
Strike then, O king, for my wars are well over,
And dull is the way my feet tread to the grave!
KING PHARAMOND (sheathing his sword)
Man, if ye have waked me, I bid you be wary
Lest my sword yet should reach you; ye wot in your northland
What hatred he winneth who waketh the shipman
From the sweet rest of death mid the welter of waves;
So with us may it fare; though I know thee full faithful,
Bold in field and in council, most fit for a king.
— Bear with me. I pray you that to none may be meted
Such a measure of pain as my soul is oppressed with.
Depart all for a little, till my spirit grows lighter,
Then come ye with tidings, and hold we fair council,
That my countries may know they have yet got a king.
[Exeunt all but OLIVER and KING.
Come, my foster-father, ere thy visage fade from me,
Come with me mid the flowers some opening to find
In the clouds that cling round me; if thou canst remember
Thine old lovingkindness when I was a king.
THE MUSIC
LOVE IS ENOUGH; it grew up without heeding
In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure
And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure
Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding,
As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.
And what do ye say then? — that Spring long departed
Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers;
— That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers;
We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted
Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.
Nay, Spring was o’er happy and knew not the reason,
And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended
In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;
But this is the harvest and the garnering season,
And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.
It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding,
Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure,
Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure;
There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding,
But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure.
Enter before the curtain LOVE clad as an image-maker.
LOVE
How mighty and how fierce a king is here
The stayer of falling folks, the bane of fear!
Fair life he liveth, ruling passing well,
Disdaining praise of Heaven and hate of Hell;
And yet how goodly to us Great in Heaven
Are such as he, the waning world that leaven!
How well it were that such should never die!
How well it were at least that memory
Of such should live, as live their glorious deeds!
— But which of all the Gods think ye it needs
To shape the mist of Rumour’s wavering breath
Into a golden dream that fears no death?
Red Mars belike? — since through his field is thrust
The polished plough-share o’er the helmets’ rust! —
Apollo’s beauty? — surely eld shall spare
Smooth skin, and flashing eyes, and crispy hair! —
Nay, Jove himself? — the pride that holds the low
Apart, despised, to mighty tales must grow! —
Or Pallas? — for the world that knoweth nought,
By that great wisdom to the wicket brought,
Clear through the tangle evermore shall see!
— O Faithful, O Beloved, turn to ME!
I am the Ancient of the Days that were
I am the Newborn that To-day brings here,
I am the Life of all that dieth not;
Through me alone is sorrow unforgot.
My Faithful, knowing that this man should live,
I from the cradle gifts to him did give
Unmeet belike for rulers of the earth;
As sorrowful yearning in the midst of mirth,
Pity midst anger, hope midst scorn and hate.
Languor midst labour, lest the day wax late,
And all be wrong, and all be to begin.
Through these indeed the eager life did win
That was the very body to my soul;
Yet, as the tide of battle back did roll
Before his patience: as he toiled and grieved
O’er fools and folly, was he not deceived,
But ever knew the change was drawing nigh,
And in my mirror gazed with steadfast eye.
Still, O my Faithful, seemed his life so fair
That all Olympus might have left him there
Until to bitter strength that life was grown,
And then have smiled to see him die alone,
Had I not been. —— Ye know me; I have sent
A pain to pierce his last coat of content:
Now must he tear the armour from his breast
And cast aside all things that men deem best,
And single-hearted for his longing strive
That he at last may save his soul alive.
How say ye then, Beloved? Ye have known
The blossom of the seed these hands have sown;
Shall this man starve in sorrow’s thorny brake?
Shall Love the faithful of his heart forsake?
In the King’s Garden.
KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER.
MASTER OLIVER
In this quiet place canst thou speak, O my King,
Where nought but the lilies may hearken our counsel?
KING PHARAMOND
What wouldst thou have of me? why came we hither?
MASTER OLIVER
Dear lord, thou wouldst speak of the woe that weighs on thee.
KING PHARAMOND
Wouldst thou bear me aback to the strife and the battle?
Nay, hang up my banner: ’tis all passed and over!
MASTER OLIVER
Speak but a little, lord! have I not loved thee?
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, — thou art Oliver: I saw thee a-lying
A long time ago with the blood on thy face,
When my father wept o’er thee for thy faith and thy valour.
MASTER OLIVER
Years have passed over, but my faith hath not failed me;
Spent is my might, but my love not departed.
Shall not love help — yea, look long in my eyes!
There is no more to see if thou sawest my heart.
KING PHARAMOND
Yea, thou art Oliver, full of all kindness!
Have patience, for now is the cloud passing over —
Have patience and hearken — yet shalt thou be shamed.
MASTER OLIVER
Thou shalt shine through thy shame as the sun through the haze
When the world waiteth gladly the warm day a-coming:
As great as thou seem’st now, I know thee for greater
Than thy deeds done and told of: one day I shall know thee:
Lying dead in my tomb I shall hear the world praising.
KING PHARAMOND
Stay thy praise — let me speak, lest all speech depart from me.
— There is a place in the world, a great valley
That seems a green plain from the brow of the mountains,
But hath knolls and fair dales when adown there thou goest:
There are homesteads therein with gardens about them,
And fair herds of kine and grey sheep a-feeding,
And willow-hung streams wend through deep grassy meadows,
And a highway winds through them from the outer world coming:
Girthed about is the vale by a grey wall of mountains,
Rent apart in three places and tumbled together
In old times of the world when the earth-fires flowed forth:
And as you wend up these away from the valley
You think of the sea and the great world it washes;
But through two you may pass not, the shattered rocks shut them.
And up through the third there windeth a highway,
And its gorge is fulfilled by a black wood of yew-trees.
And I know that beyond, though mine eyes have not seen it,
A city of merchants beside the sea lieth. ——
I adjure thee, my fosterer, by the hand of my father,
By thy faith without stain, by the days unforgotten,
When I dwelt in thy house ere the troubles’ beginning,
By thy fair wife long dead and thy sword-smitten children,
By thy life without blame and thy love without blemish,
Tell me how, tell me when, that fair land I may come to!
Hide it not for my help, for my honour, but tell me,
Lest my time and thy time be lost days and confusion!
MASTER OLIVER
O many such lands! — O my master, what ails thee?
Tell me again, for I may not remember.
— I prayed God give thee speech, and lo God hath given it —
May God give me death! if I dream not this evil.
KING PHARAMOND
Said I not when thou knew’st it, all courage should fail thee?
But me — my heart fails not, I am Pharamond as ever.
I shall seek and shall find — come help me, my fosterer!
— Yet if thou shouldst ask for a sign from that country
What have I to show thee — I plucked a blue milk-wort
From amidst of the field where she wandered fair-footed —
It was gone when I wakened — and once in my wallet
I set some grey stones from the way through the forest —
These were gone when I wakened — and once as I wandered
A lock of white wool from a thorn-bush I gathered;
