Complete Works of William Morris, page 527
Until the bitter thing he might not hide
And at the last his piteous love gained hate
From such an one as all compassionate
Folk held aforetime – how should he live then
Or strive again to deal with happy men
His death should hurt her not who loved him not
His bitter life would swiftly be forgot
And so of all this knife & hand made end –
And through what dark ways now his soul may wend
We know know not but O Thracian if thou mayst
Be kind and some what of they music waste
On this poor wretch who never happy was
And on thy way with his poor blessing pass
Then Orpheus trembled sore and gazed around
For with a fresh pain tortured him his wound
Undreamed of erst mingled of fear and doubt
But soft from harp and lips the song welled out –
Love set me in a flowery world and fair
Love showed me many marvels moving there
And said take these if nought thine heart doth dare
To feel my fiery hand upon thy heart
Take these and live and lose the better part
Love showed me death and said make no delay
Love showed me change and said joy ebbs away
Love showed me eld, mid vain regrets grown grey
I laughed for joy and round his heart I clung,
Sickened & swooned by bitter sweetness stung
But I aoke at last and born again
Said eager hands upon unrest & pain
And wrapped myself about with longing vain
Ah better still and better all things grew
As more the root and heart of love I knew
O Love love love what is it thou hast done
All pains all tears I knew save only one
Where is the green earth now where is the sun
Thou didst not say my love might never move
Her hands her eyes her lips to bless my love!
Ending with strange wild face he turned away
Nor might abide to hear what face would say
Or meet their eyes, for in his heart was born
A dreadful fear that made him more forlorn
Than he had deemed it possible to be
Since unreal dealt first smote him suddenly
A dreadful fear that he een at the best
When his head lay upon the heaving breast
Of his own love sweet living and alive
Unto himself alone her love did give
That he was all alone yea even then
Himself rear to himself all other men
And hopes and fears and longings wild but his
Shadows and nought, ah that his vanished bliss
Should come back now to call itself a lie
To scream what profit of the days gone by
Since if they perish ever were they nought
To cry seek seek een as this wretched has sought
Seek and find nothing but the void of space
And thou with thine ownself brought face to face
Face to face nought to help thee – fool that sayst
How can love die how shall this anguish waste
Sure something it shall move what shall it move
But that which I desire and bring me love –
Yea joy in love or pain in love – poor fool
Thy love shall move thyself make the tool
Of what thou knowest not – yea turn back again
Look at the wretch who lies abed of pain
Is he not helpless – ah sweet at first
Did that pain seem that thus his life hath cursed
Yea a sweet secret not to be expressed
For fear the world at hearing of it blessed
Should falter in its course for fear that she
Should faint at thought of its felicity
Een though she cannot love me –
Than since the first days he had been – ah love
Ah love he thought that all the gods should move
Yet canst not move withal thine agony
One heart of woman: swiftly hurried by
Wild thoughts across his heart and this at last
That all the love and happiness gone past
Was but a dream a thing himself had made
From his own heart that shrinking and afraid
Of his own dreadful self in the void space
He should wake up one one day, and find no face
No voice of any man or God while he
Drifted about the dread eternity
Should never die should never hope or fear
Should have no love no hate to come anear
Nay no voice left to cry come back again
Come back my folly come my yearning pain
Come back a bitterness of heaven and earth
Yea what I called despair once that had birth
Within my heart while somewhat was mine own
Before I knew that I was quite alone!
Wrapped in such thoughts he hurried on and on
Not resting where his evening rest was won
And thinking less of those he left behind
When the new risen sun his face did find
Crossing the threshold than a happy man
Thinketh at morn of his pale dreams & wan
And yet at whiles his lips his lyre would speak
Things that his heart scarce knew as faint & weak
Thought of the old fresh earthly life would strive
With that desire that kept his heart alive
That made his body strong yet slew in him
The simple love of earth – his eyes would swim
At such whiles, for a minute soft and sweet,
A with vain regretful pain his longering feet
His quivering face would turn to his old home
Till once again the dreadful pang would come
Born of despair, yet driving him like hope
With all the loneliness of life to cope
Now had the winter fallen on the land
Yet smote it with no hard remorseless hand
For hazy morns red litten sun set skies
Bright windless noons left hopes & memories
Unto lark haunted fallow and slim trees
Why by a homestead door amid a rood
Of fresh turned garden nigh a leafless wood
Sat Orpheus on an eve a goodman grey
THE STORY OF ARISTOMENES
AN UNPUBLISHED TALE FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE
ARGUMENT.
This story tells of the life of Aristomenes the
Messenian; and how he strove to the utmost of his
power to make his people and nation free, and,
failing herein, nevertheless won a great name then
and for ever afterwards.
How they came to Laconia
Nigh twenty years had the Messenian folk
Striven to free them from the Spartan yoke,
And fought in godlike wise, yet all in vain;
For as bright days amid the year’s sure wane
At end of autumn had their victories been,
And twixt the bay boughs had their wise ones seen
The shadow of the end a drawingnigh:
After each battle won must they ask why
Their fields grew narrower;helpful man on man
Failed from their triumph: ably plotted plan,
Great hearted strenuous stroke mere winds & waves
Made nought before their foemen; their own graves
Their own swords dug; in their most glorious fields
The foes once beaten hung their fallen shields;
For ever in this woefullest of wars
Against them in their courses fought the stars.
So is Messenia now a Spartan farm;
Scarce are their men indeed grudged lying warm,
In winter or the shade in summer days,
Or corn or wine, so that their hands may raise
Fat crops to block the Spartan market-place;
Their women surely may grow fair of face
And delicate of limb that they may be
Well praised by men fresh come from over sea
When in the Spartan feast they pour the wine;
Their craftsmen still may fashion ivory fine,
And unstained marble, into Gods, to stand.
With Spartan bay leaves decking head & hand;
Their poets yet in thin sweet voice may sing,
So they will quite forget the axes’ ring
Amidst the battle song: nay sometimes still
Their men-at-arms may show their wonted skill
Amid the Spartan spears – ‘gainst Spartan foes,
Where nought there is to gain and all to lose.
Ah evil days! for surely may ye wot
That such as erewhile had cast in their lot
With King Aristodemus, Euphaes
Damis, all dead and deathless memories
In joys of slaves would have but small delight;
For them no morn of May was e’er so bright,
No eve of June so soft, that they forgat
Oaths sworn long time agone, while their king sat,
Smiling with hope of battle, in his tent,
Whereto the fresh wind, laden with scent
Of trodden grass bore with it therewithal
The tumult of the far off foeman’s call:
For them all eyes of women seemed grown sad,
All songs within them a lamenting had,
All children’s glee reproached them with the day
When these too needs must learn what weight there lay
Upon all life in that sad land of theirs.
So passed over the land the heavy years,
Wherein none looked on daughter or fair wife
With any joy, and none but fools deemed life
To have much hope in it; but ye must know
That there were some who bode not the last blow
But fled away when hope was quite outworn;
One house amid these, ere the folk forlorn
And leaderless and ‘wildered, at the last
Ithome’s war-beat gates wide open cast,
Since fate compelled them not to bide the end
Into Arcadia made a shift to wend,
Since in that land dwelt others of their kin;
So they were counted worthy folk therein,
And there in honour did their old folk die
Their young folk grow to eld, while longingly
They thought and told of the great hapless war.
Amid these days of restlessness and care
Twenty three years after Ithome’s fall
Unto the exiles latest wed of all
A child was born named Aristomenes,
Who grew up little caring folk to please
And little loved of all; dull in the school
Careless but rough in boys games, half a fool
Half dangerous folk deemed him; as he grew
Amid the fellowship of those poor few
Sons of the exiles of Ithome they
Would mock him often, and yet day by day
Grew more to fear, casting, all the same
Upon his shoulders more than half the blame
Of their wild deeds; for certes most of these
In that fair land were as a north east breeze
Amid a poppy field – so oft enow
He learned that birch-twigs in Arcadia grow
Nor heeded much the knowledge: for the rest
Not over big he was, but deep of chest,
Long-armed beyond most lads, swift-foot & light,
Well-knit and lithe, full-lipped, with even bright
And grey as a hawks; and ever would he be
In his attire be rough & slovenly;
Silent he was and patient of all jeers
And hating feasts. So unto nineteen years
Did he attain, still deemed of all, as one
By whom would nought of any note be done;
For no least deed e’en of their rioting
Had he once led, or counselled anything;
Though he had oft been trusty instrument
To carry out some pushing fools intent.
Now at this tide oft whiles would it befal
That these same youths would cross the mountain wall
Into AEtolia and thenceforth would take
Such things as folk not too much moan would make
Over the loss of – but on such-like days
Would Aristomenes no least voice raise
For or against; whiles would he seem to lack
Courage indeed, yea and would oft hold back
When there was most to do: – Of this it came
That of these deeds was somewhat too much fame,
And for a while it scarce was good to bide
At the city for these youths, who wandering wide
Fared so, that at the last it fell their way
By the head-waters of Alpheus lay,
And high amid the goat-browsed hills they were
Mid which the homesteads were but small & rare.
So on a night with certain shepherd-folk
They guested; and arising when day broke
Fell to their food in glee; – nineteen of these
Messenian youths with Aristomenes
And four Arcadian shepherds; – ye may wot
That everyone of them some arms had got
And were rough players for their years; sixteen
Of summers had the youngest of them seen,
The eldest three and twenty.
Now they fell
To asking these same shepherd-folk to tell
About the land south of the mountain ridge,
Where goat & thorn-bush looked like fly & midge
From the rough vale wherein they breakfasted.
Laconia lay beyond, the shepherds said,
The springs of the Eurotas rose up there
On the other side; a country good and fair
For folk, they said, and grinned, if only one
Were sprung from Hercules of yore agone.
All laughed thereat save Aristomenes,
Who by the porridge-pot was on his knees,
The steam wherefrom now well nigh hid his face.
But presently he rose up in his place,
Stammering and blushing een as he would speak
But found the words a long way off to seek;
“Lo I have heard,” quoth he, “my grandsire tell,
How these folk, these same thieves upon him fell
And had away ten horses from his field,
And from his house nine brass bowls, a gilt shield
Given to Pallas, and two handmaids fair;
Too many years agone to find them there
Did that befall; yet since we needs this tide
Must be away from our own country side
Good pastime should I find it for my part
To bring him somewhat thence to glad his heart
Instead of these when we go back again:
That might he deem he had not lived in vain,
If I, – if his son’s son should grow to be
All unafraid the light of spears to see.”
Loud they laughed out; his grandsire sooth to say
Had been but doting for this many a day,
Remembering nought that in his time went on
Forgetting nought of old fields lost & won:
So they were merry, mocking him a while
Who paid no heed a space, but with a smile,
And grey eyes staring dreamily, looked out
Onto the misty mountain; till at last
As they beheld him o’er them all was cast
A sense of something going to befall,
Nor did they laugh more, when around on all
He turned and in their midst three paces made
And in a changed voice grave & solemn said.
“Ye laugh; but I shall laugh not till it comes
The day that sees us in our ancient homes
Or till I am a-dying; if ye deem
My grandsire dozes through a wavering dream
Yet has he held the sword, and good methinks
It is for one who into grey eld sinks
To mind the great life that has passed away
Rather than little matters of today,
When we, being smitten durst not een cry out.”
They looked at one another as in doubt
If this were even he, Aristomenes
And their hearts swelled; for few amidst of these
Knew aught of fear, only too far away
And great had Sparta seemed until today.
And therewithal he spake again & said:
“A fool ye deem me, and my words ill-weighed,
And the life good enow, ye live in yet;
So may it be and ye may well forget
If so ye will, for life lasts no great while
Nor will it skill if we lived base or vile,
Once we are dead: but are ye then so safe?
What if the Spartans one day ‘gin to chafe
At this small heart of the old land living free
Or seeming free anigh them – Certainly
Ye are not soft or tame, well ye wot
If the Arcadians love you much or not
Or if they fear Laconia: sooth to say
Our friends spears even now may block the way
Behind us; at the worst of all a space
Of merry days shall pass ere Sparta raise
Her force against us – nay now, I behold
No faint-hearts here, but sturdy men & bold,
And my heart tells me whatso comes at last
That many an hour in fair hope shall be past;
And many an eve of victory shall we know;
And many a time our mere names whispered low
Down in wind-gathering hollows of the hills
Shall quell our foes e’en as the thunder stills
The babble of the summer afternoon –
O fair Gods lead us unto battle soon!”
He felt their gathering voices as he went
With great strides leading oer the heathery bent,
Sword clashing against shield, till suddenly
Their shout went echoing up the valley
beat back from hill to hill as they a rose
As men the God drives blind against their foes,
And recking nought, swift followed after him,
Watched by the shepherds till they grew all dim
In shifting haze of morning; to their sheep,
Their well-known day of toil, their dreamless sleep
