A Selection From The Poems Of William Morris Part 9

Hope will not give us up to certainty, But still must bide with us: and with this man, Whose life amid such promises began Great things she wrought; but now the time has come When he no more on earth may have his home.

Great things he suffered, great delights he had, Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad; He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no more Is had in memory, and on many a sh.o.r.e He left his sweat and blood to win a name Pa.s.sing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame.

A love he won and lost, a well-loved son Whose little day of promise soon was done: A tender wife he had, that he must leave Before his heart her love could well receive; Those promised gifts, that on his careless head In those first hours of his fair life were shed He took unwitting, and unwitting spent, Nor gave himself to grief and discontent Because he saw the end a-drawing nigh.

Where is he now? in what land must he die, To leave an empty name to us on earth?

A tale half true, to cast across our mirth Some pensive thoughts of life that might have been; Where is he now, that all this life has seen?

Behold, another eve I bid you see Than that calm eve of his nativity; The sun is setting in the west, the sky Is clear and hard, and no clouds come anigh The golden orb, but further off they lie, Steel-grey and black with edges red as blood, And underneath them is the weltering flood Of some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as they Turn restless sides about, are black or grey, Or green, or glittering with the golden flame; The wind has fallen now, but still the same The mighty army moves, as if to drown This lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brown Cast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray.

Alas! what s.h.i.+ps upon an evil day Bent over to the wind in this ill sea?

What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedly Beneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was, A fearful storm to bring such things to pa.s.s.

This is the loadstone rock; no armament Of warring nations, in their madness bent Their course this way; no merchant wittingly Has steered his keel unto this luckless sea; Upon no s.h.i.+pman's card its name is writ, Though worn-out mariners will speak of it Within the ingle on the winter's night, When all within is warm and safe and bright, And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their will Are some folk driven here, and then all skill Against this evil rock is vain and nought, And unto death the s.h.i.+pmen soon are brought; For then the keel, as by a giant's hand, Is drawn unto that mockery of a land, And presently unto its sides doth cleave; When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leave The narrow limits of that barren isle, And thus are slain by famine in a while Mocked, as they say, by night with images Of n.o.ble castles among groves of trees, By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy.

The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea, The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright; The moon is rising o'er the growing night, And by its light may ye behold the bones Of generations of these luckless ones Scattered about the rock; but nigh the sea Sits one alive, who uncomplainingly Awaits his death. White-haired is he and old, Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold, But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air; Huge is he, of a n.o.ble face and fair, As for an ancient man, though toil and eld Furrow the cheeks that ladies once beheld With melting hearts--Nay, listen, for he speaks!

"G.o.d, thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeks Have pa.s.sed since from the wreck we haled our store, And five long days well told, have now pa.s.sed o'er Since my last fellow died, with my last bread Between his teeth, and yet I am not dead.

Yea, but for this I had been strong enow In some last b.l.o.o.d.y field my sword to show.

What matter? soon will all be past and done, Where'er I died I must have died alone: Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it been Dying, thy face above me to have seen, And heard my banner flapping in the wind, Then, though my memory had not left thy mind, Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee more When thou hadst known that everything was o'er; But now thou waitest, still expecting me, Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea.

"And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call, To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall, But never shall they tell true tales of me: Whatever sails the Kentish hills may see Swept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town, No more on my sails shall they look adown.

"Get thee another leader, Charlemaine, For thou shalt look to see my s.h.i.+eld in vain, When in the fair fields of the Frankish land, Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand.

"What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives; Husbands and children, other friends and wives, Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean, And all shall be as I had never been.

"And now, O G.o.d, am I alone with Thee; A little thing indeed it seems to be To give this life up, since it needs must go Some time or other; now at last I know How foolishly men play upon the earth, When unto them a year of life seems worth Honour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweet That like real things my dying heart do greet, Unreal while living on the earth I trod, And but myself I knew no other G.o.d.

Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thus This end, that I had thought most piteous, If of another I had heard it told."

What man is this, who weak and worn and old, Gives up his life within that dreadful isle, And on the fearful coming death can smile?

Alas! this man, so battered and outworn, Is none but he, who, on that summer morn, Received such promises of glorious life: Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strife Was but as wine to stir awhile the blood, To whom all life, however hard, was good: This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb, Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dim For all the years that he on earth has dwelt; Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt, Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane, The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane.

Bright had the moon grown as his words were done, And no more was there memory of the sun Within the west, and he grew drowsy now, And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled brow As thought died out beneath the hand of sleep, And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep, Hiding the image of swift-coming death; Until as peacefully he drew his breath As on that day, past for a hundred years, When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears, He fell asleep to his first lullaby.

The night changed as he slept, white clouds and high Began about the lonely moon to close; And from the dark west a new wind arose, And with the sound of heavy-falling waves Mingled its pipe about the loadstone caves; But when the twinkling stars were hid away, And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day, The moon upon that dreary country shed, Ogier awoke, and lifting up his head And smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again; Rather some pleasure new, some other pain, Unthought of both, some other form of strife;"

For he had waked from dreams of his old life, And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gate Once more had seemed to pa.s.s, and saw the state Of that triumphant king; and still, though all Seemed changed, and folk by other names did call Faces he knew of old, yet none the less He seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness, Felt his own power, and grew the more athirst For coming glory, as of old, when first He stood before the face of Charlemaine, A helpless hostage with all life to gain.

But now, awake, his worn face once more sank Between his hands, and, murmuring not, he drank The draught of death that must that thirst allay.

But while he sat and waited for the day A sudden light across the bare rock streamed, Which at the first he noted not, but deemed The moon her fleecy veil had broken through; But ruddier indeed this new light grew Than were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal, Soft far-off music on his ears did fall; Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death, An easy thing like this to yield my breath, Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear, No dreadful sights to tell me it is near; Yea, G.o.d, I thank Thee!" but with that last word It seemed to him that he his own name heard Whispered, as though the wind had borne it past; With that he gat unto his feet at last, But still awhile he stood, with sunken head, And in a low and trembling voice he said, "Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go?

I pray Thee unto me some token show."

And, as he said this, round about he turned, And in the east beheld a light that burned As bright as day; then, though his flesh might fear The coming change that he believed so near, Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thought Unto the very heaven to be brought: And though he felt alive, deemed it might be That he in sleep had died full easily.

Then toward that light did he begin to go, And still those strains he heard, far off and low, That grew no louder; still that bright light streamed Over the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed, But like the light of some unseen bright flame Shone round about, until at last he came Unto the dreary islet's other sh.o.r.e, And then the minstrelsy he heard no more, And softer seemed the strange light unto him; But yet or ever it had grown quite dim, Beneath its waning light could he behold A mighty palace set about with gold, Above green meads and groves of summer trees Far-off across the welter of the seas; But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight, And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light, Which soothly was but darkness to him now, His sea-girt island prison did but show.

But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully, And said, "Alas! and when will this go by And leave my soul in peace? must I still dream Of life that once so dear a thing did seem, That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be?

Here will I sit until he come to me, And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin, That so a little calm I yet may win Before I stand within the awful place."

Then down he sat and covered up his face, Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide, Nor waiting thus for death could he abide, For, though he knew it not, the yearning pain Of hope of life had touched his soul again-- If he could live awhile, if he could live!

The mighty being, who once was wont to give The gift of life to many a trembling man; Who did his own will since his life began; Who feared not aught, but strong and great and free Still cast aside the thought of what might be; Must all this then be lost, and with no will, Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil, Nor know what he is doing any more?

Soon he arose and paced along the sh.o.r.e, And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; But nought he saw except the old sad sight, The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, The white upspringing of the spurts of spray Amidst that ma.s.s of timbers, the rent bones Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones Once cast like him upon this deadly isle.

He stopped his pacing in a little while, And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth, And gazing at the ruin underneath, He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, Not caring aught if thus his life should end; But safely midst all this did he descend The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily.

But now, amid the clamour of the waves, And was.h.i.+ng to-and-fro of beams and staves, Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress, And all those days of fear and loneliness, The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, And yet his footing somehow did he keep Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee.

So quickly on from wreck to wreck he pa.s.sed, And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, And there a moment stood unsteadily, Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, And poised himself to meet the coming death, Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain Over the was.h.i.+ng waves he heard again, And from the dimness something bright he saw Across the waste of waters towards him draw; And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last Unto his very feet a boat was cast, Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed With cus.h.i.+ons soft; far fitter to have weighed From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, Than struggle with that huge confused sea; But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, "What tales are these about the newly dead The heathen told? what matter, let all pa.s.s; This moment as one dead indeed I was, And this must be what I have got to do, I yet perchance may light on something new Before I die; though yet perchance this keel Unto the wondrous ma.s.s of charmed steel Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt Into the boat, and o'er the cus.h.i.+ons crept From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, Nor any oars, nor were the cus.h.i.+ons fair Made wet by any das.h.i.+ng of the sea.

Now while he pondered how these things could be, The boat began to move therefrom at last, But over him a drowsiness was cast, And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pa.s.s, He clean forgot his death and where he was.

At last he woke up to a sunny day, And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, Where in the green waves did the low bank dip Its fresh and green gra.s.s-covered daisied lip; But Ogier looking thence no more could see That sad abode of death and misery, Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; Then from the golden cus.h.i.+ons did he rise, And wondering still if this were Paradise He stepped ash.o.r.e, but drew Courtain his sword And muttered therewithal a holy word.

Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, For with their quivering song the air was sweet; Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, And on his head the blossoms down did rain, Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail For lamentations o'er his changed lot; Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, For what then seemed to him a weary way, Whereon his steps he needs must often stay And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord Had small respect in glorious days long past.

But still he crept along, and at the last Came to a gilded wicket, and through this Entered a garden fit for utmost bliss, If that might last which needs must soon go by: There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sigh He said, "O G.o.d, a sinner I have been, And good it is that I these things have seen Before I meet what Thou hast set apart To cleanse the earthly folly from my heart; But who within this garden now can dwell Wherein guilt first upon the world befell?"

A little further yet he staggered on, Till to a fountain-side at last he won, O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed, There he sank down, and laid his weary head Beside the mossy roots, and in a while He slept, and dreamed himself within the isle; That splas.h.i.+ng fount the weary sea did seem, And in his dream the fair place but a dream; But when again to feebleness he woke Upon his ears that heavenly music broke, Not faint or far as in the isle it was, But e'en as though the minstrels now did pa.s.s Anigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt, E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about, Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain; And yet his straining gaze was but in vain, Death stole so fast upon him, and no more Could he behold the blossoms as before, No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground, A heavy mist seemed gathering all around, And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be, And round his head there breathed deliciously Sweet odours, and that music never ceased.

But as the weight of Death's strong hand increased Again he sank adown, and Courtain's noise Within the scabbard seemed a farewell voice Sent from the world he loved so well of old, And all his life was as a story told, And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smile E'en as a child asleep, but in a while It was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed, For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed, As though from some sweet face and golden hair, And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair, And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears, Broken as if with flow of joyous tears; "Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long?

Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!"

Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord, Too long, too long; and yet one little word Right many a year agone had brought me here."

Then to his face that face was drawn anear, He felt his head raised up and gently laid On some kind knee, again the sweet voice said, "Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend!

Who knoweth when our linked life shall end, Since thou art come unto mine arms at last, And all the turmoil of the world is past?

Why do I linger ere I see thy face As I desired it in that mourning place So many years ago--so many years, Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?"

"Alas!" he said, "what mockery is this That thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss?

No longer can I think upon the earth, Have I not done with all its grief and mirth?

Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my love Should come once more my dying heart to move, Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white walls Whereon to-day the hawthorn blossom falls Outside St. Omer's--art thou she? her name I could remember once mid death and fame Is clean forgotten now; but yesterday, Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay: Baldwin the fair--what hast thou done with him Since Charlot slew him? Ah, mine eyes wax dim; Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die?

Did I forget thee in the days gone by?

Then let me die, that we may meet again!"

He tried to move from her, but all in vain, For life had well-nigh left him, but withal He felt a kiss upon his forehead fall, And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fair Move to his mighty sword-worn hand, and there Set on some ring, and still he could not speak, And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak.

But, ah! what land was this he woke unto?

What joy was this that filled his heart anew?

Had he then gained the very Paradise?

Trembling, he durst not at the first arise, Although no more he felt the pain of eld, Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheld Beside him the white flowers and blades of gra.s.s; He durst not speak, lest he some monster was.

But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voice Once more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice!

Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still, Apart from every earthly fear and ill; Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this, That I like thee may live in double bliss?"

Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to one Whose span of earthly life is nigh outrun, But as he might have risen in old days To see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze; But, looking round, he saw no change there was In the fair place wherethrough he first did pa.s.s, Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes, Now looked no worse than very Paradise; Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fair Still sent its glittering stream forth into air, And by its basin a fair woman stood, And as their eyes met his renewed blood Rushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweet And hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat.

The fairest of all creatures did she seem; So fresh and delicate you well might deem That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed The happy, longing world; yet, for the rest, Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt A child before her had the wise man felt, And with the pleasure of a thousand years Her lips were fas.h.i.+oned to move joy or tears Among the longing folk where she might dwell, To give at last the kiss unspeakable.

In such wise was she clad as folk may be, Who, for no shame of their humanity, For no sad changes of the imperfect year, Rather for added beauty, raiment wear; For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue haze Veils the green flowery morn of late May-days, Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meet That bound the sandals to her dainty feet, Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head, And on her breast there lay a ruby red.

So with a supplicating look she turned To meet the flame that in his own eyes burned, And held out both her white arms lovingly, As though to greet him as he drew anigh.

Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am I So cured of all my evils suddenly, That certainly I felt no mightier, when, Amid the backward rush of beaten men, About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme?

Alas! I fear that in some dream I am."

"Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it is That such a name G.o.d gives unto our bliss; I know not, but if thou art such an one As I must deem, all days beneath the sun That thou hast had, shall be but dreams indeed To those that I have given thee at thy need.

For many years ago beside the sea When thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee: Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes, That thou mayest see what these my mysteries Have wrought in thee; surely but thirty years, Pa.s.sed amidst joy, thy new born body bears, Nor while thou art with me, and on this sh.o.r.e Art still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more.

Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand, The hope and fear of many a warring land, And I will show thee wherein lies the spell, Whereby this happy change upon thee fell."

Like a shy youth before some royal love, Close up to that fair woman did he move, And their hands met; yet to his changed voice He dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoice E'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel, And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit steal As her light raiment, driven by the wind, Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind, His lips the treasure of her lips did press, And round him clung her perfect loveliness.

For one sweet moment thus they stood, and then She drew herself from out his arms again, And panting, lovelier for her love, did stand Apart awhile, then took her lover's hand, And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,-- "O Ogier, when thou earnest here to-day, I feared indeed, that in my sport with fate, I might have seen thee e'en one day too late, Before this ring thy finger should embrace; Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may trace Faint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold; My father dying gave it me, nor told The manner of its making, but I know That it can make thee e'en as thou art now Despite the laws of G.o.d--shrink not from me Because I give an impious gift to thee-- Has not G.o.d made me also, who do this?

But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss, Am of the fays, and live their changeless life, And, like the G.o.ds of old, I see the strife That moves the world, unmoved if so I will; For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill, Have never touched like you of Adam's race; And while thou dwellest with me in this place Thus shalt thou be--ah, and thou deem'st, indeed, That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meed Reft of the world's joys? nor canst understand How thou art come into a happy land?-- Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing, And tell thee of it many a joyous thing; But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain, Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born again Thus wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss; And so with us no otherwise it is, Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite away Even as yet, though that shall be to-day.

"But for the love and country thou hast won, Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon, That is both thine and mine; and as for me, Morgan le Fay men call me commonly Within the world, but fairer names than this I have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss."

Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain, That she had brought him here this life to gain?

For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blind He watched the kisses of the wandering wind Within her raiment, or as some one sees The very best of well-wrought images When he is blind with grief, did he behold The wandering tresses of her locks of gold Upon her shoulders; and no more he pressed The hand that in his own hand lay at rest: His eyes, grown dull with changing memories, Could make no answer to her glorious eyes: Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught, With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought, Unfinished in the old days; and withal He needs must think of what might chance to fall In this life new-begun; and good and bad Tormented him, because as yet he had A worldly heart within his frame made new, And to the deeds that he was wont to do Did his desires still turn. But she a while Stood gazing at him with a doubtful smile, And let his hand fall down; but suddenly Sounded sweet music from some close nearby, And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me, That thou thy new life and delights mayst see."

And gently with that word she led him thence, And though upon him now there fell a sense Of dreamy and unreal bewilderment, As hand in hand through that green place they went, Yet therewithal a strain of tender love A little yet his restless heart did move.

So through the whispering trees they came at last To where a wondrous house a shadow cast Across the flowers, and o'er the daisied gra.s.s Before it, crowds of lovely folk did pa.s.s, Playing about in carelessness and mirth, Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth; And from the midst a band of fair girls came, With flowers and music, greeting him by name, And praising him; but ever like a dream He could not break, did all to Ogier seem, And he his old world did the more desire, For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire, That through the world of old so bright did burn: Yet was he fain that kindness to return, And from the depth of his full heart he sighed.

Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guide His listless steps, and seemed to take no thought Of knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught, But still with kind love lighting up her face She led him through the door of that fair place, While round about them did the damsels press; And he was moved by all that loveliness As one might be, who, lying half asleep In the May morning, notes the light wind sweep Over the tulip-beds: no more to him Were gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim, Amidst that dream, although the first surprise Of hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyes Had smitten him, still in his heart did stir.