Poems By The Way & Love Is Enough Part 46

Then soon was it midnight, and moonset, as we wended Down to the s.h.i.+p, and the merchant-folks' babble.

The oily green waves in the harbour mouth glistened, Windless midnight it was, but the great sweeps were run out, As the cable came rattling mid rich bales on the deck, And slow moved the black side that the ripple was lapping, And I looked and beheld a great city behind us By the last of the moon as the stars were a-brightening, And Pharamond the Freed grew a tale of a singer, With the land of his fathers and the fame he had toiled for.

Yet sweet was the scent of the sea-breeze arising; And I felt a chain broken, a sickness put from me As the sails drew, and merchant-folk, gathered together On the p.o.o.p or the prow, 'gan to move and begone, Till at last 'neath the far-gazing eyes of the steersman By the loitering watch thou and I were left lonely, And we saw by the moon the white horses arising Where beyond the last headland the ocean abode us, Then came the fresh breeze and the sweep of the spray, And the beating of ropes, and the empty sails' thunder, As we s.h.i.+fted our course toward the west in the dawning; Then I slept and I dreamed in the dark I was lying, And I heard her sweet breath and her feet falling near me, And the rustle of her raiment as she sought through the darkness, Sought, I knew not for what, till her arms clung about me With a cry that was hers, that was mine as I wakened.

MASTER OLIVER

Yea, a sweet dream it was, as thy dreams were aforetime.

KING PHARAMOND

Nay not so, my fosterer: thy hope yet shall fail thee If thou lookest to see me turned back from my folly, Lamenting and mocking the life of my longing.

Many such have I had, dear dreams and deceitful, When the soul slept a little from all but its search, And lied to the body of bliss beyond telling; Yea, waking had lied still but for life and its torment.

Not so were those dreams of the days of my kings.h.i.+p, Slept my body--or died--but my soul was not sleeping, It knew that she touched not this body that trembled At the thought of her body sore trembling to see me; It lied of no bliss as desire swept it onward, Who knows through what sundering s.p.a.ce of its prison; It saw, and it heard, and it hoped, and was lonely, Had no doubt and no joy, but the hope that endureth.

--Woe's me I am weary: wend we forward to-morrow?

MASTER OLIVER

Yea, well it may be if thou wilt but be patient, And rest thee a little, while time creepeth onward.

KING PHARAMOND

But tell me, has the fourth year gone far mid my sickness?

MASTER OLIVER

Nay, for seven days only didst thou lie here a-dying, As full often I deemed: G.o.d be thanked it is over!

But rest thee a little, lord; gather strength for the striving.

KING PHARAMOND

Yea, for once again sleep meseems cometh to struggle With the memory of times past: come tell thou, my fosterer, Of the days we have fared through, that dimly before me Are floating, as I look on thy face and its trouble.

MASTER OLIVER

Rememberest thou aught of the lands where we wended?

KING PHARAMOND

Yea, many a thing--as the moonlit warm evening When we stayed by the trees in the Gold-bearing Land, Nigh the gate of the city, where a minstrel was singing That tale of the King and his fate, o'er the cradle Foretold by the wise of the world; that a woman Should win him to love and to woe, and despairing In the last of his youth, the first days of his manhood.

MASTER OLIVER

I remember the evening; but clean gone is the story: Amid deeds great and dreadful, should songs abide by me?

KING PHARAMOND

They shut the young king in a castle, the tale saith, Where never came woman, and never should come, And sadly he grew up and stored with all wisdom, Not wis.h.i.+ng for aught in his heart that he had not, Till the time was come round to his twentieth birthday.

Then many fair gifts brought his people unto him, Gold and gems, and rich cloths, and rare things and dear-bought, And a book fairly written brought a wise man among them, Called the Praising of Prudence; wherein there was painted The image of Prudence:--and that, what but a woman, E'en she forsooth that the painter found fairest;-- Now surely thou mindest what needs must come after?

MASTER OLIVER

Yea, somewhat indeed I remember the misery Told in that tale, but all mingled it is With the manifold trouble that met us full often, E'en we ourselves. Of nought else hast thou memory?

KING PHARAMOND

Of many such tales that the Southland folk told us, Of many a dream by the sunlight and moonlight; Of music that moved me, of hopes that my heart had; The high days when my love and I held feast together.

--But what land is this, and how came we hither?

MASTER OLIVER

Nay, hast thou no memory of our troubles that were many?

How thou criedst out for Death and how near Death came to thee?

How thou needs must dread war, thou the dreadful in battle?

Of the pest in the place where that tale was told to us; And how we fled thence o'er the desert of horror?

How weary we wandered when we came to the mountains, All dead but one man of those who went with us?

How we came to the sea of the west, and the city, Whose Queen would have kept thee her slave and her lover, And how we escaped by the fair woman's kindness, Who loved thee, and cast her life by for thy welfare?

Of the waste of thy life when we sailed from the Southlands, And the sea-thieves fell on us and sold us for servants To that land of hard gems, where thy life's purchase seemed Little better than mine, and we found to our sorrow Whence came the crown's glitter, thy sign once of glory: Then naked a king toiled in sharp rocky crannies, And thy world's fear was grown but the task-master's whip, And thy world's hope the dream in the short dead of night?

And hast thou forgotten how again we fled from it, And that fight of despair in the boat on the river, And the sea-strand again and white bellying sails; And the sore drought and famine that on s.h.i.+p-board fell on us, Ere the sea was o'erpast, and we came scarcely living To those keepers of sheep, the poor folk and the kind?

Dost thou mind not the merchants who brought us thence northward, And this land that we made in the twilight of dawning?

And the city herein where all kindness forsook us, And our bitter bread sought we from house-door to house-door.

KING PHARAMOND

As the shadow of clouds o'er the summer sea sailing Is the memory of all now, and whiles I remember And whiles I forget; and nought it availeth Remembering, forgetting; for a sleep is upon me That shall last a long while:--there thou liest, my fosterer, As thou lay'st a while since ere that twilight of dawning; And I woke and looked forth, and the dark sea, long changeless, Was now at last barred by a dim wall that swallowed The red shapeless moon, and the whole sea was rolling, Unresting, unvaried, as grey as the void is, Toward that wall 'gainst the heavens as though rest were behind it.

Still onward we fared and the moon was forgotten, And colder the sea grew and colder the heavens, And blacker the wall grew, and grey, green-besprinkled, And the sky seemed to breach it; and lo at the last Many islands of mountains, and a city amongst them.

White clouds of the dawn, not moving yet waning, Wreathed the high peaks about; and the sea beat for ever 'Gainst the green sloping hills and the black rocks and beachless.

--Is this the same land that I saw in that dawning?

For sure if it is thou at least shalt hear tidings, Though I die ere the dark: but for thee, O my fosterer, Lying there by my side, I had deemed the old vision Had drawn forth the soul from my body to see her.

And with joy and fear blended leapt the heart in my bosom, And I cried, "The last land, love; O hast thou abided?"

But since then hath been turmoil, and sickness, and slumber, And my soul hath been troubled with dreams that I knew not.

And such tangle is round me life fails me to rend it, And the cold cloud of death rolleth onward to hide me.-- --O well am I hidden, who might not be happy!

I see not, I hear not, my head groweth heavy.

[_Falls back as if sleeping_.

MASTER OLIVER