The Golden Helm Part 3

SEA-VOICES, WAVE-VOICES, AND WIND-VOICES.

SCENE: _A rock in the midst of the North Sea,_ _whereon the three kings, bound naked by conquering_ _sea-rovers, have been left to perish._

VOICE OF THE DAWN-WIND: Awaken, O sea, from thy starry dream; Awaken, awaken!

For delight of thy slumber not one pale gleam From dim star-cl.u.s.ters remaineth unshaken.

All night I have haunted the valleys and rivers; Now hither I come-- Ere, quickened with sunlight, the drowsy east quivers-- To waken thy song, night-bewildered and dumb; To stir thy grey waters, of starlight forsaken, To loosen white foam in the red of the dawn.

WAVE-VOICES: The sound of thy voice Has broken our sleep; All night we have waited thee, herald of light.

We arise, we rejoice At thy bidding to leap, And spray with our laughter the trail of the night.

All night we have waited thee, weary of stars-- The little star-dreams, and the sleep without song; The deep-brooding slumber of silence that holds Our melody mute in the uttermost deep.

O Wind of the Dawn, we have waited thee long; The sound of thy voice Has broken our sleep; We arise, we rejoice At thy bidding to leap, With a tumult of singing, a rapture of spray, To scatter our joy in the path of the day.

GARLAND: Day comes at last, beyond the sea's grey rim; The young sun leaps in sudden might of gold.

ASHALORN: Before his fire our lives will smoulder dim; Like stars we shine, we fade; the tale is told, And all our empty splendour put to scorn; Fate leaves us, who were clothed in pride, forlorn, To perish, naked, in this lonely sea.

But yesterday we ruled as kings of earth; Frail men to-day; to-morrow, who shall be?

ARLO: But yesterday my cup of life was filled To overflowing with the wine of mirth-- The plashing joy from fruitful years distilled.

GARLAND: But yesterday my kinghood sprang to birth; My fingers scarce had grasped the might new-born, When from my clutch the glittering pomp was torn.

SEA-VOICES: They slumber, they slumber, the kings in their pride.

The beak of the Rover is dipt in the tide; The sails of the Rover are red in the wind; And white is the trail of the foam flung behind.

They have fallen, have fallen, the kings in their pride; Their sea-gates are forced by the rush of the tide; Their splendour is scattered as surf on the wind; And red is the trail of the terror behind.

Forsaken, forlorn, On a rock of the sea, In anguish they bow, And wait for the night and the darkness to be; Oh, bright was the gold in their hair; The sea-weed, in scorn, Is twined in it now; Oh, rich was their raiment and rare, Blue, purple, and gold, In fold upon fold; Of glory and majesty shorn, They are clothed with the wind of despair.

GARLAND: Lo, the live waters run to greet the day: Even so I laughed to see the soaring light; My life was poised like yonder curving wave To break in such bright revel of keen spray.

ARLO: I counted not the years that took their flight, Gold-crowned and singing; every hour I stood, As one enchanted in an April wood, In some new paradise of scent and flowers.

I counted not the countless, careless hours, The days of rapture and the nights of peace.

How should I dream that such delight could pa.s.s, Such colour fade, such flowing numbers cease, My glory perish where was none to save, And all my strength be trodden in the gra.s.s?

ASHALORN: Oh, blest art thou who diest in thy youth; Oh, blest art thou who failest in thy prime; While yet thine eyes are full of wondering truth; Ere yet thy feet have found the ways of thorn.

Too long I wandered down the vale of time, A lonely wind, all songless and forlorn; For I have found the empty heart of things, The secret sorrow of the summer rose, And all the sadness of the April green; I know that every happy stream that springs Into a sea of bitter memories flows; I know the curse that G.o.d has set on kings-- The solitary splendour and the crown Of desolation, and the prisoning state; The heart that yearns beneath the robe of gold, The soul that starves behind the golden gate.

I know how chance has reared our earthly thrones Upon a shifting wrack of whitened bones, Of heroes fallen in the wars of old-- By wind upbuilded and by wind cast down.

SEA-VOICES: As foam on the edge of the waters of night, They flicker and fall; More brief than delight, More frail than their tears, They flicker and fall In the tide of the years; Awhile they may triumph, as lords of the earth, With feasting and mirth, Yet the winds and the waters shall sweep over all.

VOICE OF THE WEST WIND: O wide-shifting wonder of sapphire and gold, O wandering glory of emerald and white, From the purple and green of the moorlands I come, To sweep o'er thy waters with turbulent flight, To sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might; I lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam, With laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray; To thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold, I thrill thee with rapture, then wander away.

I have drunk the red wine of the heather, and swept Over moorland and fell, for mile upon mile.

The little blue loughs were merry, and leapt, With a shaking of laughter, in dim, dreaming hollows; The little blue loughs were merry, and flung Their spray on my wings as above them I swung; I laughed to their laughter, and dallied awhile; Then left them to sink in the silence that follows.

In the forest I stirred, like the chant of thy tides, The song of the boughs and the branches a-swinging; The ashes and beeches and oak-trees were singing, Like the noise of thy waters when dark tempest rides.

I swung on the crest of the pine-trees a-swaying, As now on thy green, flowing surges, O sea; I piped in my triumph, they danced to my playing; I left them a-murmur, to hasten to thee.

The white clouds were driven like ships through the air, And grey flowed the shadows o'er sea-coloured bent, And dark on the heathland, and dark on the wold: But here on thy waters, where all things grow fair, They shadow with purple thine emerald and gold.

My revel unbroken, my rapture unspent, To thy far-shining wonder, O sea, I have come, To sweep o'er thy splendour with turbulent flight; To sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might; I lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam, With laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray; To thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold, I thrill thee with rapture, then wander away.

GARLAND: There is no sadness in the world but death.

The years that whitened o'er thy head have taken The colour from thy life, but still in me The blood beats young and red; yea, still my breath Is full of freshness as the wind that blows Across the morning-fells when night has shaken His cooling dews among the wakening heath.

Yea, now the wind that lashes o'er the sea Stings all my quivering body to keen life And whips the blood into my straining limbs; And all the youth within me springs to fire; I am consumed with ravening desire For one brief, wild, delirious hour of strife; I yearn for every joy that flies or swims, Rides on the wind or with the water flows.

Yet I must die by patient, slow degrees, With hourly wasting flesh and parching blood; Ah G.o.d, that I might leap into the flood, And perish struggling in the adventurous seas!

ARLO: My mouth is filled with saltness, and I thirst For forest-pools that bubble in the shade, When loud the hot chase pants through every glade, And fleeing fawns from every thicket burst; Or clear wine vintaged when the world was young, Gurgling from deep-mouthed jars of coloured stone.

ASHALORN: The noonday burns my body to the bone, And sets a coal of fire upon my tongue, Between my lips, and stifles all my breath.

Oh come, thou only joy undying, death!

WAVE-VOICES: O wind, that failing, failing, failing, dies, Beneath the heat of August-laden skies, Sinking in sleep, sinking in quiet sleep-- Thy blue wings folded o'er our dreaming deep

We too are weary, weary in the noon; We too will fall in shining slumber soon-- Foamless and still, foamless and very still, Unstirred, unshaken by thy restless will.

Yet there are eyes that cannot, cannot close, And strong souls racked by fiery, rending woes-- Never to rest, never to gather rest By any stream of murmuring waters blest.

But slumber falling, falling, on us lies, Silent and deep, beneath noon-laden skies, Silent and deep, silent and very deep, With blue wings folded o'er our dreaming sleep.

VOICE OF THE EVENING WIND: I have shaken the noon from my wings, I arise To quicken the flame in the western skies-- To blow the clouds to a streaming flame, Where the red sun sinks in the opal sea, And red as the heart of the opal glows His last wild gleam in the waters grey.

O grey-green waters, curling to rose, The kings are glad of the dying day; The kings are weary; the white mists close-- The white mists gather to cover their shame.

ASHALORN: The evening mist is dank upon my brow, And cold upon my lips--yea, cold as death; Yet, through the gloom, she gazes on me now, As in our early-wedded days; her breath Is warm once more upon my withered cheek.

O gaunt, grey lips, that strive but may not speak; O cold, grey eyes, that flicker in the gloam-- Long have we strayed; come, let us wander home!

ARLO: Like lit September woodlands, streameth down Her hair, beneath the circle of her crown; Of rarer, redder glory than the cold Dead metal that for ever strives to hold The ever-straying wonder of live gold!

Like woodland pools, her eyes, a dreaming brown-- Like woodland pools where autumn-splendours drown!

O red-gold tresses, shaking in the gloam, Unto your light, unto your shade I come!

GARLAND: Her eyes are azure as the wind-blown sea, With deep sea-shadowings of grey and green; And like an April storm her shining hair-- Yea, all the glittering Aprils that have been, And all the wondering Aprils yet to be, Have stored their wealth of shower and sunshine there; Yea, all the thousand, thousand springs of earth New-lit and re-awakened at her birth, In her sweet body glow and glimmer fair.

O wonder of sea-colours and white foam And April glories, to thine arms I come!

VOICE OF THE EVENING WIND: The sun is gone, and the last, red flame Has faded away in a shimmer of rose-- A shimmer of rose that shivers to grey.

The kings are glad of the dying day-- The kings are weary; the white mists close, The white mists gather to cover their shame.

THE SONGS OF QUEEN AVERLAINE.

To M. B.

PERSONS: THE KING, QUEEN AVERLAINE, THE KNIGHT ARKELD.