The Poems of William Watson Part 19

For all your many maidens have the head In goodly festal wise engarlanded, With flowers at noon the banquet of the bees, And leaves that in some grove at midday grew: And ever since the falling of the dew Your streets are full of pomps and pageantries, Laughter and song, feasting and dancing:--nay, Surely some wondrous thing hath chanced to-day; O happy hearts, what wondrous thing and new?

II

No, no, ye need not answer any word!

Heard have we all--who lives and hath not heard?-- What thing the sovran Fates have done to-day; Who turn the tides of life which way they please, And sit themselves aloft, aloof, at ease: Dwellers in courts of marble silence they.

No need to ask what thing the Fates have done Between the sunrise and the set of sun, Mute-moving in their twilight fastnesses!

Changeless, aloft, aloof, mute-moving, dim, In ancient fastnesses of twilight--him Have they not sent this day, the long-foretold, The long-foretold and much-desired, of whom 'Twas whilom written in the rolls of doom How in a dream he should this land behold, And hither come from worldwide wandering, Hither where all the folk should hail him king, Our king foredestined from his mother's womb?

Long time he tarried, but the time is past, And he hath come ye waited for, at last: The long-foretold, the much-desired, hath come.

And ye command your minstrels noise abroad With lyre and tongue your joyance and his laud, And, sooth to say, the minstrels are not dumb.

And ever in the pauses of our chant, So for exceeding perfect joy ye pant, We hear the beating of your hearts applaud!

III

And she our Queen--ah, who shall tell what hours She bode his coming in her palace-towers, Unmated she in all the land alone?

'Twas yours, O youths and maids, to clasp and kiss; Desiring and desired ye had your bliss: The Queen she sat upon her loveless throne.

Sleeping she saw his face, but could not find Its phantom's phantom when she waked, nor wind About her finger one gold hair of his.

Often when evening sobered all the air, No doubt but she would sit and marvel where He tarried, by the bounds of what strange sea; And peradventure look at intervals Forth of the windows of her palace walls, And watch the gloaming darken fount and tree; And think on twilight sh.o.r.es, with dreaming caves Full of the groping of bewildered waves, Full of the murmur of their hollow halls.

As flowers desire the kisses of the rain, She his, and many a year desired in vain: She waits no more who waited long enow.

Nor listeth he to wander any more Who went as go the winds from sea to sh.o.r.e, From sh.o.r.e to sea who went as the winds go.

The winds do seek a place of rest; the flowers Look for the rain; but in a while the showers Come, and the winds lie down, their wanderings o'er.

ANGELO.

Seven moons, new moons, had eastward set their horns Averted from the sun; seven moons, old moons, Westward their sun-averted horns had set; Since Angelo had brought his young bride home, Lucia, to queen it in his Tuscan halls.

And much the folk had marvelled on that day Seeing the bride how young and fair she was, How all unlike the groom; for she had known Twenty and five soft summers woo the world, He twice as many winters take 't by storm.

And in those half-an-hundred winters,--ay, And in the summer's blaze, and blush of spring, And pomp of grave and grandiose autumntides,-- Full many a wind had beat upon his heart, Of grief and frustrate hope full many a wind, And rains full many, but no rains could damp The fuel that was stored within; which lay Unlighted, waiting for the tinder-touch, Until a chance spark fall'n from Lucia's eyes Kindled the fuel, and the fire was love: Not such as rises blown upon the wind, Goaded to flame by gusts of phantasy, But still, and needing no replenishment, Unquenchable, that would not be put out.

Albeit the lady Lucia's bosom lacked The ore had made her heart a richer mine Than earth's auriferous heart unsunned; from her Love went not out, in whom there was no love.

Cold from the first, her breast grew frore, and bit Her kind lord's bosom with its stinging frost.

Because he loved the fields and forests, made Few banquetings for highborn winebibbers, Eschewed the city and led no sumptuous life, She, courtly, sneered at his uncourtliness, Deeming his manners of a bygone mode.

And for that he was gentle overmuch, And overmuch forbearant, she despised, Mocked, slighted, taunted him, and of her scorn Made a sharp shaft to wound his life at will.

She filled her cup with hate and bade him drink, And he returned it br.i.m.m.i.n.g o'er with love.

And so seven moons had waxed and waned since these Were wedded. And it chanced, one morn of Spring Lucia bespake her spouse in even more Ungentle wise than was her wont, and he, For the first time, reproved her;--not as one That having from another ta'en ill words Will e'en cry quits and barter words as ill; But liker as a father, whom his child With insolent lips hath wounded, chides the child Less than he knows it had been wise to do, Saying within himself: "The time will come When thou wilt think on thy dead father, how Thou might'st have spoken gentlier unto him One day, when yet thy father was alive: So shall thy heart rebuke thy heart enow:"-- Ev'n thus did Angelo reprove his wife.

But though the words from his rough-bearded lips Were like sweet water from the mouth of some Rock-fountain hewn with elemental hands, They fell as water cast i' the fire, to be Consumed with hissing rage. Her wrath, let loose, Blew to and fro, and hither and thither, like A wind that seems to have forgotten whence It came, and whither it was bidden blow.

She cursed the kinsfolk who had willed that she Should wed with him; and cursed herself that gave Ear to the utterance of their will; and cursed The day on which their will became her deed: Saying--and this he knew not until now-- "Fool, I should ne'er have wedded thee at all, No, neither thee nor any like to thee, Had not my father wellnigh forced me to 't."

And he that hearkened, the Lord Angelo, Spake not a word, but bowed his head, and went Forth of his castle to the forest nigh, And roamed all day about the forest, filled With grief, and marvelling at her lack of love.

But that which sorelier bruised his breast than ev'n Lucia's exceeding lack of love for him, Was this new knowledge, that in taking her To wife--in the very act of taking her To wife--himself had crossed the secret will Of her whose will in all things it had been His soul's most perfect bliss to gratify.

Wherefore, to make atonement, in some sort, For this one wrong he deemed that he had done The woman--this one crossing of her will-- He knelt him down under the brooding shade Of a huge oak, and vowed 'fore heaven a vow: To wit, that Lucia never afterward Should in his hearing utter forth a wish For aught of earthly but himself would see That wish fulfilled, if such fulfilment were An end that mortal man could compa.s.s. Then Uprising, he beheld the sinking sun A vast round eye gaze in upon the wood Through leafy lattice of its nether boughs: Whereat he turned him castlewards, and owned A lighter heart than he had borne that day.

Homeward his face no sooner had he set Than through the woods came riding unto him A stranger, of a goodly personage, Young, and right richly habited, who stayed His horse, and greeted Angelo, and said: "I pray you, sir, direct me how to find An hostel, if there be such hereabouts; For I have ridden far, and lost my way Among these woods, and twilight is at hand."

Then he that heard replied to him that asked, Saying: "The nearest inn is farther hence Than mine own house; make therefore mine own house Your inn for this one night, and unto such Poor entertainment as my house affords You are most welcome." So the stranger thanked In courtly speeches the Lord Angelo, Gladly accepting hospitalities That were so gladly proffered; and the two Fared on together, host and guest that were To be, until they reached the castle, where Angelo dwelt, and where his fathers lived Before him, lords of land, in olden days.

And entering in, the castle's later lord Led the young signor to the chamber where The lady Lucia sat, who rose to give The stranger courteous welcome. (When she chose, Of looks and lips more gracious none than she.) But soon as she beheld the young man's face, A sudden pallor seized her own, and back She started, wellnigh swooning, but regained Her wonted self as suddenly, declared 'Twas but a momentary sickness went Arrow-like through her, sharp, but therewithal Brief as the breath's one ebb and flow; and which, Pa.s.sing, had left her painless as before.

And truly, from that moment she appeared More brightly beautiful, if Angelo Erred not, than she had looked for many a day.

So in brief while the stranger-guest sat down, With host and hostess, to a table charged With delicate meats, and fragrant fruits, and wine.

And when the meal was over, and themselves Were with themselves alone--the serving-men Having withdrawn--a cheerful converse rose Concerning divers matters old and new.

And Angelo that evening let his tongue Range more at freedom than he used; for though No man was less to prating given than he, Yet, when he liked his listener, he could make His mouth discourse in such a wise that few Had failed to give delighted audience.

For he had learning, and, besides the lore Won from his books, a better wisdom owned-- A knowledge of the stuff whence books are made, The human mind and all it feeds upon.

And, in his youth a wanderer, he had roamed O'er many countries, not as one who sees With eyes alone, and hearkens but with ears; Rather as who would slake the thirst of the soul By sucking wisdom from the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the world.

Wherefore the hours flew lightly, winged with words; Till Angelo, from telling of his own Young days and early fortunes good and ill, Was with remembrance smitten, as it chanced, Of some old grief 'twas grief to think upon.

And so he changed his theme o' the sudden, donned A shadowy mask of laboured pleasantry, And said: "My wife, sir, hath a pretty gift Of singing and of luting: it may be If you should let your tongue turn mendicant-- Not for itself but for its needy kin, Your ears--she might be got to give an alms For those twin brethren." Whereupon the guest Unto his hostess turned and smiling said: "That were indeed a golden alms your voice Could well afford, and never know itself The poorer, being a mint of suchlike coin."

And she made answer archly: "I have oft Heard flatterers of a woman's singing say Her voice was silvery:--to compare 't with gold Is sure a new conceit. But, sir, you praise My singing, who have not yet heard me sing."

And he: "I take it that a woman's speech Is to her singing what a bird's low chirp Is to _its_ singing: and if Philomel Chirp in the hearing of the woodman, he Knows 'tis the nightingale that chirps, and so Expects nought meaner than its sovereign song.

Madam, 'tis thus your speaking-voice hath given Earnest of what your singing-voice will be; And therefore I entreat you not to dash The expectations you have raised so high, By your refusal." And she answered him: "Nay, if you think to hear a nightingale, I doubt refusal could not dash them more Than will compliance. But in very truth, The boon you crave so small and worthless is, 'Twere miserly to grudge it. Where's my lute?"

So saying, she bethought her suddenly-- Or feigned to have bethought her suddenly-- How she had left the lute that afternoon Lying upon an arbour-seat, when she Grew tired of fingering the strings of it-- Down in the garden, where she wont to walk, Her lute loquacious to the trees' deaf trunks.

And Angelo, right glad to render her Such little graceful offices of love, And gladder yet with hope to hear her sing Who had denied his asking many a time, Awaited not another word, but rose And said, "Myself will bring it," and before She could a.s.sent or disapprove, was gone.

Scarce had he left the chamber when behold His wife uprose, and his young stranger-guest Uprose, and in a trice they cast their arms About each other, kissed each other, called Each other _dear_ and _love_, till Lucia said: "Why cam'st thou not before, my Ugo, whom I loved, who lovedst me, for many a day, For many a paradisal day, ere yet I saw that lean fool with the grizzled beard Who's gone a-questing for his true wife's lute?"

And he made answer: "I had come erenow, But that my father, dying, left a load Of c.u.mbrous duties I had needs perform-- Dry, peevish, crabbed business at the best, Impertinences indispensable, Acc.u.mulated dulness, if you will, Such as I would not irk your ears withal: Howbeit I came at last, and nigh a week Have tarried in the region hereabouts, Unknown--and yearning for one glimpse of you, One word, one kiss from you, if even it were One only and the last; until, to-day, Roaming the neighbouring forest, I espied Your husband, guessed it was your husband, feigned I was a traveller who had lost myself Among the woods, received from him--ah, now You laugh, and truly 'tis a famous jest-- A courteous invitation to his house, Deemed it were churlish to refuse, and so-- And so am here, your Ugo, with a heart The loyal subject of your sovereign heart, As in old days." Therewith he sat him down, And softly drawing her upon his knee Made him a zone of her lascivious arms.

But thus encinctured hardly had he sat A moment, when, returning, Angelo Stood at the threshold of the room, and held The door half opened, and so standing saw The lovers, and they saw not him; for half The chamber lay in shadow, by no lamp Lighted, or window to admit the moon: And there the entrance was, and Angelo.

And listening to their speech a little s.p.a.ce, The fugitive brief moments were to him A pyramid of piled eternities.

For while he hearkened, Ugo said: "My love, Answer me this one question, which may seem Idle, yet is not;--how much lov'st thou me?"

And she replied: "I love thee just as much As I do hate my husband, and no more."

Then he: "But prithee how much hatest thou Thy husband?" And she answered: "Ev'n as much As I love thee. To hate him one whit more Than that, were past the power of Lucia's hate."

And Ugo: "If thou lovest me so much, Grant me one gift in token of thy love."

Then she: "What would'st thou?" And he answered her: "Even thyself; no poorer gift will I."

But Lucia said: "Nay, have I not bestowed My love, which is my soul, my richer self?

My poorer self, which is my body, how Can I bestow, when 'tis not in mine own Possession, being his property forsooth, Who holds the ecclesiastic t.i.tle-deed?...

Yet--but I know not ... if I grant this boon, Bethink thee, how wilt carry hence the gift?

Quick. For the time is all-too brief to waste."

And Ugo spake with hurrying tongue: "Right so: To-morrow, therefore, when the sun hath set, Quit thou the castle, all alone, and haste To yonder tarn that lies amid the trees Haply a furlong westward from your house-- The gloomy lakelet fringed with pines--and there Upon the hither margin thou shalt find Me, and two with me, mounted all, and armed, With a fourth steed to bear thee on his back: And thou shalt fly with me, my Lucia, till Thou reach my castle in the mountain'd North, Whose mistress I will make thee, and mine own."

Then Lucia said: "But how if Angelo Pursue and overtake us?" Whereupon Ugo replied: "Pursue he may,--o'ertake He shall not, save he saddle him the wind.

Besides--to grant the impossible--if he _Were_ to o'ertake us, he could only strive To win you back with argument; wherein My servants, at their master's bidding, could Debate with him on more than equal terms: Cold steel convinces warmest disputants.

Or, if to see the bosom marital Impierced, would make your own consorted heart Bleed sympathetic, some more mild--" But she, The beauteous Fury, interrupted him With pa.s.sionate-pallid lips: "Reproach me not Beforehand--even in jest reproach me not-- With imputation of such tenderness For _him_ and _his_ life--when thou knowest how I hate, hate, hate him,--when thou knowest how I wish, and wish, and wish, that he were dead."

Then Angelo bethought him of his vow; And stepping forward stood before the twain; And from his girdle plucked a dagger forth; And spake no word, but pierced his own heart through.

THE QUESTIONER

I asked of heaven and earth and sea, Saying: "O wondrous trinity, Deign to make answer unto me, And tell me truly what ye be."

And they made answer: "Verily, The mask before His face are we, Because 'tis writ no man can see His face and live;"--so spake the three.

Then I: "O wondrous trinity, A mask is but a mockery-- Make answer yet again to me And tell if aught besides are ye."

And they made answer: "Verily, The robe around His form are we, That sick and sore mortality May touch its hem and healed be."