Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  But do thou, sweet, otherwise,

  Having heed of all our prayer,

  Taking note of all our sighs;

  We beseech thee by thy light,

  By thy bow, and thy sweet eyes,

  And the kingdom of the night,

  Be thou favourable and fair;

  By thine arrows and thy might

  And Orion overthrown;

  By the maiden thy delight,

  By the indissoluble zone

  And the sacred hair.

  MESSENGER.

  Maidens, if ye will sing now, shift your song,

  Bow down, cry, wail for pity; is this a time

  For singing? nay, for strewing of dust and ash,

  Rent raiment, and for bruising of the breast.

  CHORUS.

  What new thing wolf-like lurks behind thy words?

  What snake’s tongue in thy lips? what fire in the eyes?

  MESSENGER.

  Bring me before the queen and I will speak.

  CHORUS.

  Lo, she comes forth as from thank-offering made.

  MESSENGER.

  A barren offering for a bitter gift.

  ALTHAEA.

  What are these borne on branches, and the face

  Covered? no mean men living, but now slain

  Such honour have they, if any dwell with death.

  MESSENGER.

  Queen, thy twain brethren and thy mother’s sons.

  ALTHAEA.

  Lay down your dead till I behold their blood

  If it be mine indeed, and I will weep.

  MESSENGER,

  Weep if thou wilt, for these men shall no more.

  ALTHAEA.

  O brethren, O my father’s sons, of me

  Well loved and well reputed, I should weep

  Tears dearer than the dear blood drawn from you

  But that I know you not uncomforted,

  Sleeping no shameful sleep, however slain,

  For my son surely hath avenged you dead.

  MESSENGER.

  Nay, should thine own seed slay himself, O queen?

  ALTHAEA.

  Thy double word brings forth a double death.

  MESSENGER.

  Know this then singly, by one hand they fell.

  ALTHAEA.

  What mutterest thou with thine ambiguous mouth?

  MESSENGER.

  Slain by thy son’s hand; is that saying so hard?

  ALTHAEA.

  Our time is come upon us: it is here.

  CHORUS.

  O miserable, and spoiled at thine own hand.

  ALTHAEA.

  Wert thou not called Meleager from this womb?

  CHORUS.

  A grievous huntsman hath it bred to thee.

  ALTHAEA.

  Wert thou born fire, and shalt thou not devour?

  CHORUS.

  The fire thou madest, will it consume even thee?

  ALTHAEA.

  My dreams are fallen upon me; burn thou too.

  CHORUS.

  Not without God are visions born and die.

  ALTHAEA.

  The gods are many about me; I am one.

  CHORUS

  She groans as men wrestling with heavier gods.

  ALTHAEA.

  They rend me, they divide me, they destroy.

  CHORUS.

  Or one labouring in travail of strange births.

  ALTHAEA.

  They are strong, they are strong; I am broken, and these prevail.

  CHORUS.

  The god is great against her; she will die.

  ALTHAEA.

  Yea, but not now; for my heart too is great.

  I would I were not here in sight of the sun.

  But thou, speak all thou sawest, and I will die.

  I would I were not here in sight of the sun.

  MESSENGER.

  O queen, for queenlike hast thou borne thyself,

  A little word may hold so great mischance.

  For in division of the sanguine spoil

  These men thy brethren wrangling bade yield up

  The boar’s head and the horror of the hide

  That this might stand a wonder in Calydon,

  Hallowed; and some drew toward them; but thy son

  With great hands grasping all that weight of hair

  Cast down the dead heap clanging and collapsed

  At female feet, saying This thy spoil not mine,

  Maiden, thine own hand for thyself hath reaped,

  And all this praise God gives thee: she thereat

  Laughed, as when dawn touches the sacred night

  The sky sees laugh and redden and divide

  Dim lips and eyelids virgin of the sun,

  Hers, and the warm slow breasts of morning heave,

  Fruitful, and flushed with flame from lamp-lit hours,

  And maiden undulation of clear hair

  Colour the clouds; so laughed she from pure heart

  Lit with a low blush to the braided hair,

  And rose-coloured and cold like very dawn,

  Golden and godlike, chastely with chaste lips,

  A faint grave laugh; and all they held their peace,

  And she passed by them. Then one cried Lo now,

  Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips at us,

  Saying all we were despoiled by this one girl?

  And all they rode against her violently

  And cast the fresh crown from her hair, and now

  They had rent her spoil away, dishonouring her,

  Save that Meleager, as a tame lion chafed,

  Bore on them, broke them, and as fire cleaves wood

  So clove and drove them, smitten in twain; but she

  Smote not nor heaved up hand; and this man first,

  Plexippus, crying out This for love’s sake, sweet,

  Drove at Meleager, who with spear straightening

  Pierced his cheek through; then Toxeus made for him,

  Dumb, but his spear spake; vain and violent words,

  Fruitless; for him too stricken through both sides

  The earth felt falling, and his horse’s foam

  Blanched thy son’s face, his slayer; and these being slain,

  None moved nor spake; but Oeneus bade bear hence

  These made of heaven infatuate in their deaths,

  Foolish; for these would baffle fate, and fell.

  And they passed on, and all men honoured her,

  Being honourable, as one revered of heaven.

  ALTHAEA.

  What say you, women? is all this not well done?

  CHORUS.

  No man doth well but God hath part in him.

  ALTHAEA.

  But no part here; for these my brethren born

  Ye have no part in, these ye know not of

  As I that was their sister, a sacrifice

  Slain in their slaying. I would I had died for these,

  For this man dead walked with me, child by child,

  And made a weak staff for my feebler feet

  With his own tender wrist and hand, and held

  And led me softly and shewed me gold and steel

  And shining shapes of mirror and bright crown

  And all things fair; and threw light spears, and brought

  Young hounds to huddle at my feet and thrust

  Tame heads against my little maiden breasts

  And please me with great eyes; and those days went

  And these are bitter and I a barren queen

  And sister miserable, a grievous thing

  And mother of many curses; and she too,

  My sister Leda, sitting overseas

  With fair fruits round her, and her faultless lord,

  Shall curse me, saying A sorrow and not a son,

  Sister, thou barest, even a burning fire,

  A brand consuming thine own soul and me.

  But ye now, sons of Thestius, make good cheer,

  For ye shall have such
wood to funeral fire

  As no king hath; and flame that once burnt down

  Oil shall not quicken or breath relume or wine

  Refresh again; much costlier than fine gold,

  And more than many lives of wandering men.

  CHORUS.

  O queen, thou hast yet with thee love-worthy things,

  Thine husband, and the great strength of thy son.

  ALTHAEA.

  Who shall get brothers for me while I live?

  Who bear them? who bring forth in lieu of these?

  Are not our fathers and our brethren one,

  And no man like them? are not mine here slain?

  Have we not hung together, he and I,

  Flowerwise feeding as the feeding bees,

  With mother-milk for honey? and this man too,

  Dead, with my son’s spear thrust between his sides,

  Hath he not seen us, later born than he,

  Laugh with lips filled, and laughed again for love?

  There were no sons then in the world, nor spears,

  Nor deadly births of women; but the gods

  Allowed us, and our days were clear of these.

  I would I had died unwedded, and brought forth

  No swords to vex the world; for these that spake

  Sweet words long since and loved me will not speak

  Nor love nor look upon me; and all my life

  I shall not hear nor see them living men.

  But I too living, how shall I now live?

  What life shall this be with my son, to know

  What hath been and desire what will not be,

  Look for dead eyes and listen for dead lips,

  And kill mine own heart with remembering them,

  And with those eyes that see their slayer alive

  Weep, and wring hands that clasp him by the hand?

  How shall I bear my dreams of them, to hear

  False voices, feel the kisses of false mouths

  And footless sound of perished feet, and then

  Wake and hear only it may be their own hounds

  Whine masterless in miserable sleep,

  And see their boar-spears and their beds and seats

  And all the gear and housings of their lives

  And not the men? shall hounds and horses mourn,

  Pine with strange eyes, and prick up hungry ears,

  Famish and fail at heart for their dear lords,

  And I not heed at all? and those blind things

  Fall off from life for love’s sake, and I live?

  Surely some death is better than some life,

  Better one death for him and these and me

  For if the gods had slain them it may be

  I had endured it; if they had fallen by war

  Or by the nets and knives of privy death

  And by hired hands while sleeping, this thing too

  I had set my soul to suffer; or this hunt,

  Had this dispatched them, under tusk or tooth

  Torn, sanguine, trodden, broken; for all deaths

  Or honourable or with facile feet avenged

  And hands of swift gods following, all save this,

  Are bearable; but not for their sweet land

  Fighting, but not a sacrifice, lo these

  Dead, for I had not then shed all mine heart

  Out at mine eyes: then either with good speed,

  Being just, I had slain their slayer atoningly,

  Or strewn with flowers their fire and on their tombs

  Hung crowns, and over them a song, and seen

  Their praise outflame their ashes: for all men,

  All maidens, had come thither, and from pure lips

  Shed songs upon them, from heroic eyes

  Tears; and their death had been a deathless life;

  But now, by no man hired nor alien sword,

  By their own kindred are they fallen, in peace,

  After much peril, friendless among friends,

  By hateful hands they loved; and how shall mine

  Touch these returning red and not from war,

  These fatal from the vintage of men’s veins,

  Dead men my brethren? how shall these wash off

  No festal stains of undelightful wine,

  How mix the blood, my blood on them, with me,

  Holding mine hand? or how shall I say, son,

  That am no sister? but by night and day

  Shall we not sit and hate each other, and think

  Things hate-worthy? not live with shamefast eyes,

  Brow-beaten, treading soft with fearful feet,

  Each unupbraided, each without rebuke

  Convicted, and without a word reviled

  Each of another? and I shall let thee live

  And see thee strong and hear men for thy sake

  Praise me, but these thou wouldest not let live

  No man shall praise for ever? these shall lie

  Dead, unbeloved, unholpen, all through thee?

  Sweet were they toward me living, and mine heart

  Desired them, but was then well satisfied,

  That now is as men hungered; and these dead

  I shall want always to the day I die.

  For all things else and all men may renew;

  Yea, son for son the gods may give and take,

  But never a brother or sister any more.

  CHORUS.

  Nay, for the son lies close about thine heart,

  Full of thy milk, warm from thy womb, and drains

  Life and the blood of life and all thy fruit,

  Eats thee and drinks thee as who breaks bread and eats,

  Treads wine and drinks, thyself, a sect of thee;

  And if he feed not, shall not thy flesh faint?

  Or drink not, are not thy lips dead for thirst?

  This thing moves more than all things, even thy son,

  That thou cleave to him; and he shall honour thee,

  Thy womb that bare him and the breasts he knew,

  Reverencing most for thy sake all his gods.

  ALTHAEA.

  But these the gods too gave me, and these my son,

  Not reverencing his gods nor mine own heart

  Nor the old sweet years nor all venerable things,

  But cruel, and in his ravin like a beast,

  Hath taken away to slay them: yea, and she,

  She the strange woman, she the flower, the sword,

  Red from spilt blood, a mortal flower to men,

  Adorable, detestable — even she

  Saw with strange eyes and with strange lips rejoiced,

  Seeing these mine own slain of mine own, and me

  Made miserable above all miseries made,

  A grief among all women in the world,

  A name to be washed out with all men’s tears.

  CHORUS.

  Strengthen thy spirit; is this not also a god,

  Chance, and the wheel of all necessities?

  Hard things have fallen upon us from harsh gods,

  Whom lest worse hap rebuke we not for these.

  ALTHAEA.

  My spirit is strong against itself, and I

  For these things’ sake cry out on mine own soul

  That it endures outrage, and dolorous days,

  And life, and this inexpiable impotence.

  Weak am I, weak and shameful; my breath drawn

  Shames me, and monstrous things and violent gods.

  What shall atone? what heal me? what bring back

  Strength to the foot, light to the face? what herb

  Assuage me? what restore me? what release?

  What strange thing eaten or drunken, O great gods.

  Make me as you or as the beasts that feed,

  Slay and divide and cherish their own hearts?

  For these ye show us; and we less than these

  Have not wherewith to live as all these things

  Which all their lives fare after their own kind
<
br />   As who doth well rejoicing; but we ill,

  Weeping or laughing, we whom eyesight fails,

  Knowledge and light efface and perfect heart,

  And hands we lack, and wit; and all our days

  Sin, and have hunger, and die infatuated.

  For madness have ye given us and not health,

  And sins whereof we know not; and for these

  Death, and sudden destruction unaware.

  What shall we say now? what thing comes of us?

  CHORUS.

  Alas, for all this all men undergo.

  ALTHAEA.

  Wherefore I will not that these twain, O gods,

  Die as a dog dies, eaten of creeping things,

  Abominable, a loathing; but though dead

  Shall they have honour and such funereal flame

  As strews men’s ashes in their enemies’ face

  And blinds their eyes who hate them: lest men say,

  ’Lo how they lie, and living had great kin,

  And none of these hath pity of them, and none

  Regards them lying, and none is wrung at heart,

  None moved in spirit for them, naked and slain,

  Abhorred, abased, and no tears comfort them:’

  And in the dark this grieve Eurythemis,

  Hearing how these her sons come down to her

  Unburied, unavenged, as kinless men,

  And had a queen their sister. That were shame

  Worse than this grief. Yet how to atone at all

  I know not, seeing the love of my born son,

  A new-made mother’s new-born love, that grows

  From the soft child to the strong man, now soft

  Now strong as either, and still one sole same love,

  Strives with me, no light thing to strive withal;

  This love is deep, and natural to man’s blood,

  And ineffaceable with many tears.

  Yet shall not these rebuke me though I die,

  Nor she in that waste world with all her dead,

  My mother, among the pale flocks fallen as leaves,

  Folds of dead people, and alien from the sun;

  Nor lack some bitter comfort, some poor praise,