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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Be lord of women’s thoughts and loving fears?

  Nay, wert thou less than lord of worlds and years,

  Of stars and suns and seasons, couldst thou dream

  To take such empire on thee?

  LOCRINE.

  Nay, not I -

  No more than she there playing beside the stream

  To slip within a stormier stream and die.

  ESTRILD.

  She runs too near the brink. Sabrina!

  LOCRINE.

  See,

  Her hands are lily-laden: let them be

  A flower-sweet symbol for us.

  Enter SABRINA.

  SABRINA.

  Sire! O sire,

  See what fresh flowers — you knew not these before -

  The spring has brought, to serve my heart’s desire,

  Forth of the river’s barren bed! no more

  Will I rebuke these banks for sterile sloth

  When spring restores the woodlands. By my troth,

  I hoped not, when you came again, to bring

  So large a tribute worth so full a smile.

  LOCRINE.

  Child! how should I to thee pay tribute?

  ESTRILD.

  King,

  Thou hast not kissed her.

  LOCRINE.

  Dare my lips defile

  Heaven? O my love, in sight of her and thee

  I marvel how the sun should look on me

  And spare to turn his beams to fire.

  ESTRILD.

  The child

  Hears, and is troubled.

  SABRINA.

  Did I wrong, to say

  ‘Sire?’ but you bade me say so. He is mild,

  And will not chide me. Father!

  ESTRILD.

  Hear’st thou?

  LOCRINE.

  Yea -

  I hear. I would the world beyond our sight

  Were dead as worlds forgotten.

  ESTRILD.

  Wouldst thou fright

  Her?

  LOCRINE.

  Hath all sense forsaken me? Sabrina,

  Thou dost not fear me?

  SABRINA.

  No. But when your eyes

  Wax red and dark, with flaughts of fire between,

  I fear them — or they fright me.

  LOCRINE.

  Wert thou wise,

  They would not. Never have I looked on thee

  So.

  SABRINA.

  Nay — I fear not what might fall on me.

  Here laughs my father — here my mother smiles -

  Here smiles and laughs the water — what should I

  Fear?

  LOCRINE.

  Nought more fearful than the water’s wiles -

  Which whoso fears not ere he fear shall die.

  SABRINA.

  Die? and is death no less an ill than dread?

  I had liefer die than be nor quick nor dead.

  I think there is no death but fear of death.

  LOCRINE.

  Of death or life or anything but love

  What knowest thou?

  SABRINA.

  Less than these, my mother saith -

  Less than the flowers that seeing all heaven above

  Fade and wax hoar or darken, lose their trust

  And leave their joy and let their glories rust

  And die for fear ere winter wound them: we

  Live no less glad of snowtime than of spring:

  It cannot change my father’s face for me

  Nor turn from mine away my mother’s. King

  They call thee: hath thy kingship made thee less

  In height of heart than we are?

  LOCRINE.

  No, and yes.

  Here sits my heart at height of hers and thine,

  Laughing for love: here not the quiring birds

  Sing higher than sings my spirit: I am here Locrine,

  Whom no sound vexes here of swords or words,

  No cloud of thought or thunder: were my life

  Crowned but as lord and sire of child and wife,

  Throned but as prince of woodland, bank and bower,

  My joys were then imperial, and my state

  Firm as a star, that now is as a flower.

  SABRINA.

  Thou shouldst not then — if joy grow here so great -

  Part from us.

  LOCRINE.

  No: for joy grows elsewhere scant.

  SABRINA.

  I would fain see the towers of Troynovant.

  LOCRINE.

  God keep thine eyes fulfilled with sweeter sights,

  And this one from them ever!

  SABRINA.

  Why? Men say

  Thine halls are full of guests, princes and knights,

  And lordly musters of superb array;

  Why are we thence alone, and alway?

  ESTRILD.

  Peace,

  Child: let thy babble change its note, or cease

  Here; is thy sire not wiser — by God’s grace -

  Than I or thou?

  LOCRINE.

  Wouldst thou too see fulfilled

  The fear whose shadow fallen on joy’s fair face

  Strikes it more sad than sorrow’s own? Estrild,

  Wast thou then happier ere this wildwood shrine

  Hid thee from homage, left thee but Locrine

  For worshipper less worthy grace of thee

  Than those thy sometime suppliants?

  ESTRILD.

  Nay; my lord

  Takes too much thought — if tongues ring true — for me.

  LOCRINE.

  Such tongues ring falser than a broken chord

  Whose jar distunes the music.

  ESTRILD.

  Wilt thou stay

  But three nights here?

  LOCRINE.

  I had need be hence today.

  ESTRILD.

  Go.

  SABRINA.

  But I bid thee tarry; what am I

  That thou shouldst heed not what I bid thee?

  LOCRINE.

  Queen

  And empress more imperious and more high

  And regent royaller than time hath seen

  And mightier mistress of thy sire and thrall:

  Yet must I go. But ere the next moon fall

  Again will I grow happy.

  ESTRILD.

  Who can say?

  LOCRINE.

  So much can I — except the stars combine

  Unseasonably to stay me.

  ESTRILD.

  Let them stay

  The tides, the seasons rather. Love! Locrine!

  I never parted from thee, nor shall part,

  Save with a fire more keen than fire at heart:

  But now the pang that wrings me, soul and sense,

  And turns fair day to darkness deep as hell,

  Warns me, the word that seals thy parting hence -

  ‘Farewell’ — shall bid us never more fare well.

  SABRINA.

  Lo! she too bids thee tarry; dost thou not

  Hear?

  LOCRINE.

  Might I choose, small need were hers, God wot,

  Or thine, to bid me tarry. When I come

  Again -

  SABRINA.

  Thou shalt not see me: I will hide

  From sight of such a sire — or bow down dumb

  Before him — strong and hard as he in pride -

  And so thou shalt not hear me.

  LOCRINE.

  Who can tell?

  So now say I.

  ESTRILD.

  God keep my lord!

  LOCRINE.

  Farewell.

  [Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — Troynovant. A Room in the Palace.

  Enter GUENDOLEN and MADAN.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Come close, and look upon me. Child or man, -

  I know not how to call thee, being my child,

  Who know not how myself am
called, nor can -

  God witness — tell thee what should she be styled

  Who bears the brand and burden set on her

  That man hath set on me — the lands are wild

  Whence late I bade thee hither, swift of spur

  As he that rides to guard his mother’s life;

  Thou hast found nought loathlier there, nought hate-fuller

  In all the wilds that seethe with fluctuant strife,

  Than here besets thine advent. Son, if thou

  Be son of mine, and I thy father’s wife -

  MADAN.

  If heaven be heaven, and God be God.

  GUENDOLEN.

  As now

  We know not if they be. Give me thine hand.

  Thou hast mine eyes beneath thy father’s brow, -

  And therefore bears it not the traitor’s brand.

  Swear — But I would not bid thee swear in vain

  Nor bind thee ere thine own soul understand,

  Ere thine own heart be molten with my pain,

  To do such work for bitter love of me

  As haply, knowing my heart, thou wert not fain -

  Even thou — to take upon thee — bind on thee -

  Set all thy soul to do or die.

  MADAN.

  I swear.

  GUENDOLEN.

  And though thou sworest not, yet the thing should be.

  The burden found for me so sore to bear

  Why should I lay on any hand but mine,

  Or bid thine own take part therein, and wear

  A father’s blood upon it — here — for sign?

  Ay, now thou pluck’st it forth of hers to whom

  Thou sworest and gavest it plighted. O Locrine,

  Thy seed it was that sprang within my womb,

  Thine, and none other — traitor born and liar,

  False-faced, false-tongued — the fire of hell consume

  Me, thee, and him for ever!

  MADAN.

  Hath my sire

  Wronged thee?

  GUENDOLEN.

  Thy sire? my lord? the flower of men?

  How?

  MADAN.

  For thy tongue was tipped but now with fire -

  With fire of hell — against him.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Now, and then,

  Are twain; thou knowest not women, how their tongue

  Takes fire, and straight learns patience: Guendolen

  Is there no more than crownless woman, wrung

  At heart with anguish, and in utterance mad

  As even the meanest whom a snake hath stung

  So near the heart that all the pulse it had

  Grows palpitating poison. Wilt thou know

  Whence?

  MADAN.

  Could I heal it, then mine own were glad.

  GUENDOLEN.

  What think’st thou were the bitterest wrong, the woe

  Least bearable by woman, worst of all

  That man might lay upon her? Nay, thou art slow:

  Speak: though thou speak but folly. Silent? Call

  To mind whatso thou hast ever heard of ill

  Most monstrous, that should turn to fire and gall

  The milk and blood of maid or mother — still

  Thou shalt not find, I think, what he hath done -

  What I endure, and die not. For my will

  It is that holds me yet alive, O son,

  Till all my wrong be wroken, here to keep

  Fast watch, a living soul before the sun,

  Anhungered and athirst for night and sleep,

  That will not slake the ravin of her thirst

  Nor quench her fire of hunger, till she reap

  The harvest loved of all men, last as first -

  Vengeance.

  MADAN.

  What wrong is this he hath done thee? Words

  Are edgeless weapons: live we blest or curst,

  No jot the more of evil or good engirds

  The life with bitterest curses compassed round

  Or girt about with blessing. Hinds and herds

  Wage threats and brawl and wrangle: wind and sound

  Suffice their souls for vengeance: we require

  Deeds, and till place for these and time be found

  Silence. What bids thee bid me slay my sire?

  GUENDOLEN.

  I praise the gods that gave me thee: thine heart

  Is none of his, no changeling’s in desire,

  No coward’s as who begat thee: mine thou art

  All, and mine only. Lend me now thine ear:

  Thou knowest -

  MADAN.

  What anguish holds thy lips apart

  And strikes thee silent? Am I bound to hear

  What thou to speak art bound not?

  GUENDOLEN.

  How my lord,

  Our lord, thy sire — the king whose throne is here

  Imperial — smote and drove the wolf-like horde

  That raged against us from the raging east,

  And how their chief sank in the unsounded ford

  He thought to traverse, till the floods increased

  Against him, and he perished: and Locrine

  Found in his camp for sovereign spoil to feast

  The sense of power with lustier joy than wine

  A woman — Dost thou mock me?

  MADAN.

  And a fair

  Woman, if all men lie not, mother mine -

  I have heard so much. And then?

  GUENDOLEN.

  Thou dost not dare

  Mock me?

  MADAN.

  I know not what should make thee mad

  Though this and worse, howbeit it irk thee, were.

  Art thou discrowned, dethroned, disrobed, unclad

  Of empire? art thou powerless, bloodless, old?

  This were some hurt: but now — thou shouldst be glad

  To take this chance upon thee, and to hold

  So large a lordly happiness in hand

  As when my father’s and thy lord’s is cold

  Shall leave in thine the sway of all this land.

  GUENDOLEN.

  And thou? no she-wolf whelps upon the wold

  Whose brood is like thy mother’s.

  MADAN.

  Nay — I stand

  A man thy son before thee.

  GUENDOLEN.

  And a bold

  Man: is thine heart flesh, or a burning brand

  Lit to burn up and turn for thee to gold

  The kingship of thy sire?

  MADAN.

  Why, blessed or banned,

  We thrive alike — thou knowest it — why, but now

  I said so, — scarce the glass has dropped one sand -

  And thou didst smile on me — and all thy brow

  Smiled.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Thou dost love then, thou, thy mother yet -

  Me, dost thou love a little? None but thou

  There is to love me; for the gods forget -

  Nor shall one hear of me a prayer again;

  Yea, none of all whose thrones in heaven are set

  Shall hear, nor one of all the sons of men.

  MADAN.

  What wouldst thou have?

  GUENDOLEN.

  Thou knowest.

  MADAN.

  I know not. Speak.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Have I kept silence all this while?

  MADAN.

  What then?

  What boots it though thy word, thine eye, thy cheek,

  Seem all one fire together, if that fire

  Sink, and thy face change, and thine heart wax weak,

  To hear what deed should slake thy sore desire

  And satiate thee with healing? This alone -

  Except thine heart be softer toward my sire

  Still than a maid’s who hears a wood-dove moan

  And weeps for pity — this should comfort thee:

  His
death.

  GUENDOLEN.

  And sight of Madan on his throne?

  MADAN

  What ailed thy wits, mother, to send for me?

  GUENDOLEN.

  Yet shalt thou not go back.

  MADAN.

  Why, what should I

  Do here, where vengeance has not heart to be

  And wrath dies out in weeping? Let it die -

  And let me go.

  GUENDOLEN.

  I did not bid thee spare.

  MADAN.

  Speak then, and bid me smite.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Thy father?

  MADAN.

  Ay -

  If thus it please my mother.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Dost thou dare

  This?

  MADAN.

  Nay, I lust not after empire so

  That for mine own hand I should haply care

  To take this deed upon it: but the blow,

  Thou sayest, that speeds my father forth of life,

  Speeds too my mother forth of living woe

  That till he dies may die not. If his wife

  Set in his son’s right hand the sword to slay -

  No poison brewed of hell, no treasonous knife -

  The sword that walks and shines and smites by day,

  Not on his hand who takes the sword shall cleave

  The blood that clings on hers who gives it.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Yea -

  So be it. What levies wilt thou raise, to heave

  Thy father from his seat?

  MADAN.

  Let that be nought

  Of all thy care: do thou but trust — believe

  Thy son’s right hand no feebler than thy thought,

  If that be strong to smite — and thou shalt see

  Vengeance.

  GUENDOLEN.

  I will. But were thy musters brought

  Whence now thou art come to cheer me, this should be