Poems and Ballads and Atalanta in Calydon

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Poems and Ballads and Atalanta in Calydon Page 36

by Algernon Swinburne


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

  1550 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 Œneus 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.

  ALTHÆA

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

  CHORUS

  No man doth well but God hath part in him.

  ALTHÆA

  1560 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

  1570 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,

  1580 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.

  ALTHÆA

  Who shall get brothers for me while I live?

  1590 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,

  1600 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,

  1610 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

  1620 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

  1630 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 despatched 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

  1640 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,

  1650 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

  1660 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

  1670 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,

  1680 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,

  Th
at 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.

  ALTHÆA

  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,

  1690 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

  1700 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.

  ALTHÆA

  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.

  1710 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

  As who doth well rejoicing; but we ill,

  1720 Weeping or laughing, we whom eyesight fails,

  Knowledge and light of face 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.

  ALTHÆA

  Wherefore I will not that these twain, O gods,

  1730 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,

  ‘Low 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:’

  1740 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;

  1750 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,

  Being queen, to have borne her daughter like a queen,

  Righteous; and though mine own fire burn me too,

  She shall have honour and these her sons, though dead.

  1760 But all the gods will, all they do, and we

  Not all we would, yet somewhat; and one choice

  We have, to live and do just deeds and die.

  CHORUS

  Terrible words she communes with, and turns

  Swift fiery eyes in doubt against herself,

  And murmurs as who talks in dreams with death.

  ALTHÆA

  For the unjust also dieth, and him all men

  Hate, and himself abhors the unrighteousness,

  And seeth his own dishonour intolerable.

  But I being just, doing right upon myself,

  1770 Slay mine own soul, and no man born shames me.

  For none constrains nor shall rebuke, being done,

  What none compelled me doing; thus these things fare.

  Ah, ah, that such things should so fare; ah me,

  That I am found to do them and endure,

  Chosen and constrained to choose, and bear myself

  Mine own wound through mine own flesh to the heart

  Violently stricken, a spoiler and a spoil,

  A ruin ruinous, fallen on mine own son.

  Ah, ah, for me too as for these; alas,

  1780 For that is done that shall be, and mine hand

  Full of the deed, and full of blood mine eyes,

  That shall see never nor touch anything

  Save blood unstanched and fire unquenchable.

  CHORUS

  What wilt thou do? what ails thee? for the house

  Shakes ruinously; wilt thou bring fire for it?

  ALTHÆA

  Fire in the roofs, and on the lintels fire.

  Lo ye, who stand and weave, between the doors,

  There; and blood drips from hand and thread, and stains

  Threshold and raiment and me passing in

  1790 Flecked with the sudden sanguine drops of death.

  CHORUS

  Alas that time is stronger than strong men,

  Fate than all gods: and these are fallen on us.

  ALTHÆA

  A little since and I was glad; and now

  I never shall be glad or sad again.

  CHORUS

  Between two joys a grief grows unaware.

  ALTHÆA

  A little while and I shall laugh; and then

  I shall weep never and laugh not any more.

  CHORUS

  What shall be said? for words are thorns to grief.

  Withhold thyself a little and fear the gods.

  ALTHÆA

  1800 Fear died when these were slain; and I am as dead,

  And fear is of the living; these fear none.

  CHORUS

  Have pity upon all people for their sake.

  ALTHÆA

  It is done now; shall I put back my day?

  CHORUS

  An end is come, an end; this is of God.

  ALTHÆA

  I am fire, and burn myself; keep clear of fire.

  CHORUS

  The house is broken, is broken; it shall not stand.

  ALTHÆA

  Woe, woe for him that breaketh; and a rod

  Smote it of old, and now the axe is here.

  CHORUS

  Not as with sundering of the earth

  1810

  Nor as with cleaving of the sea

  Nor fierce foreshadowings of a birth

  Nor flying dreams of death to be

  Nor loosening of the large world’s girth

&n
bsp; And quickening of the body of night,

  And sound of thunder in men’s ears

  And fire of lightning in men’s sight,

  Fate, mother of desires and fears,

  Bore unto men the law of tears;

  But sudden, an unfathered flame,

  1820

  And broken out of night, she shone,

  She, without body, without name,

  In days forgotten and foregone;

  And heaven rang round her as she came

  Like smitten cymbals, and lay bare;

  Clouds and great stars, thunders and snows,

  The blue sad fields and folds of air,

  The life that breathes, the life that grows,

  All wind, all fire, that burns or blows,

  Even all these knew her: for she is great;

  1830

  The daughter of doom, the mother of death,

  The sister of sorrow; a lifelong weight

  That no man’s finger lighteneth,

  Nor any god can lighten fate;

  A landmark seen across the way

  Where one race treads as the other trod;

  An evil sceptre, an evil stay,

  Wrought for a staff, wrought for a rod,

  The bitter jealousy of God.

  For death is deep as the sea,

  1840

  And fate as the waves thereof.

  Shall the waves take pity on thee

  Or the southwind offer thee love?

  Wilt thou take the night for thy day

  Or the darkness for light on thy way,

  Till thou say in thine heart Enough?

  Behold, thou art over fair, thou art over wise;

  The sweetness of spring in thine hair, and the light in thine eyes.

  The light of the spring in thine eyes, and the sound in thine ears;

 

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