Mycerinus

“Not by the justice that my father spurned,Not for the thousands whom my father slew,Altars unfed and temples overturned,Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks are due;Fell this dread voice from lips that cannot lie,Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny.

“I will unfold my sentence and my crime.My crime,--that, rapt in reverential awe,I sate obedient, in the fiery primeOf youth, self-governed, at the feet of Law;Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings,By contemplation of diviner things.

“My father loved injustice, and lived long;Crowned with gray hairs he died, and full of sway.I loved the good he scorned, and hated wrong--The gods declare my recompense to-day.I looked for life more lasting, rule more high;And when six years are measured, lo, I die!

“Yet surely, O my people, did I deemMan’s justice from the all-just gods was given;A light that from some upper fount did beam,Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven;A light that, shining from the blest abodes,Did shadow somewhat of the life of gods.

“Mere phantoms of man’s self-tormenting heart,Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed!Vain dreams, which quench our pleasures, then depart,When the duped soul, self-mastered, claims its meed;When, on the strenuous just man, Heaven bestows,Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close!

“Seems it so light a thing, then, austere powers,To spurn man’s common lure, life’s pleasant things?Seems there no joy in dances crowned with flowers,Love free to range, and regal banquetings?Bend ye on these indeed an unmoved eye,Not gods, but ghosts, in frozen apathy?

“Or is it that some force, too stern, too strong,Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile,Bears earth and heaven and men and gods along,Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile?And the great powers we serve, themselves may beSlaves of a tyrannous necessity?

“Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars,Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight,And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars,Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night?Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen,Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene?

“Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be,Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream?Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see,Blind divinations of a will supreme;Lost labor! when the circumambient gloomBut hides, if gods, gods careless of our doom?

“The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak,My sand runs short; and as yon star-shot ray,Hemmed by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak,Now, as the barrier closes, dies away,--Even so do past and future intertwine,Blotting this six years’ space, which yet is mine.

“Six years,--six little years,--six drops of time!Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane,And old men die, and young men pass their prime,And languid pleasure fade and flower again,And the dull gods behold, ere these are flown,Revels more deep, joy keener than their own.

“Into the silence of the groves and woodsI will go forth; though something would I say,--Something,--yet what, I know not: for the godsThe doom they pass revoke not nor delay;And prayers and gifts and tears are fruitless all,And the night waxes, and the shadows fall.

“Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king!I go, and I return not. But the willOf the great gods is plain; and ye must bringIll deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfilTheir pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise,--The praise of gods, rich boon! and length of days.”

--So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn;And one loud cry of grief and of amazeBroke from his sorrowing people; so he spake,And turning, left them there: and with brief pause,Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his wayTo the cool region of the groves he loved.There by the river-banks he wandered on,From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees,Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneathBurying their unsunned stems in grass and flowers;Where in one dream the feverish time of youthMight fade in slumber, and the feet of joyMight wander all day long and never tire.Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn,Rose-crowned; and ever, when the sun went down,A hundred lamps beamed in the tranquil gloom,From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove,Revealing all the tumult of the feast,--Flushed guests, and golden goblets foamed with wine;While the deep-burnished foliage overheadSplintered the silver arrows of the moon.It may be that sometimes his wondering soulFrom the loud joyful laughter of his lipsMight shrink half startled, like a guilty manWho wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape,Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems,Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl,Whispering, A little space, and thou art mine!It may be, on that joyless feast his eyeDwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within,Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength,And by that silent knowledge, day by day,Was calmed, ennobled, comforted, sustained.It may be; but not less his brow was smooth,And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom,And his mirth quailed not at the mild reproofSighed out by winter’s sad tranquillity;Nor, palled with its own fulness, ebbed and diedIn the rich languor of long summer-days;Nor withered when the palm-tree plumes, that roofedWith their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall,Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring;No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds.So six long years he revelled, night and day.And when the mirth waxed loudest, with dull soundSometimes from the grove’s centre echoes came,To tell his wondering people of their king;In the still night, across the steaming flats,Mixed with the murmur of the moving Nile.