April

But fairest Psyche still in favour rose,Nor knew the jealous power against her sworn;And more her beauty now surpass't her foe's,Since 'twas transfigured by the spirit forlorn,That writeth, to the perfecting of grace,Immortal question in a mortal face,The vague desire whereunto man is born.

Already in good time her sisters both,Whose honest charms were never famed as hers,With princes of the isle had plighted troth,And gone to rule their foreign courtiers;But she, exalted evermore beyondTheir loveliness, made yet no lover fond,And gain'd but number to her worshippers.

To joy in others' joy had been her lot,And now that that was gone she wept to seeHow her transcendent beauty overshotThe common aim of all felicity.For love she sigh'd; and had some peasant rudeFor true love's sake in simple passion woo'd,Then Psyche had not scorn'd his wife to be.

For what is Beauty, if it doth not fireThe loving answer of an eager soul?Since 'tis the native food of man's desire,And doth to good our varying world control;Which, when it was not, was for Beauty's sakeDesired and made by Love, who still doth makeA beauteous path thereon to Beauty's goal.

Should all men by some hateful venom die,The pity were that o'er the unpeopl'd sphereThe sun would still bedeck the evening skyAnd the unimaginable hues appear,With none to mark the rose and gold and green;That Spring should walk the earth, and nothing seenOf her fresh delicacy year by year.

And if some beauteous things,--whose heavenly worthAnd function overpass our mortal sense,--Lie waste and unregarded on the earthBy reason of our gross intelligence,These are not vain, because in nature's schemeIt lives that we shall grow from dream to dreamIn time to gather an enchantment thence.

Even as we see the fairest works of menAwhile neglected, and the makers die;But Truth comes weeping to their graves, and thenTheir fames victoriously mounting highDo battle with the regnant names of eld,To win their seats; as when the Gods rebel'dAgainst their sires and drave them from the sky.

But to be praised for beauty and deniedThe meed of beauty, this was yet unknown:The best and bravest men have ever viedTo win the fairest women for their own.Thus Psyche spake, or reason'd in her mind,Disconsolate; and with self-pity pined,In the deserted halls wandering alone.

And grievèd grew the King to see her woe:And blaming first the gods for her disease,He purposed to their oracle to goTo question how he might their wrath appease,Or, if that might not be, the worst to hear,--Which is the last poor hope of them that fear.--So he took his ship upon the northern seas,

And journeying to the shrine of Delphi went,The temple of Apollo Pythian,Where when the god he question'd if 'twas meantThat Psyche should be wed, and to what man,The tripod shook, and o'er the vaporous wellThe chanting Pythoness gave oracle,And thus in priestly verse the sentence ran:

High on the topmost rock with funeral feastConvey and leave the maid, nor look to findA mortal husband, but a savage beast,The viperous scourge of gods and humankind;Who shames and vexes all, and as he fliesWith sword and fire, Zeus trembles in the skies,And groans arise from souls to hell consigned.

With which reply the King return'd full sad:For though he nothing more might understand,Yet in the bitter bidding that he hadNo man made question of the plain command,That he must sacrifice the tender flowerOf his own blood to a demonian power,Upon the rocky mount with his own hand.

Some said that she to Talos was devote,The metal giant, who with mile-long strideCover'd the isle, walking around by roteThrice every day at his appointed tide;Who shepherded the sea-goats on the coast,And, as he past, caught up and live would roast,Pressing them to his burning ribs and side:

Whose head was made of fine gold-beaten workOf silver pure his arms and gleaming chest,Thence of green-bloomèd bronze far as the fork,Of iron weather-rusted all the rest.One single vein he had, which running downFrom head to foot was open in his crown,And closèd by a nail; such was this pest.

A little while they spent in sad delay,Then order'd, as the oracle had said,The cold feast and funereal displayWherewith the fated bridal should be sped:And their black pageantry and vain despairingWhen Psyche saw, and for herself preparingThe hopeless ceremonial of the dead,

Then spake she to the King and said 'O Sire,Why wilt thou veil those venerable eyesWith piteous tears, which must of me requireMore tears again than for myself arise?Then, on the day my beauty first o'ersteptIts mortal place it had been well to have wept;But now the fault beyond our ruing lies.

'As to be worship'd was my whole undoing,So my submission must the forfeit pay:And welcome were the morning of my wooing,Tho' after it should dawn no other day.Up to the mountain! for I hear the voiceOf my belovèd on the winds, Rejoice,Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!'

With such distemper'd speech, that little cheer'dHer mourning house, she went to choose with careThe raiment for her day of wedlock weird,Her body as for burial to prepare;But laved with bridal water, from the streamWhere Hera bathed; for still her fate supremeWas doubtful, whether Love or Death it were:

Love that is made of joy, and Death of fear:Nay, but not these held Psyche in suspense;Hers was the hope that following by the bierBoweth its head beneath the dark immense:Her fear the dread of life that turns to hideIts tragic tears, what hour the happy brideVentures for love her maiden innocence.

They set on high upon the bridal wainHer bed for bier, and yet no corpse thereon;But like as when unto a warrior slainAnd not brought home the ceremonies doneAre empty, for afar his body braveLies lost, deep buried by the wandering waveOr 'neath the foes his fury fell upon,--

So was her hearse: and with it went afore,Singing the solemn dirge that moves to tears,The singers; and behind, clad as for war,The King uncrown'd among his mournful peers,All 'neath their armour robed in linen white;And in their left were shields, and in their rightTorches they bore aloft instead of spears.

And next the virgin tribe in white forth sail'd,With wreaths of dittany; and 'midst them thereWent Psyche, all in lily-whiteness veil'd,The white Quince-blossom chapleting her hair:And last the common folk, a weeping crowd,Far as the city-gates with wailings loudFollow'd the sad procession in despair.

Thus forth and up the mount they went, untilThe funeral chariot must be left behind,Since road was none for steepness of the hill;And slowly by the narrow path they wind:All afternoon their white and scatter'd fileToil'd on distinct, ascending many a mileOver the long brown slopes and crags unkind.

But ere unto the snowy peak they cameOf that stormshapen pyramid so high,'Twas evening, and with footsteps slow and lameThey gather'd up their lagging company:And then her sire, even as Apollo bade,Set on the topmost rock the hapless maid,With trembling hands and melancholy cry.

And now the sun was sunk; only the peakFlash'd like a jewel in the deepening blue:And from the shade beneath none dared to speak,But all look'd up, where glorified anewPsyche sat islanded in living day.Breathless they watcht her, till the last red rayFled from her lifted arm that waved adieu.

There left they her, turning with sad farewellsTo haste their homeward course, as best they might:But night was crowding up the barren fells,And hid full soon their rocky path from sight;And each unto his stumbling foot to holdHis torch was fain, for o'er the moon was roll'dA mighty cloud from heaven, to blot her light.

And thro' the darkness for long while was seenThat armour'd train with waving fires to threadDownwards, by pass, defile, and black ravine,Each leading on the way that he was led.Slowly they gain'd the plain, and one by oneInto the shadows of the woods were gone,Or in the clinging mists were quench'd and fled.

But unto Psyche, pondering o'er her doomIn tearful silence on her stony chair,A Zephyr straying out of heaven's wide roomRush'd down, and gathering round her unawareFill'd with his breath her vesture and her veil;And like a ship, that crowding all her sailLeans to accompany the tranquil air,

She yielded, and was borne with swimming brainAnd airy joy, along the mountain side,Till, hid from earth by ridging summits twain,They came upon a valley deep and wide;Where the strong Zephyr with his burden sank,And laid her down upon a grassy bank,'Mong thyme and violets and daisies pied.

And straight upon the touch of that sweet bedBoth woe and wonder melted fast away:And sleep with gentle stress her sense o'erspread,Gathering as darkness doth on drooping day:And nestling to the ground, she slowly drewHer wearied limbs together, and, ere she knew,Wrapt in forgetfulness and slumber lay.