Admetus

He who could beard the lion in his lair,To bind him for a girl, and tame the boar,And drive these beasts before his chariot,Might wed Alcestis. For her low brows' sake,Her hairs' soft undulations of warm gold,Her eyes clear color and pure virgin mouth,Though many would draw bow or shiver spear,Yet none dared meet the intolerable eye,Or lipless tusk, of lion or boar.This heard Admetus, King of Thessaly,Whose broad, fat pastures spread their ample fieldsDown to the sheer edge of Amphrysus' stream,Who laughed, disdainful, at the father's pride,That set such value on one milk-faced child.

One morning, as he rode alone and passedThrough the green twilight of Thessalian woods,Between two pendulous branches interlocked,As through an open casement, he descriedA goddess, as he deemed,--in truth a maid.On a low bank she fondled tenderlyA favorite hound, her floral face inclinedabove the glossy, graceful animal,That pressed his snout against her cheek and gazedWistfully, with his keen, sagacious eyes.One arm with lax embrace the neck enwreathed,With polished roundness near the sleek, gray skin.Admetus, fixed with wonder, dare not pass,Intrusive on her holy innocenceAnd sacred girlhood, but his fretful steedSnuffed the air, and champed and pawed the ground;And hearing this, the maiden raised her head.No let or hindrance then might stop the king,Once having looked upon those supreme eyes.The drooping boughs disparting, forth he sped,And then drew in his steed, to ask the path,Like a lost traveller in an alien land.Although each river-cloven vale, with streamsArrowy glancing to the blue Aegean,Each hallowed mountain, the abode of gods,Pelion and Ossa fringed with haunted groves,The height, spring-crowned, of dedicate Olympus,And pleasant sun-fed vineyards, were to himFamiliar as his own face in the stream,Nathless he paused and asked the maid what pathMight lead him from the forest. She replied,But still he tarried, and with sportsman's praiseAdmired the hound and stooped to stroke its head,And asked her if she hunted. Nay, not she:Her father Pelias hunted in these woods,Where there was royal game. He knew her now,--Alcestis,--and he left her with due thanks:No goddess, but a mortal, to be wonBy such a simple feat as driving boarsAnd lions to his chariot. What was thatTo him who saw the boar of Calydon,The sacred boar of Artemis, at bayIn the broad stagnant marsh, and sent his dartsIn its tough, quivering flank, and saw its death,Stung by sure arrows of Arcadian nymph?

To river-pastures of his flocks and herdsAdmetus rode, where sweet-breathed cattle grazed,Heifers and goats and kids, and foolish sheepDotted cool, spacious meadows with bent heads,And necks' soft wool broken in yellow flakes,Nibbling sharp-toothed the rich, thick-growing blades.One herdsman kept the innumerable droves--A boy yet, young as immortality--In listless posture on a vine-grown rock.Around him huddled kids and sheep that leftThe mother's udder for his nighest grass,Which sprouted with fresh verdure where he sat.And yet dull neighboring rustics never guessedA god had been among them till he went,Although with him they acted as he willed,Renouncing shepherds' silly pranks and quips,Because his very presence made them grave.Amphryssius, after their translucent stream,They called him, but Admetus knew his name,--Hyperion, god of sun and song and silver speech,Condemned to serve a mortal for his sinTo Zeus in sending violent darts of death,A raising hand irreverent, againstThe one-eyed forgers of the thunderbolt.For shepherd's crook he held the living rodOf twisted serpents, later Hermes' wand.Him sought the king, discovering soon hard by,Idle as one in nowise bound to time,Watching the restless grasses blow and wave,The sparkle of the sun upon the stream,Regretting nothing, living with the hour:For him, who had his light and song within,Was naught that did not shine, and all things sang.Admetus prayed for his celestial aidTo win Alcestis, which the god vouchsafed,Granting with smiles, as grant all gods, who smiteWith stern hand, sparing not for piteousness,But give their gifts in gladness.

Thus the kingLed with loose rein the beasts as tame as kine,And townsfolk thronged within the city streets,As round a god; and mothers showed their babes,And maidens loved the crowned intrepid youth,And men aloud worship, though the very godWho wrought the wonder dwelled unnoted nigh,Divinely scornful of neglect or praise.Then Pelias, seeing this would be his son,As he had vowed, called for his wife and child.With Anaxibia, Alcestis came,A warm flush spreading o'er her eager faceIn looking on the rider of the woods,And knowing him her suitor and the king.

Admetus won Alcestis thus to wife,And these with mated hearts and mutual loveLived a life blameless, beautiful: the kingOrdaining justice in the gates; the queen,With grateful offerings to the household gods,Wise with the wisdom of the pure in heart.One child she bore,--Eumelus,--and he throve.Yet none the less because they sacrificedThe firstlings of their flocks and fruits and flowers,Did trouble come; for sickness seized the king.Alcestis watched with many-handed love,But unavailing service, for he layWith languid limbs, despite his ancient strengthOf sinew, and his skill with spear and sword.His mother came, Clymene, and with herHis father, Pheres: his unconscious childThey brought him, while forlorn Alcestis satDiscouraged, with the face of desolation.The jealous gods would bind his mouth from speech,And smite his vigorous frame with impotence;And ruin with bitter ashes, worms, and dust,The beauty of his crowned, exalted head.He knew her presence,--soon he would not know,Nor feel her hand in his lie warm and close,Nor care if she were near him any more.Exhausted with long vigils, thus the queenHeld hard and grievous thoughts, till heavy sleepPossessed her weary sense, and she dreamed.And even in her dream her trouble lived,For she was praying in a barren fieldTo all the gods for help, when came acrossThe waste of air and land, from distant skies,A spiritual voice divinely clear,Whose unimaginable sweetness thrilledHer aching heart with tremor of strange joy:"Arise, Alcestis, cast away white fear.A god dwells with you: seek, and you shall find."Then quiet satisfaction filled her soulAlmost akin to gladness, and she woke.Weak as the dead, Admetus lay there still;But she, superb with confidence, arose,And passed beyond the mourners' curious eyes,Seeking Amphryssius in the meadow-lands.She found him with the godlike mien of oneWho, roused, awakens unto deeds divine:"I come, Hyperion, with incessant tears,To crave the life of my dear lord the king.Pity me, for I see the future yearsWidowed and laden with disastrous days.And ye, the gods, will miss him when the firesUpon your shrines, unfed, neglected die.Who will pour large libations in your names,And sacrifice with generous piety?Silence and apathy will greet you thereWhere once a splendid spirit offered praise.Grant me this boon divine, and I will beatWith prayer at morning's gates, before they opeUnto thy silver-hoofed and flame-eyed steeds.Answer ere yet the irremeable streamBe crossed: answer, O god, and save!"She ceased,With full throat salt with tears, and looked on him,And with a sudden cry of awe fell prone,For, lo! he was transmuted to a god;The supreme aureole radiant round his brow,Divine refulgences on his face,--his eyesAwful with splendor, and his august headWith blinding brilliance crowned by vivid flame.Then in a voice that charmed the listening air:"Woman, arise! I have no influenceOn Death, who is the servant of the Fates.Howbeit for thy passion and thy prayer,The grace of thy fair womanhood and youth,Thus godlike will I intercede for thee,And sue the insatiate sisters for this life.Yet hope not blindly: loth are these to changeTheir purpose; neither will they freely give,But haggling lend or sell: perchance the priceWill counterveil the boon. Consider this.Now rise and look upon me." And she rose,But by her stood no godhead bathed in light,But young Amphryssius, herdsman to the king,Benignly smiling.Fleet as thought, the godFled from the glittering earth to blackest depthsOf Tartarus; and none might say he spedOn wings ambrosial, or with feet as swiftAs scouring hail, or airy chariotBorne by the flame-breathing steeds ethereal;But with a motion inconceivableDeparted and was there. Before the throneOf Ades, first he hailed the long-sought queen,Stolen with violent hands from grassy fieldsAnd delicate airs of sunlit Sicily,Pensive, gold-haired, but innocent-eyed no moreAs when she laughing plucked the daffodils,But grave as on fulfilling a strange doom.And low at Ades' feet, wrapped in grim murkAnd darkness thick, the three gray women sat,Loose-robed and chapleted with wool and flowers,Purple narcissi round their horrid hair.Intent upon her task, the first one heldThe tender thread that at a touch would snap;The second weaving it with warp and woofInto strange textures, some stained dark and foul,Some sanguine-colored, and some black as night,And rare ones white, or with a golden threadRunning throughout the web: the farthest hagWith glistening scissors cut her sisters' work.To these Hyperion, but they never ceased,Nor raised their eyes, till with soft, moderate tones,But by their powerful persuasivenessCommanding all to listen and obey,He spoke, and all hell heard, and these three lookedAnd waited his request:I come, a god,At pure mortal queen's request, who suesFor life renewed unto her dying lord,Admetus; and I also pray this prayer.""Then cease, for when hath Fate been moved by prayer?""But strength and upright heart should serve with you.""I ask ye not forever to forbear,But spare a while,--a moment unto us,A lifetime unto men." "The Fates swerve notFor supplications, like the pliant gods.Have they not willed a life's thread should be cut?With them the will is changeless as the deed.O men! ye have not learned in all the past,Desires are barren and tears yield no fruit.How long will ye besiege the thrones of godsWith lamentations? When lagged Death for allYour timorous shirking? We work not like you,Delaying and relenting, purposeless,With unenduring issues; but our deeds,Forever interchained and interlocked,Complete each other and explain themselves.""Ye will a life: then why not any life?""What care we for the king? He is not worthThese many words; indeed, we love not speech.We care not if he live, or lose such lifeAs men are greedy for,--filled full with hate,Sins beneath scorn, and only lit by dreams,Or one sane moment, or a useless hope,--Lasting how long?--the space between the greenAnd fading yellow of the grass they tread."But he withdrawing not: "Will any lifeSuffice ye for Admetus?" "Yea," the cronesThree times repeated. "We know no such namesAs king or queen or slave: we want but life.Begone, and vex us in our work no more."

With broken blessings, inarticulate joyAnd tears, Alcestis thanked Hyperion,And worshipped. Then he gently: "Who will die,So that the king may live?" And she: "You ask?Nay, who will live when life clasps hands with shame,And death with honor? Lo, you are a god;You cannot know the highest joy of life,--To leave it when 't is worthier to die.His parents, kinsmen, courtiers, subjects, slaves,--For love of him myself would die, were noneFound ready; but what Greek would stand to seeA woman glorified, and falter? Once,And only once, the gods will do this thingIn all the ages: such a man themselvesDelight to honor,--holy, temperate, chaste,With reverence for his daemon and his god."Thus she triumphant to they very doorOf King Admetus' chamber. All there sawHer ill-timed gladness with much wonderment.But she: "No longer mourn! The king is saved:The Fates will spare him. Lift your voice in praise;Sing paeans to Apollo; crown your browsWith laurel; offer thankful sacrifice!""O Queen, what mean these foolish words misplaced?And what an hour is this to thank the Fates?""Thrice blessed be the gods!--for God himselfHas sued for me,--they are not stern and deaf.Cry, and they answer: commune with your soul,And they send counsel: weep with rainy grief,And these will sweeten you your bitterest tears.On one condition King Admetus lives,And ye, on hearing, will lament no more,Each emulous to save." Then--for she spakeAssured, as having heard an oracle--They asked: "What deed of ours may serve the king?""The Fates accept another life for his,And one of you may die." Smiling, she ceased.But silence answered her. "What! do ye thrustYour arrows in your hearts beneath your cloaks,Dying like Greeks, too proud to own the pang?This ask I not. In all the populous landBut one need suffer for immortal praise.The generous Fates have sent no pestilence,Famine, nor war: it is as though they gaveFreely, and only make the boon more richBy such slight payment. Now a people mourns,And ye may change the grief to jubilee,Filling the cities with a pleasant sound.But as for me, what faltering words can tellMy joy, in extreme sharpness kin to pain?A monument you have within my heart,Wreathed with kind love and dear remembrances;And I will pray for you before I cravePardon and pity for myself from God.Your name will be the highest in the land,Oftenest, fondest on my grateful lips,After the name of him you die to save.What! silent still? Since when has virtue grownLess beautiful than indolence and ease?Is death more terrible, more hateworthy,More bitter than dishonor? Will ye liveOn shame? Chew and find sweet its poisoned fruits?What sons will ye bring forth--mean-souled like you,Or, like your parents, brave--to blush like girls,And say,'Our fathers were afraid to die!'Ye will not dare to raise heroic eyesUnto the eyes of aliens. In the streetsWill women and young children point at youScornfully, and the sun will find you shamed,And night refuse to shield you. What a lifeIs this ye spin and fashion for yourselves!And what new tortures of suspense and doubtWill death invent for such as are afraid!Acastus, thou my brother, in the fieldForemost, who greeted me with sanguine handsFrom ruddy battle with a conqueror's face,--These honors wilt thou blot with infamy?Nay, thou hast won no honors: a mere girlWould do as much as thou at such a time,In clamorous battle,'midst tumultuous sounds,Neighing of war-steeds, shouts of sharp command,Snapping of shivered spears; for all are braveWhen all men look to them expectantly;But he is truly brave who faces deathWithin his chamber, at a sudden call,At night, when no man sees,--content to dieWhen life can serve no longer those he loves."Then thus Acastus: "Sister, I fear notDeath, nor the empty darkness of the grave,And hold my life but as a little thing,Subject unto my people's call, and Fate.But if 't is little, no greater is the king's;And though my heart bleeds sorely, I recallAstydamia, who thus would mourn for me.We are not cowards, we youth of Thessaly,And Thessaly--yea, all Greece--knoweth it;Nor will we brook the name from even you,Albeit a queen, and uttering these wild wordsThrough your umwonted sorrow." Then she knewThat he stood firm, and turning from him, criedTo the king's parents: "Are ye deaf with grief,Pheres, Clymene? Ye can save your son,Yet rather stand and weep with barren tears.O, shame! to think that such gray, reverend hairsShould cover such unvenerable heads!What would ye lose?--a remnant of mere life,A few slight raveled threads, and give him yearsTo fill with glory. Who, when he is gone,Will call you gentlest names this side of heaven,--Father and mother? Knew ye not this manEre he was royal,--a poor, helpless child,Crownless and kingdomless? One birth aloneSufficeth not, Clymene: once againYou must give life with travail and strong pain.Has he not lived to outstrip your swift hopes?What mother can refuse a second birthTo such a son? But ye denying him,What after-offering may appease the gods?What joy outweigh the grief of this one day?What clamor drown the hours' myriad tongues,Crying, 'Your son, your son? where is your son,Unnatural mother, timid foolish man?"Then Pheres gravely: "These are graceless wordsFrom you our daughter. Life is always life,And death comes soon enough to such as we.We twain are old and weak, have served our time,And made our sacrifices. Let the youngArise now in their turn and save the king.""O gods! look on your creatures! do ye see?And seeing, have ye patience? Smite them all,Unsparing, with dishonorable death.Vile slaves! a woman teaches you to die.Intrepid, with exalted steadfast soul,Scorn in my heart, and love unutterable,I yield the Fates my life, and like a godCommand them to revere that sacred head.Thus kiss I thrice the dear, blind, holy eyes,And bid them see; and thrice I kiss this brow,And thus unfasten I the pale, proud lipsWith fruitful kissings, bringing love and life,And without fear or any pang, I breatheMy soul in him.""Alcestis, I awake.I hear, I hear--unspeak thy reckless words!For, lo! thy life-blood tingles in my veins,And streameth through my body like new wine.Behold! thy spirit dedicate revivesMy pulse, and through thy sacrifice I breathe.Thy lips are bloodless: kiss me not again.Ashen thy cheeks, faded thy flower-like hands.O woman! perfect in thy womanhoodAnd in thy wifehood, I adjure thee nowAs mother, by the love thou bearest our child,In this thy hour of passion and of love,Of sacrifice and sorrow, to unsayThy words sublime!" "I die that thou mayest live.""And deemest thou that I accept the boon,Craven, like these my subjects? Lo, my queen,Is life itself a lovely thing,--bare life?And empty breath a thing desirable?Or is it rather happiness and loveThat make it precious to its inmost core?When these are lost, are there not swords in Greece,And flame and poison, deadly waves and plagues?No man has ever lacked these things and goneUnsatisfied. It is not these the gods refuse(Nay, never clutch my sleeve and raise thy lip),--Not these I seek; but I will stab myself,Poison my life and burn my flesh, with words,And save or follow thee. Lo! hearken now:I bid the gods take back their loathsome gifts:O spurn them, and I scorn them, and I hate.Will they prove deaf to this as to my prayers?With tongue reviling, blasphemous, I curse,With mouth polluted from deliberate heart.Dishonored be their names, scorned be their priests,Ruined their altars, mocked their oracles!It is Admetus, King of Thessaly,Defaming thus: annihilate him, gods!So that his queen, who worships you, may live."He paused as one expectant; but no boltFrom the insulted heavens answered him,But awful silence followed. Then a hand,A boyish hand, upon his shoulder fell,And turning, he beheld his shepherd boy,Not wrathful, but divinely pitiful,Who spake in tender, thrilling tones: "The godsCannot recall their gifts. Blaspheme them not:Bow down and worship rather. Shall he curseWho sees not, and who hears not,--neither knowsNor understands? Nay, thou shalt bless and pray,--Pray, for the pure heart purged by prayer, divinesAnd seeth when the bolder eyes are blind.Worship and wonder,--these befit a manAt every hour; and mayhap will the godsYet work a miracle for knees that bendAnd hands that supplicate."Then all they knewA sudden sense of awe, and bowed their headsBeneath the stripling's gaze: Admetus fell,Crushed by that gentle touch, and cried aloud:"Pardon and pity! I am hard beset."

There waited at the doorway of the kingOne grim and ghastly, shadowy, horrible,Bearing the likeness of a king himself,Erect as one who serveth not,--uponHis head a crown, within his fleshless handsA sceptre,--monstrous, winged, intolerable.To him a stranger coming 'neath the trees,Which slid down flakes of light, now on his hair,Close-curled, now on his bared and brawny chest,Now on his flexile, vine-like veined limbs,With iron network of strong muscle thewed,And godlike brows and proud mouth unrelaxed.Firm was his step; no superfluityOf indolent flesh impeded this man's strength.Slender and supple every perfect limb,Beautiful with the glory of a man.No weapons bare he, neither shield: his handsFolded upon his breast, his movements freeOf all incumbrance. When his mighty stridesHad brought him nigh the waiting one, he paused:"Whose palace this? and who art thou, grim shade?""The palace of the King of Thessaly,And my name is not strange unto thine ears;For who hath told men that I wait for them,The one sure thing on earth? Yet all they know,Unasking and yet answered. I am Death,The only secret that the gods reveal.But who are thou who darest question me?""Alcides; and that thing I dare not doHath found no name. Whom here awaitest thou?""Alcestis, Queen of Thessaly,--a queenWho wooed me as the bridegroom woos the bride,For her life sacrificed will save her lordAdmetus, as the Fates decreed. I waitImpatient, eager; and I enter soon,With darkening wing, invisible, a god,And kiss her lips, and kiss her throbbing heart,And then the tenderest hands can do no moreThan close her eyes and wipe her cold, white brow,Inurn her ashes and strew flowers above.""This woman is a god, a hero, Death.In this her sacrifice I see a soulLuminous, starry: earth can spare her not:It is not rich enough in purityTo lose this paragon. Save her, O Death!Thou surely art more gentle than the Fates,Yet these have spared her lord, and never meantThat she should suffer, and that this their grace,Beautiful, royal on one side, should turnSudden and show a fearful, fatal face.""Nay, have they not? O fond and foolish man,Naught comes unlooked for, unforeseen by them.Doubt when they favor thee, though thou mayest laughWhen they have scourged thee with an iron scourge.Behold, their smile is deadlier than their sting,And every boon of theirs is double-faced.Yea, I am gentler unto ye than these:I slay relentless, but when have I mockedWith poisoned gifts, and generous hands that smiteUnder the flowers? for my name is Truth.Were this fair queen more fair, more pure, more chaste,I would not spare her for your wildest prayerNor her best virtue. Is the earth's mouth full?Is the grave satisfied? Discrown me then,For life is lord, and men may mock the godsWith immortality." "I sue no more,But I command thee spare this woman's life,Or wrestle with Alcides." "Wrestle with thee,Thou puny boy!" And Death laughed loud, and swelledTo monstrous bulk, fierce-eyed, with outstretched wings,And lightnings round his brow; but grave and firm,Strong as a tower, Alcides waited him,And these began to wrestle, and a cloudImpenetrable fell, and all was dark.

"Farewell, Admetus and my little son,Eumelus,--O these clinging baby hands!Thy loss is bitter, for no chance, no fame,No wealth of love, can ever compensatefor a dead mother. Thou, O king, fulfillThe double duty: love him with my love,And make him bold to wrestle, shiver spears,Noble and manly, Grecian to the bone;And tell him that his mother spake with gods.Farewell, farewell! Mine eyes are growing blind:The darkness gathers. O my heart, my heart!"No sound made answer save the cries of griefFrom all the mourners, and the supplianceOf strick'n Admetus: "O have mercy, gods!O gods, have mercy, mercy upon us!"Then from the dying woman's couch againHer voice was heard, but with strange sudden tones:"Lo, I awake--the light comes back to me.What miracle is this?" And thunders shookThe air, and clouds of mighty darkness fell,And the earth trembled, and weird, horrid soundsWere heard of rushing wings and fleeing feet,And groans; and all were silent, dumb with awe,Saving the king, who paused not in his prayer:"Have mercy, gods!" and then again, "O gods,Have mercy!"

Through the open casement pouredBright floods of sunny light; the air was soft,Clear, delicate as though a summer stormHad passed away; and those there standing saw,Afar upon the plain, Death fleeing thence,And at the doorway, weary, well-nigh spent,Alcides, flushed with victory.