Poem III

Morn in the wake of the morning starCame furrowing all the orient into gold.We rose, and each by other drest with careDescended to the court that lay three partsIn shadow, but the Muses' heads were touchedAbove the darkness from their native East.

There while we stood beside the fount, and watchedOr seemed to watch the dancing bubble, approachedMelissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep,Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyesThe circled Iris of a night of tears;'And fly,' she cried, 'O fly, while yet you may!My mother knows:' and when I asked her 'how,''My fault' she wept 'my fault! and yet not mine;Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me.My mother, 'tis her wont from night to nightTo rail at Lady Psyche and her side.She says the Princess should have been the Head,Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms;And so it was agreed when first they came;But Lady Psyche was the right hand now,And the left, or not, or seldom used;Hers more than half the students, all the love.And so last night she fell to canvass you:Her countrywomen! she did not envy her."Who ever saw such wild barbarians?Girls?--more like men!" and at these words the snake,My secret, seemed to stir within my breast;And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheekBegan to burn and burn, and her lynx eyeTo fix and make me hotter, till she laughed:"O marvellously modest maiden, you!Men! girls, like men! why, if they had been menYou need not set your thoughts in rubric thusFor wholesale comment." Pardon, I am shamedThat I must needs repeat for my excuseWhat looks so little graceful: "men" (for stillMy mother went revolving on the word)"And so they are,--very like men indeed--And with that woman closeted for hours!"Then came these dreadful words out one by one,"Why--these--are--men:" I shuddered: "and you know it.""O ask me nothing," I said: "And she knows too,And she conceals it." So my mother clutchedThe truth at once, but with no word from me;And now thus early risen she goes to informThe Princess: Lady Psyche will be crushed;But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly;But heal me with your pardon ere you go.'

'What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush?'Said Cyril: 'Pale one, blush again: than wearThose lilies, better blush our lives away.Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven'He added, 'lest some classic Angel speakIn scorn of us, "They mounted, Ganymedes,To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn."But I will melt this marble into waxTo yield us farther furlough:' and he went.

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thoughtHe scarce would prosper. 'Tell us,' Florian asked,'How grew this feud betwixt the right and left.''O long ago,' she said, 'betwixt these twoDivision smoulders hidden; 'tis my mother,Too jealous, often fretful as the windPent in a crevice: much I bear with her:I never knew my father, but she says(God help her) she was wedded to a fool;And still she railed against the state of things.She had the care of Lady Ida's youth,And from the Queen's decease she brought her up.But when your sister came she won the heartOf Ida: they were still together, grew(For so they said themselves) inosculated;Consonant chords that shiver to one note;One mind in all things: yet my mother stillAffirms your Psyche thieved her theories,And angled with them for her pupil's love:She calls her plagiarist; I know not what:But I must go: I dare not tarry,' and light,As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled.

Then murmured Florian gazing after her,'An open-hearted maiden, true and pure.If I could love, why this were she: how prettyHer blushing was, and how she blushed again,As if to close with Cyril's random wish:Not like your Princess crammed with erring pride,Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow.'

'The crane,' I said, 'may chatter of the crane,The dove may murmur of the dove, but IAn eagle clang an eagle to the sphere.My princess, O my princess! true she errs,But in her own grand way: being herselfThree times more noble than three score of men,She sees herself in every woman else,And so she wears her error like a crownTo blind the truth and me: for her, and her,Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mixThe nectar; but--ah she--whene'er she movesThe Samian Herè rises and she speaksA Memnon smitten with the morning Sun.'

So saying from the court we paced, and gainedThe terrace ranged along the Northern front,And leaning there on those balusters, highAbove the empurpled champaign, drank the galeThat blown about the foliage underneath,And sated with the innumerable rose,Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither cameCyril, and yawning 'O hard task,' he cried;'No fighting shadows here! I forced a wayThrough opposition crabbed and gnarled.Better to clear prime forests, heave and thumpA league of street in summer solstice down,Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman.I knocked and, bidden, entered; found her thereAt point to move, and settled in her eyesThe green malignant light of coming storm.Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oiled,As man's could be; yet maiden-meek I prayedConcealment: she demanded who we were,And why we came? I fabled nothing fair,But, your example pilot, told her all.Up went the hushed amaze of hand and eye.But when I dwelt upon your old affiance,She answered sharply that I talked astray.I urged the fierce inscription on the gate,And our three lives. True--we had limed ourselvesWith open eyes, and we must take the chance.But such extremes, I told her, well might harmThe woman's cause. "Not more than now," she said,"So puddled as it is with favouritism."I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befallMelissa, knowing, saying not she knew:Her answer was "Leave me to deal with that."I spoke of war to come and many deaths,And she replied, her duty was to speak,And duty duty, clear of consequences.I grew discouraged, Sir; but since I knewNo rock so hard but that a little waveMay beat admission in a thousand years,I recommenced; "Decide not ere you pause.I find you here but in the second place,Some say the third--the authentic foundress you.I offer boldly: we will seat you highest:Wink at our advent: help my prince to gainHis rightful bride, and here I promise youSome palace in our land, where you shall reignThe head and heart of all our fair she-world,And your great name flow on with broadening timeFor ever." Well, she balanced this a little,And told me she would answer us today,meantime be mute: thus much, nor more I gained.'

He ceasing, came a message from the Head.'That afternoon the Princess rode to takeThe dip of certain strata to the North.Would we go with her? we should find the landWorth seeing; and the river made a fallOut yonder:' then she pointed on to whereA double hill ran up his furrowy forksBeyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale.

Agreed to, this, the day fled on through allIts range of duties to the appointed hour.Then summoned to the porch we went. She stoodAmong her maidens, higher by the head,Her back against a pillar, her foot on oneOf those tame leopards. Kittenlike he rolledAnd pawed about her sandal. I drew near;I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure cameUpon me, the weird vision of our house:The Princess Ida seemed a hollow show,Her gay-furred cats a painted fantasy,Her college and her maidens, empty masks,And I myself the shadow of a dream,For all things were and were not. Yet I feltMy heart beat thick with passion and with awe;Then from my breast the involuntary sighBrake, as she smote me with the light of eyesThat lent my knee desire to kneel, and shookMy pulses, till to horse we got, and soWent forth in long retinue following upThe river as it narrowed to the hills.

I rode beside her and to me she said:'O friend, we trust that you esteemed us notToo harsh to your companion yestermorn;Unwillingly we spake.' 'No--not to her,'I answered, 'but to one of whom we spakeYour Highness might have seemed the thing you say.''Again?' she cried, 'are you ambassadressesFrom him to me? we give you, being strange,A license: speak, and let the topic die.'

I stammered that I knew him--could have wished--'Our king expects--was there no precontract?There is no truer-hearted--ah, you seemAll he prefigured, and he could not seeThe bird of passage flying south but longedTo follow: surely, if your Highness keepYour purport, you will shock him even to death,Or baser courses, children of despair.'

'Poor boy,' she said, 'can he not read--no books?Quoit, tennis, ball--no games? nor deals in thatWhich men delight in, martial exercise?To nurse a blind ideal like a girl,Methinks he seems no better than a girl;As girls were once, as we ourself have been:We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with them:We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it,Being other--since we learnt our meaning here,To lift the woman's fallen divinityUpon an even pedestal with man.'

She paused, and added with a haughtier smile'And as to precontracts, we move, my friend,At no man's beck, but know ourself and thee,O Vashti, noble Vashti! Summoned outShe kept her state, and left the drunken kingTo brawl at Shushan underneath the palms.'

'Alas your Highness breathes full East,' I said,'On that which leans to you. I know the Prince,I prize his truth: and then how vast a workTo assail this gray preëminence of man!You grant me license; might I use it? think;Ere half be done perchance your life may fail;Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan,And takes and ruins all; and thus your painsMay only make that footprint upon sandWhich old-recurring waves of prejudiceResmooth to nothing: might I dread that you,With only Fame for spouse and your great deedsFor issue, yet may live in vain, and miss,Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due,Love, children, happiness?'And she exclaimed,'Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild!What! though your Prince's love were like a God's,Have we not made ourself the sacrifice?You are bold indeed: we are not talked to thus:Yet will we say for children, would they grewLike field-flowers everywhere! we like them well:But children die; and let me tell you, girl,Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die;They with the sun and moon renew their lightFor ever, blessing those that look on them.Children--that men may pluck them from our hearts,Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves--O--children--there is nothing upon earthMore miserable than she that has a sonAnd sees him err: nor would we work for fame;Though she perhaps might reap the applause of Great,Who earns the one POU STO whence after-handsMay move the world, though she herself effectBut little: wherefore up and act, nor shrinkFor fear our solid aim be dissipatedBy frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been,In lieu of many mortal flies, a raceOf giants living, each, a thousand years,That we might see our own work out, and watchThe sandy footprint harden into stone.'

I answered nothing, doubtful in myselfIf that strange Poet-princess with her grandImaginations might at all be won.And she broke out interpreting my thoughts:

'No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you;We are used to that: for women, up till thisCramped under worse than South-sea-isle taboo,Dwarfs of the gynæceum, fail so farIn high desire, they know not, cannot guessHow much their welfare is a passion to us.If we could give them surer, quicker proof--Oh if our end were less achievableBy slow approaches, than by single actOf immolation, any phase of death,We were as prompt to spring against the pikes,Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it,To compass our dear sisters' liberties.'

She bowed as if to veil a noble tear;And up we came to where the river slopedTo plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocksA breadth of thunder. O'er it shook the woods,And danced the colour, and, below, stuck outThe bones of some vast bulk that lived and roaredBefore man was. She gazed awhile and said,'As these rude bones to us, are we to herThat will be.' 'Dare we dream of that,' I asked,'Which wrought us, as the workman and his work,That practice betters?' 'How,' she cried, 'you loveThe metaphysics! read and earn our prize,A golden brooch: beneath an emerald planeSits Diotima, teaching him that diedOf hemlock; our device; wrought to the life;She rapt upon her subject, he on her:For there are schools for all.' 'And yet' I said'Methinks I have not found among them allOne anatomic.' 'Nay, we thought of that,'She answered, 'but it pleased us not: in truthWe shudder but to dream our maids should apeThose monstrous males that carve the living hound,And cram him with the fragments of the grave,Or in the dark dissolving human heart,And holy secrets of this microcosm,Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest,Encarnalize their spirits: yet we knowKnowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs:Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty,Nor willing men should come among us, learnt,For many weary moons before we came,This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourselfWould tend upon you. To your question now,Which touches on the workman and his work.Let there be light and there was light: 'tis so:For was, and is, and will be, are but is;And all creation is one act at once,The birth of light: but we that are not all,As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that,And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and makeOne act a phantom of succession: thusOur weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time;But in the shadow will we work, and mouldThe woman to the fuller day.'She spakeWith kindled eyes; we rode a league beyond,And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, cameOn flowery levels underneath the crag,Full of all beauty. 'O how sweet' I said(For I was half-oblivious of my mask)'To linger here with one that loved us.' 'Yea,'She answered, 'or with fair philosophiesThat lift the fancy; for indeed these fieldsAre lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns,Where paced the Demigods of old, and sawThe soft white vapour streak the crownèd towersBuilt to the Sun:' then, turning to her maids,'Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward;Lay out the viands.' At the word, they raisedA tent of satin, elaborately wroughtWith fair Corinna's triumph; here she stood,Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek,The woman-conqueror; woman-conquered thereThe bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns,And all the men mourned at his side: but weSet forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril keptWith Psyche, with Melissa Florian, IWith mine affianced. Many a little handGlanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks,Many a light foot shone like a jewel setIn the dark crag: and then we turned, we woundAbout the cliffs, the copses, out and in,Hammering and clinking, chattering stony namesOf shales and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff,Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the SunGrew broader toward his death and fell, and allThe rosy heights came out above the lawns.

The splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.