Part III

So without rest or tarriance all that night,Until the world was blear with coming light,Forth fared the princely fugitive, nor stayedHis wearied feet till morn returning madeSome village all a-hum with wakeful stir;And from that place the royal wayfarerWent ever faster on and yet more fast,Till, ere the noontide sultriness was past,Upon his ear the burden of the seasCame dreamlike, heard upon a cool fresh breezeThat tempered gratefully a fervent sky.And many an hour ere sundown he drew nighA fair-built seaport, warder of the landAnd watcher of the wave, with odours fannedOf green fields and of blue from either side;--A pleasant place, wherein he might abide,Unknown of man or woman, till such timeAs any ship should sail to that far climeWhere lived the famous great astrologer.

Entered within its gates, a wandererBesoiled with dust and no-wise richly drest,Yet therewithal a prince and princeliestOf princes, with the press of motley folkHe mixed unheeded and unknown, nor spokeTo any, no man speaking unto him,But, being wearied sore in every limb,Sought out a goodly hostel where he mightRest him and eat and tarry for the night:And having eaten he arose and passedDown to the wharves where many a sail and mastShowed fiery-dark against the setting sun:There, holding talk with whom he chanced upon,In that same hour by great good hap he foundThe master of a vessel outward-boundUpon the morrow for that selfsame portWhither he sought to go (where dwelt at courtThe mage deep-read in starry charact'ry).An honest man and pleasant-tongued was he,This worthy master-mariner; and sinceHe had no scorn of well-got gain, the PrinceAgreed to pay him certain sums in gold,And go aboard his vessel, ere were toldTwo hours of sunlight on the coming day;And thus agreed they wended each his way,For the dusk hour was nigh, and all the WestLay emptied of its sun. But as he pressedUp the long seaward-sloping street that ranThrough half the town, the Prince sought out a manWho dealt in pearls and diamonds and allManner of stones which men do precious call;To whom the least of his three gems he soldFor a great price, and laden with the goldForthwith returned unto his hostelryAnd dreamed all night of seaports and the sea.

Early the morrow-morn, a fair soft galeBlowing from overland, the ship set sailAt turning of the tide; and from her deckThe Prince gazed till the town was but a speck,And all the shore became a memory:And still he gazed, though more he might not seeThan the wide waters and the great wide sky.And many a long unchangeful day went byEre land was sighted, but at length uproseA doubtful dusky something, toward the closeOf the last hour before one sultry noon:Most like an isle of cloud it seemed, but soonThe sailors knew it for the wishèd strand,And ere the evenfall they reached the land,And that same night the royal wanderer layIn a strange city, amid strange folk, till DayRose from the dim sea's lap and with his wingsFanned into wakefulness all breathing things.

Then he uprose, but going forth that mornA sadness came upon him, and forlornHe felt within himself, and nowise lightOf heart: for all his lonely travel mightProve void and fruitless and of no avail,(Thus pondered he) and should it wholly fail,What then were left him for to do? ReturnTo his own country, that his kin might learnTo know him duped and fooled of fantasies,Blown hither and thither by an idle breezeFrom Dreamland? Or in lieu, perchance, of this,Wander unresting, reft of hope and bliss,A mariner on a sea that hath no coast,Seeking a shade, himself a shade, and lostIn shadows, as a wave is lost i' the sea.

Thus in a heart not lightsome pondered he,And roamed from unfamiliar street to street,Much marvelling that all he chanced to meetShowed faces troubled as his own: for someDid weep outright, and over all a gloomHung, as a cloud that blotteth out the sun.Wherefore the Prince addressed him unto oneOf sadder visage even than the rest,Who, ever as he walked, or beat his breastOr groaned aloud or with his fingers rentHis robe, and, being besought to say what meantThis look of rue on all men's faces, criedIn loud amazement, "What, can any abideWithin this city, having ears to hear,Yet know not how this morn the mighty seerHath died and left the land all desolate?For now, when sudden ills befall the state,There will be none to warn or prophesyAs he, but when calamities are nighNo man will know till they be come and weBe all undone together, woe is me!"

Thus ended he his outcry and againPassed on his way and mixed with other menScarce joyfuller than he, if less they spake.Meanwhile upon the Prince's heart there brakeGrief like a bitter wind, beneath whose breathHope paled and sickened well-nigh unto death:For lo, those dumb and formless fears that cameWithin his heart that morn, and, like a flameThat flickers long and dimly ere it die,Tarried and would not pass, but fitfullyFlickered and flared and paled and flared again,--Lo, those mysterious messengers of pain,Dumb formless fears, were they not verified?And lo, that voyage o'er the waters wide,Was it not vain and a most empty thing?And what might now the years avail to bring,But hopes that barren live and barren die?

Thus did his heart with many an inward sighAsk of itself, though answer there was noneTo be returned: and so the day, begunTristfully, trailed an ever wearier wing;Till toward night another questioningLike a strange voice from far beset his soul:And as a low wind wails for very doleAbout a tarn whereof the listless waveMaketh no answer to its plaining, saveA sound that seems the phantom of its own,So that low voice making unbidden moanNo answer got, saving the many sighsIts echoes; and in this reproachful wise,Heaping new pain on him disconsolate,The low voice spake and spake, importunate:O Prince that wast and wanderer that art,Say doth love live within thy hidden heart(Love born of dream but nurtured wakingly)Ev'n as that Once when thy soul's eyes did seeLove's visible self, and worshipt? Or hast thouFall'n from thy faith in Her and Love ere now,And is thy passion as a robe outworn?Nay, love forbid! Yet wherefore art thou lornOf hope and peace if Love be still thine own?For, were the wondrous vision thou hast knownIndeed Love's voice and Fate's (which are the same)Then, even as surely as the vision came,So surely shall it be fulfilled, if faithAbide in thee; but if thy spirit saithTreason of Love or Fate, and unbeliefHouse in thy heart, then surely shall swift griefFind thee, and hope (that should be as a breathOf song undying) shall even die the death,And thou thyself the death-in-life shalt see,O Prince that wast, O wanderer that shalt be!

So spake the Voice. And in the pauses ofThat secret Voice, there 'gan to wake and move,Deep in his heart, a thing of blackest ill--The shapeless shadow men call Doubt, untilThat hour all unacquainted with his soul:And being tormented sore of this new dole,There came on him a longing to exploreThat sleep-discovered flowery land once more,Isled in the dark of the soul; for he did deemThat were he once again to dream The Dream,His faith new-stablished would stand, and beNo longer vext of this infirmity.And so that night, ere lying down to sleep,There came on him, half making him to weepAnd half to laugh that such a thing should be,A mad conceit and antic fantasy(And yet more sad than merry was the whim)To crave this boon of Sleep, beseeching himTo send the dream of dreams most coveted.And ere he lay him down upon his bed,A soft sweet song was born within his thought;But if he sang the song, or if 'twas noughtBut the soul's longing whispered to the soul,Himself knew hardly, while the passion stoleFrom that still depth where passion lieth prone,And voiced itself in this-like monotone:

"O Sleep, thou hollow sea, thou soundless sea,Dull-breaking on the shores of haunted lands,Lo, I am thine: do what thou wilt with me.

But while, as yet unbounden of thy bands,I hear the breeze from inland chide and chafeAlong the margin of thy muttering sands,

Somewhat I fain would crave, if thou vouchsafeTo hear mine asking, and to heed wilt deign.Behold, I come to fling me as a waif

Upon thy waters, O thou murmuring main!So on some wasteful island cast not me,Where phantom winds to phantom skies complain,

And creeping terrors crawl from out the sea,(For such thou hast)--but o'er thy waves not coldBear me to yonder land once more, where She

Sits throned amidst of magic wealth untold:Golden her palace, golden all her hair,Golden her city 'neath a heaven of gold!

So may I see in dreams her tresses fairDown-falling, as a wave of sunlight restsOn some white cloud, about her shoulders bare,Nigh to the snowdrifts twain which are her breasts."

So ran the song,--say rather, so did creep,With drowsy faltering feet unsure, till SleepHimself made end of it, with no rude touchSealing the lips that babbled overmuch.Howbeit the boon of boons most covetedWithholden was, and in that vision's steadAnother Dream from its dim hold uprose,Which he who tells the tale shall straight disclose.