Claudia/Part 3
< Claudia
Part III.
As thus the pilgrims mused, upon their left
A figure seemed to start as from the ground,
And Cynfrân strode towards them. His curled locks,
Black as the seaweed left by stormy tides
High on bleached ridges of the summer shore,
Were all aflame against the crimson sky
That burned behind him, and made yet more pale
The white wrath of his face; while in his eyes
Flashed hate unquenchable: in his right hand
The ashen spear was poised, ready to fly.
At this strange sight the pilgrims held their breath:
They lacked not courage; yet their manly hearts
Blenched for a moment, and each strove in vain
To thrust his fellow to the safer place,
Awaiting the assault.
But Cynfrân checked
His fierce career, seeing them all unarmed,
And lowered the threatful spear and called to them
In deepest gutturals of the Cymric tongue,—
"Draw forth your weapons, for I scorn to take
Advantage of surprisal."
"Nay, good friend,
We bear no weapons, save a kindly will
To thee and all mankind," said Julius then,
Advancing towards him with a gracious mien.
But Cynfrân answered sternly,—"Stand aloof,
Or else my spear shall pin thee to the ground.
Say, what has brought you hither? Are ye not
Of that vile race that wrongs us, that has snared
Our Caradoc by treacherous woman-hands,
And bound him to your general's chariot-wheels,
And given him as a show to gaping Rome?
Yea, and his sire besides, the generous Brân,
Thralling the prisoner and the hostage too?"
"Enough," said Julius, "thou hast widely erred;
My comrade is a Roman, but he owes
No boon but exile to the Roman power.
For me: I first drew breath upon the shore
Whence sailed your fathers. For the rest: know this,—
Although a shameful treachery has given
Your noble Caradoc to Cæsar's hands,
Though a more shameful treachery still holds
The hostage and the prisoner both in Rome,
Yet sire and son are treated royally,
And lodged and served right nobly, as becomes
Such noble captives. If in happier times
Thou hast fought in the king's forces, or hast served
In the king's council, thou wilt know this ring,
Which proves us trusty friends of Caradoc."
And while he spoke he lifted his right hand,
And straight the sunset flashed upon a gem,
Turned to the palm, clasped by a serpent wrought
In finest gold. Then Cynfrân at the sight
Had almost fallen before them; for how oft
That gem had flashed upon the royal hand
That cheered the Cymric forces to the charge.
"Pardon me, sirs," he faltered forth at length,
"I thought as much to see the sky descend,
The sea hang in its place above our heads,
As to find friends of Caradoc in you.
Lo! I am yours: command me: I am nerved
By memories of inexpiable wrongs
To do more cruel and more desperate deeds
Upon the alien race than ever yet
Curdled your blood to hear of or to dream.
You come to stir the smouldering fire of the land?
To gather up the scattered Cymric strength
And hurl the invaders headlong? I am yours,
Yours to the death."
"Nay," Julius sternly said,
"Our errand is as far from thy wild thoughts
As heaven is far above the howling storm.
This royal signet-ring was merely given
That the king's friends may trust us. Rave not thus
Of memories of inexpiable wrong:
The most inexpiable and most cruel wrong
That ever yet was done by man to man,
Shrinks into nothing by the monstrous growth
Of that vast wrong he heaps upon himself,
Who, wrenching off his soul from God and good,
Sells her pure beauty to the vilest ends;
Whether revenge or some yet viler end,
If there be viler. Go and muse on this:
Vengeance belongs to God; and His revenge
Is love and mercy."
So they turned and went;
While dumb with manifold surprise, and pierced
To the soul's quick, Cynfrân stood motionless,
All darkly drawn against the western sky,
Till they had passed the levels of the marsh.
But as they went upon their way, the heart
Of Julius smote him. For he thought:—'Perchance
This soul is sorely wounded, and its cry
That fell with such discordance on my ear
Was harsh through grievous anguish. Yea, he spoke
Of memories of inexpiable wrongs;
And through his wildly melancholy eyes
Looked forth a miserable life. Alas!
How have I failed to follow in Thy track,
Most pitiful Jesus! who wouldst never break
The bruised reed, but bind it up with love.'
And then once more and for the thousandth time
He thought of Claudia. Of the gentle grace,
The meek, unconscious wisdom of her ways;
Of that clear eye of a most single aim
Which filled the body of her life with light.
So shamed his heart with stern comparisons,
Laid all his spirit open to the light,
Abased himself and won the power to rise.
Now as they left the fourth long league behind
They neared the tufted knoll, and found it stood
Amidst a steep and stony watercourse,
Down which the streamlet ran which fed the marsh.
It was an islet fenced about with trees,
And piled by Druids of forgotten days
About an oak of double sacredness.
Seeing that round its solitary roots
The homage of the parted stream was poured,
And that the healing plant had grown thereon.
Below the mount the waters met again
With gurgling welcomes, and the happy stream
Quickened its pace and hastened blithely on;
Unguessing how the melancholy marsh
Would spread a net to catch her silver feet,
And choke her tuneful voice, and hold her fast
Like a poor fly within the spider's web,
From the great mother-sea, that heaved afar
Her gleaming breast along the low-ridged shore,
Chiding and calling to her lingering child.
Crossing the brook, they set themselves to climb,
The turfy slope; when suddenly there broke
Upon their startled ears a mournful voice
That with wild guttural plainings filled the air:
And when he heard it, Julius paused amazed,
And with his right hand timorously checked
His fellow by the robe; while with the left
Curved round his ear, he strove to catch the sounds
That wandered to and fro among the trees.
Again that piercing, melancholy cry!
At which the Maccabee released his robe
From Julius' grasp, and springing up the knoll
He disappeared, while Julius' slower steps
Toiled up behind: but e'er he reached midway,
The younger rose upon the ridge again,
A hushing finger signing on his lips,
The bright defiance wholly melted out
From all his altered face, which wore instead
The pained and tender look of one who sees
A sorrow with an unknown history.
Soon side by side they stood, and looking down
Saw in the centre a huge oak that reared
A gnarled and knotted trunk, which held aloft
A roof of ponderous foliage. Tier on tier,
The twisted bough and branch and angular twig
Carried through great to small, through small to less,
The image of a rugged earnest strength.
While like a man bent on a noble aim,
Who clothes himself with beauty unawares,
Each sinewy limb was wreathed with carven leaves
In graceful groups, that joined themselves again
In larger masses rich with gold and green
And leafy hollows filled with violet shade.
But Julius and his fellow only marked
A lonely woman sitting still as death
Among the bare roots of that ancient tree,
Beside a hoary sacrificial stone.
Her face was on her knees, around her knees
The clasp of ivory arms, and down her neck
A rippled fleece of dusky tresses hung
Over the ruined richness of a robe
That told of happier times. Above her head
The squirrel plucked the acorn, at her feet
The robin hopped and flitted unabashed.
But as the pilgrims questioned under breath,
"Does she still live?" "Was not that cry her last?"
"Nay, see the vital tension of her hands:"—
As thus they whispered, suddenly she sprang
With a wild gesture to her feet, and waved
Her outspread arms on the regardless air.
The well-accustomed creatures of the wood
Marked her no more than if a harmless sheep
Had risen up from depths of dewy grass
Uttering her plaintive call for a strayed lamb;
While in the Cymric tongue she cried aloud,
Awaking all the echoes with her song:—
A figure seemed to start as from the ground,
And Cynfrân strode towards them. His curled locks,
Black as the seaweed left by stormy tides
High on bleached ridges of the summer shore,
Were all aflame against the crimson sky
That burned behind him, and made yet more pale
The white wrath of his face; while in his eyes
Flashed hate unquenchable: in his right hand
The ashen spear was poised, ready to fly.
At this strange sight the pilgrims held their breath:
They lacked not courage; yet their manly hearts
Blenched for a moment, and each strove in vain
To thrust his fellow to the safer place,
Awaiting the assault.
But Cynfrân checked
His fierce career, seeing them all unarmed,
And lowered the threatful spear and called to them
In deepest gutturals of the Cymric tongue,—
"Draw forth your weapons, for I scorn to take
Advantage of surprisal."
"Nay, good friend,
We bear no weapons, save a kindly will
To thee and all mankind," said Julius then,
Advancing towards him with a gracious mien.
But Cynfrân answered sternly,—"Stand aloof,
Or else my spear shall pin thee to the ground.
Say, what has brought you hither? Are ye not
Of that vile race that wrongs us, that has snared
Our Caradoc by treacherous woman-hands,
And bound him to your general's chariot-wheels,
And given him as a show to gaping Rome?
Yea, and his sire besides, the generous Brân,
Thralling the prisoner and the hostage too?"
"Enough," said Julius, "thou hast widely erred;
My comrade is a Roman, but he owes
No boon but exile to the Roman power.
For me: I first drew breath upon the shore
Whence sailed your fathers. For the rest: know this,—
Although a shameful treachery has given
Your noble Caradoc to Cæsar's hands,
Though a more shameful treachery still holds
The hostage and the prisoner both in Rome,
Yet sire and son are treated royally,
And lodged and served right nobly, as becomes
Such noble captives. If in happier times
Thou hast fought in the king's forces, or hast served
In the king's council, thou wilt know this ring,
Which proves us trusty friends of Caradoc."
And while he spoke he lifted his right hand,
And straight the sunset flashed upon a gem,
Turned to the palm, clasped by a serpent wrought
In finest gold. Then Cynfrân at the sight
Had almost fallen before them; for how oft
That gem had flashed upon the royal hand
That cheered the Cymric forces to the charge.
"Pardon me, sirs," he faltered forth at length,
"I thought as much to see the sky descend,
The sea hang in its place above our heads,
As to find friends of Caradoc in you.
Lo! I am yours: command me: I am nerved
By memories of inexpiable wrongs
To do more cruel and more desperate deeds
Upon the alien race than ever yet
Curdled your blood to hear of or to dream.
You come to stir the smouldering fire of the land?
To gather up the scattered Cymric strength
And hurl the invaders headlong? I am yours,
Yours to the death."
"Nay," Julius sternly said,
"Our errand is as far from thy wild thoughts
As heaven is far above the howling storm.
This royal signet-ring was merely given
That the king's friends may trust us. Rave not thus
Of memories of inexpiable wrong:
The most inexpiable and most cruel wrong
That ever yet was done by man to man,
Shrinks into nothing by the monstrous growth
Of that vast wrong he heaps upon himself,
Who, wrenching off his soul from God and good,
Sells her pure beauty to the vilest ends;
Whether revenge or some yet viler end,
If there be viler. Go and muse on this:
Vengeance belongs to God; and His revenge
Is love and mercy."
So they turned and went;
While dumb with manifold surprise, and pierced
To the soul's quick, Cynfrân stood motionless,
All darkly drawn against the western sky,
Till they had passed the levels of the marsh.
But as they went upon their way, the heart
Of Julius smote him. For he thought:—'Perchance
This soul is sorely wounded, and its cry
That fell with such discordance on my ear
Was harsh through grievous anguish. Yea, he spoke
Of memories of inexpiable wrongs;
And through his wildly melancholy eyes
Looked forth a miserable life. Alas!
How have I failed to follow in Thy track,
Most pitiful Jesus! who wouldst never break
The bruised reed, but bind it up with love.'
And then once more and for the thousandth time
He thought of Claudia. Of the gentle grace,
The meek, unconscious wisdom of her ways;
Of that clear eye of a most single aim
Which filled the body of her life with light.
So shamed his heart with stern comparisons,
Laid all his spirit open to the light,
Abased himself and won the power to rise.
Now as they left the fourth long league behind
They neared the tufted knoll, and found it stood
Amidst a steep and stony watercourse,
Down which the streamlet ran which fed the marsh.
It was an islet fenced about with trees,
And piled by Druids of forgotten days
About an oak of double sacredness.
Seeing that round its solitary roots
The homage of the parted stream was poured,
And that the healing plant had grown thereon.
Below the mount the waters met again
With gurgling welcomes, and the happy stream
Quickened its pace and hastened blithely on;
Unguessing how the melancholy marsh
Would spread a net to catch her silver feet,
And choke her tuneful voice, and hold her fast
Like a poor fly within the spider's web,
From the great mother-sea, that heaved afar
Her gleaming breast along the low-ridged shore,
Chiding and calling to her lingering child.
Crossing the brook, they set themselves to climb,
The turfy slope; when suddenly there broke
Upon their startled ears a mournful voice
That with wild guttural plainings filled the air:
And when he heard it, Julius paused amazed,
And with his right hand timorously checked
His fellow by the robe; while with the left
Curved round his ear, he strove to catch the sounds
That wandered to and fro among the trees.
Again that piercing, melancholy cry!
At which the Maccabee released his robe
From Julius' grasp, and springing up the knoll
He disappeared, while Julius' slower steps
Toiled up behind: but e'er he reached midway,
The younger rose upon the ridge again,
A hushing finger signing on his lips,
The bright defiance wholly melted out
From all his altered face, which wore instead
The pained and tender look of one who sees
A sorrow with an unknown history.
Soon side by side they stood, and looking down
Saw in the centre a huge oak that reared
A gnarled and knotted trunk, which held aloft
A roof of ponderous foliage. Tier on tier,
The twisted bough and branch and angular twig
Carried through great to small, through small to less,
The image of a rugged earnest strength.
While like a man bent on a noble aim,
Who clothes himself with beauty unawares,
Each sinewy limb was wreathed with carven leaves
In graceful groups, that joined themselves again
In larger masses rich with gold and green
And leafy hollows filled with violet shade.
But Julius and his fellow only marked
A lonely woman sitting still as death
Among the bare roots of that ancient tree,
Beside a hoary sacrificial stone.
Her face was on her knees, around her knees
The clasp of ivory arms, and down her neck
A rippled fleece of dusky tresses hung
Over the ruined richness of a robe
That told of happier times. Above her head
The squirrel plucked the acorn, at her feet
The robin hopped and flitted unabashed.
But as the pilgrims questioned under breath,
"Does she still live?" "Was not that cry her last?"
"Nay, see the vital tension of her hands:"—
As thus they whispered, suddenly she sprang
With a wild gesture to her feet, and waved
Her outspread arms on the regardless air.
The well-accustomed creatures of the wood
Marked her no more than if a harmless sheep
Had risen up from depths of dewy grass
Uttering her plaintive call for a strayed lamb;
While in the Cymric tongue she cried aloud,
Awaking all the echoes with her song:—
"O Gladys! Gladys! Gladys! come to me!
My soul cries after thee.
As from the crag the wailing eagle cries
After her eaglet, when the swift mist flies
Thick sweeping o'er Eriri, and her eyes
Have lost all ken of the weak, fluttering thing
Whose untried wing
Never again may come
To nestle underneath her breast at home.
My soul cries after thee.
As from the crag the wailing eagle cries
After her eaglet, when the swift mist flies
Thick sweeping o'er Eriri, and her eyes
Have lost all ken of the weak, fluttering thing
Whose untried wing
Never again may come
To nestle underneath her breast at home.
"O Gladys! Gladys! Gladys! come to me!
My soul cries after thee.
It cannot be that thou hast slipped aside
Into the life unseen, whose waters wide
Sweep round the life we see; for had'st thou died
Thy spirit in its parting agony
Had turned to me:
But not a sound or vision
Has warned my watching soul of thy transition.
My soul cries after thee.
It cannot be that thou hast slipped aside
Into the life unseen, whose waters wide
Sweep round the life we see; for had'st thou died
Thy spirit in its parting agony
Had turned to me:
But not a sound or vision
Has warned my watching soul of thy transition.
"O Gladys! Gladys! Gladys! come to me!
My soul cries after thee.
Hear me! Thou great, unutterable One,
To none save the white-bearded Druids known,
To whom along this sacrificial stone
Full many a victim's flowing blood has passed.
Hear me at last!
O! end this weary pain,
Give back my nursling to my arms again.
My soul cries after thee.
Hear me! Thou great, unutterable One,
To none save the white-bearded Druids known,
To whom along this sacrificial stone
Full many a victim's flowing blood has passed.
Hear me at last!
O! end this weary pain,
Give back my nursling to my arms again.
"Alas! no more a nursling! twelve sad years
Washed by my stormy tears,
One after one have lost their bloom and died,
Since Gladys, my heart's darling, as blue-eyed
As speedwells are, was parted from my side;
And as a stranger would she greet me now.
Yet where art thon?
My soul cries after thee.
O Gladys! Gladys! Gladys! come to me."
Washed by my stormy tears,
One after one have lost their bloom and died,
Since Gladys, my heart's darling, as blue-eyed
As speedwells are, was parted from my side;
And as a stranger would she greet me now.
Yet where art thon?
My soul cries after thee.
O Gladys! Gladys! Gladys! come to me."
At this refrain she paused, and swept the sky
And all the grove and all the land about
With wild despairing eyes; then sank again
On the cold ground among the wrinkled roots.
Now Julius bade his comrade by a sign
Remain aloof; and with his eyes tear-dimmed
Went forward in compassionate courtesy
To warn the mourner of their presence near.
His footsteps rustling in the withered leaves
Plucked back her senses, self-withdrawn and drowned
Within the still depths of an absent mind.
A gleam of hope sparkled within her eyes;
And rising calmly, her dilated form
Stood solemnly expectant; but alas!
When she saw nothing but a way-worn man
Advancing towards her, all her features fell,
Displeasure darkened in her gloomy looks,
And pride and sternness stiffened every limb.
"Sad mother," said he gently, "pardon us;
In no officious freedom do we break
Upon thy sacred sorrow. Strangers here,
Seeking a pathway to the inland hills,
We chanced upon this mount; and could not fail
To hear thee mourning for a long-lost child.
The words thou uttered'st touched a secret spring
Of grief in my own breast, and made it flow;
For I too mourn a dear and long-lost child
Held captive by the snares of wicked men."
At this her proud eyes shot a spark of scorn,
And thus she answered—" If thy love were such,
So cold, so careless, as to leave thy child
Captive amid the snares of wicked men,
It is not worthy to sit down and mourn
Here in the dust by mine." But Julius met
Her scorn with meekness, saying, "Let it be;
We will not vex the soreness of our hearts
By any rash reproaches; nor expand
Our tearful woes into a cloud of words
In bitter rivalry. Thy cup of grief,
Lady, I see, is full to overflow;
And mine, God knows, has scanty room to spare.
Yet must I own, my loss has not that edge
Which wounds the instinct of the quivering flesh.
The life which throbs in my child's outward frame
Called me not father; but her soul's dear life
Was fed through mine from the eternal source.
And could I know that still that life is hers,
Our mournful parting I could almost hail
As a delightful meeting. Oftentimes
In silent messages at dead of night
Her spirit to my spirit witnesses
That so it is. Then trembling with the joy
I waken, and give thanks that my lost lamb
Is safe within the Heavenly Shepherd's fold."
These healing thoughts that touched with tender hand
Her inward hurts, so fretted heretofore
With cruel fears and fancies of the brain,
Softened her heart at first so that she stood
With lips half opened and with moistened eyes,
Hanging upon his words; but when he ceased
Her brow regathered all its ominous shade,
And thus she answered him—
"Stranger, thou speak'st
Fantastic riddles to a broken heart:
I only know that I have lost my child.
Not mine by any fanciful conceit,
But by the close, quick tie of motherhood.
Mine,—for she drew her essence from my heart;
Mine,—by an anguish, by a rapture too,
Endured, enjoyed, by me and me alone;
Mine,—by the helpless, formless infancy
That lay unconscious in my arms and thrilled
Their veins with new, unutterable life;
While in each finger that so gently pressed
Her fragile limbs, lay hid a giant's strength
To shield them from the faintest touch of harm."
Before the sacred passion of her grief
Julius a moment paused: then with few words
Emphatic, and a countenance that showed
Through its transparent veil the light within,
He strove to kindle a like cheering flame
Within the gloomy chamber of her heart.
"O lady, rest assured, the All-seeing One,
On whom but even now thy spirit called,—
Who gave the child and gave the love she found,—
Still has her in His ken, though far from thine.
Yet tell me, was thy child stolen from thy side?
Our business takes us far and wide, throughout
The Cymric lands, and we may chance to light
Upon some hints or traces of the maid."
At this a faint light struggled through the gloom
That shadowed all her face; and with a voice
Changed as the worn-out wind changes its voice
When maddening storms abate, she answered him,—
"Like a sick sheep, whom all the butting flocks
Chase from the fold, have I, alas! been long;
My kindred would not bear with my complaints,
And drove me from their homesteads and their paths,
And for the rest I scorned their proffered aid.
Thus dwelling outcast in the caves and woods,—
Conversing only with the reckless winds
And tumbling torrents,—their monotonous sounds
Have sunk into my brain: till all I feel;
All I remember; all that once I was;
And all the horror of the thing I am;—
Has grown an inarticulate misery.
"Yet still it might be uttered, were this all,
Were I alone;—but,—let me whisper it,—
A hateful thing is with me in the woods.
It glares upon me from the noonday sky;
It mocks me from behind the forest-trees;
And when I stoop to drink at any brook,
Features more vile than any words can show,
Yet with a shocking likeness to the face
Worth more than all the world beside to me,
Are pictured in it close beside my own
And ripple in and out and mix with them."
Here Julius snapped the dark thread of her thoughts:—
"O lady, I beesech thee, do not give
The Evil one this mastery over thee,
To speak as if his paltry trickery
Were truth and substance. Rather cast thyself
Into the strong arms of the God of gods;
Gird up thy soul, and boldly trample out
This spark of hell. And truly when we heard
Thy sorrowing voice among these silent trees
Thy words bespoke a mind that knew itself."
"Yea! yea!" she cried, "but hear me, or my heart
Bursts with its ghastly secret. Then at times,
When I have missed the horror for a while
And my crushed soul begins to breathe once more,
And,—like a hunted creature when the hunt
Has swept its cruel pageant out of sight,
Peers timidly from covert and begins
To venture forth into the light again,—
Just as calm thoughts, like clear, delicious springs,
Spread out their coolness through my burning brain,
Then from the very heart of that reprieve
Breaks forth the blackness of a deeper doom;
A voice not mine rings from my loathing lips
In cruel mockery; by the which I know
That through some unwatched door the enemy
Has stolen into my citadel of life
And has me in its wicked will;—"
"Nay, nay,"
Said Julius, "none was ever yet, thank God,
In any wicked will save but his own.
Though like a cruel beast the Evil one
Roams for his prey, a greater far than he
Is still at hand to pluck the trembling soul
Out of his deathful jaws. Cry out to Him,—
To the great Father of the spirits of men,—
And He will hear and rescue."
"It may be:"—
She answered,—"for this quietness I feel,
By which I hear the tumult that is past,
And solve it into words, as I have done;
This quiet fell upon me when I came
By chance on yonder crômlech; which drew out
My longing soul in cryings to the God
Who lives unseen beneath the shows of things;
And Who, perchance, would succour me and give
My lost one to my longing arms again,
If but I brought an offering in my hand.
But all my wealth is seized by grasping men,
My treacherous kindred, who enrich themselves,
Saying that I am mad. There is not left
A single lamb of all my fruitful flocks
To bleed and burn upon the altar now,
In this my utmost need. But as I said,
This quiet fell upon me when my soul
Had cried to the Unseen; and it may be
That He would save me from the hateful thing
If but I brought an offering in my hand."
"Ah, Lady," answered Julius, "He is not
A man, to do a favour for a gift.
Lo! all the creatures of the wilderness,
And all the cattle on a thousand hills,
And all the fulness of the world; are His.
As well to take a single grain of sand
From all the myriads on the ample shore,
And with great pomp of servile sacrifice
Present it to the immeasurable sea. The gift
He asks for is a thankful heart That owns
His love in all things, and in days
Of trouble calls on Him, as calls a child,
With no misgiving, on its father's name.
And as for our transgressions of the law
Writ by His finger in the inward parts,
He wraps His love, like a vast mantle, round
Our naked souls and covers all our sin.
Yes, One that was to Him as much more dear
Than any son to any father's heart,
As God is more than man,—His only One,—
Who was before the eldest worlds were framed,
And was the Word by which He framed the worlds,
He did not spare in this our utmost need."
"Your words are strange," she answered; "and anon
I would hear more; but now that I am free
From that vile presence, let me tell my tale."
Then with authoritative looks that spoke
Of times when many served her signing hand,
She beckoned down the younger from the ridge
And looked beyond them both and spake and said,—
"I was the bride of Owain, valiant Owain,
Golden-haired Owain, heir of all our tribe,
Grandson of Llyr, the ever-gracious king.
Dark as the dusky evening were my looks,
Fair as the morning his and as the day,
The ruddy, lively, and lighthearted day,
Smit with his contrast in the gloomy night
Follows for ever on her silent steps,
So Owain, sunny-hearted, yellow-haired,
Pursued me, dark and moody Gwendolen.
And not more closely in the tender dawn
Are these two wedded than our hearts were wed.
Within that tender dawn a star arose:
Gladys our morning star. Those three brief years
Seem like a lifetime! thronged with pleasant cares
And careful pleasures. Every golden day
Held in its narrow bounds a whole July
Of warmth and sunshine, as I watched my child.
Fast, fast, in strength and loveliness she grew
Within my cradling arms; until at length,
With something of a half regretful joy,
I felt her little hand escape from mine,
And saw her totter off across the grass,
Lured by some sunlit flower."
Here, memory-snared,
The mournful speaker dropped her dreamy eyes
To where beneath the sapling oaks streamed in
A ray of sunset light, and overflowed
The turf with liquid gold.
"Yes, even now
In my cold misery, I could almost smile,
When I remember how the slender stalk
Withstood her soft grasp at the first; and then,
Yielding and suddenly snapping in her hand,
Disturbed the poise of her unpractised limbs,
So that she sank down in a rosy heap.
And how at that a filmy cloud of fear
Bedimmed her innocent brow; yet scarcely seen
Before it vanished in more radiant smiles.
While her soft shout of babbling laughter hailed
The dear-bought trophy.
"But my thoughts have strayed:—
Thus busied with my homeborn happiness
I turned a deaf ear to the moaning griefs
That filled the hapless land. The dissonant clash
Of battle all about, the muttering roll
Of other wars to come, were naught to me.
When Owain spoke in passionate bitterness
Of the great strifes and treacheries of the times,
My lips alone replied, with eager words
Covering my absent thoughts, that still caressed
The child and father. But alas! the while,
And none the less because I would not see,
There creeping came behind, near and more near,
The cruel hour that snatched them from my arms.
Silent, unfeared, it came; like a fell beast
That glides on velvet paws from out a wood,
To where upon the sunny skirting bank
The kids sport merrily.
"For now once more
As the white torrents hurry with fierce leaps
Adown Eriri's grey, precipitous side,
To muster in the depths of Gwynant Vale
And in the rolling Glaslyn issue forth,
The Cymri gathered up their scattered strength,
And pouring from their mountain fastnesses,
Swept down upon the foe.
"Among the rest
Owain arose, the heir of all his tribe,
To lead them to the field. Proudly I wreathed
The golden chaplet round the noble head
That almost quenched it with its yellow curls;
Proudly I bound the shield upon his arm
And gave the long lance to his nervous hand,
While he stood silent, looking in my face
With kind and pitiful eyes, that saw this mood
Was but a ripple on the sea of woe
That drowned my soul at parting with my lord.
One brief and firm embrace, and he was gone.
I saw his war-car smoking down the vale,
Saw through the dust the scythes flash in the sun.
Then anguish came upon me suddenly;
But with a stubborn strength I forced it down.
I took the smiling Gladys in my arms,
And called my trembling maids, and followed-on
After the wheels of Owain. As we went
We met the startled morning, freshly sprung
From the low hills above the Roman camp;
While yet our weary way was half untrod,
Its burning wings had broadened into noon.
Above our throbbing temples; and or ere
Our dusty sandals threaded all the vale,
It passed away behind on curving plumes
And hovered in the west. And now we saw
Wide opened to the East a level tract
Through which the Sabren flowed, her unseen course
Traced by her misty breath that rising filled
The empty spaces of the cooling air.
There, at the valley's mouth, we paused; and climbed
A pine-fringed knoll, that like a sentinel
Kept watch to rearward of the Cymric host.
Mid-distant, by the river's farther shore,
On a green slope that faced the setting sun,
The Romans stood fast-rooted like a rock
On which our surging ranks dissolved in vain.
Again, again the sparkling crest of spears
Arose and flew upon the solid mass;
But harmless as the scattered spray they fell
Upon the close-locked shields, that like the scales
Of some huge monster guarded from assault
The legioned life within. Once and again
Our valiant Cymri charged; once and again
Fell back repulsed and baffled to the ford.
There in the hollow, small as ants, they moved;
And as we watched a sudden shaking seemed
To seize and scatter them; whereat my maids,
All but the noble-hearted Angharad,
Wrung helpless hands and shrieked that all was lost.
But I, who marked still steadfast in the rear
My Owain's chariot, notable afar
By the white steeds whose manes flowed terrible
As meteors in the air, I trembled not,
But saw a martial method in the change.
And soon, more swift than speech, the scythed cars
Dashed from the rear between the opening lines,
And wheeling southwards on the Roman flank,
Cut deep into the legion's quivering heart.
The shouts came faintly to our ears across
The misty meadows; and above the mist,
Small on the dark side of the distant hill,
Where the dim shadow of a purple cloud
Flitted across, I saw the snow-white manes
And the blue glitter of the well-known sword.
The legion wavered; and the serried ranks
Of shining helms fell back in hollow curves,
As fall the ripples of a sullen pool
Where, by the side, a runnel hastens in.
Then for a moment glancing down to still
The restless wailings of the drowsy child,
I lost the links of movement; and before
My dazzled eyes could fit themselves again
To take the farther range, the snow-white manes
And the blue glitter of the well-known sword
Were lost, all trampled out confusedly
Like sparks upon the ground. Then wild with fear
I cast the child into her nurse's arms,
And springing down upon the level plain
Flew towards the river through the misty meads.
I ran as in a dream, on feet that felt.
Nor weight nor weariness; but only seemed
Like wings to the great fear that maddened me
And drove me forward. Now the mangled ground,
Furrowed and stamped where many wheels and feet
Had gathered closer, brought me to the ford;
There, girding up my robes and flinging off
The slippery sandals from my feet, I plunged
Into the stream; whose chilly waters numbed
My trembling ankles. Yet I struggled on
And gained the farther shore; without a pause
Pressed through the clustered footmen; flew between
The trampling horse; threaded the perilous space,
Narrow and shifting, 'twixt the rolling cars;
Caught at the bridles of the tossing heads
That scattered showers of foam, and held them back,
And sprang between the cruel hoofs and wheels;
Deaf to the friendly shouts of those before,
More deaf to the fierce threats of those behind,
Warning me back. Above the thundering cars,
Clearer than all the clashing of the steel,
And more articulate than any speech,
I heard the terror whisper in my heart
That shaped its voice like Owain's dying moan.
But when I gained the spot where glittered last
His waving sword against the dark hill side,
The Romans had arisen, and charging down
The western slopes had left the southern strewn
With the dread wreck of battle. There I found
Him whom I sought; but ask not what I found.
For while I speak once more the darkness comes,
The black, black night that then fell suddenly
On my stunned heart and brain."
Hereat she paused
And reeling, seemed about to swoon away,
While her dark hair swept forward heavily.
But thrusting Julius' friendly arm aside,
She leant her trembling frame against the tree,
Flung the long locks behind, and gasped for breatht;
Then gathering up her forces spoke again,
With pale but resolute lips.
"I knew no more,
Till the soft tears of pitying twilight fell
Upon my face, and I awoke again.
As one who walking in a pleasant place,
In midst of sunshine, flowers, and singing birds,
And murmuring happy fancies to himself,
Suddenly falls into a treacherous pit
Hid by the smiling herbage, and drops down
Mangled and stunned upon the dreary floor;
So from my pleasant path of life I fell,
Suddenly fell; and as that wretched man
After a while begins to stir again,
Painfully moves his miserable limbs,
And marvels at the darkness and the pain;
Then with dim eyes up-gazing to the brink,
Where the wide heavens show dwindled to a point,
By slow degrees draws through his shattered sense
The notion of his fall, so I awoke,
So slowly traced my anguish to its cause.
But in the midst of misery, the thought
Of Gladys glided in athwart my brain,
Even as a lonely star might glide across
That far-off speck and aperture of sky,
Revealed by darkness to the hapless man,
And seem to lure him from his last despair.
I looked around me; but the deepening night
Hid all the distance; save that far below
A trembling gleam showed where the Sabren fled
To hide her blood-stained waters in the sea;
Save that beyond the stream the heavens turned pale
Behind the spectral pines upon the knoll,
Whose dusky arms seemed beckoning me to leave
The lifeless sire, and seek the living child.
Then down the slopes I went as in a dream,
Slow stumbling through the dark among the tracks
Of wheels and hoofs, slipping in blackened pools
That made me shudder, till I reached the ford
And climbed the knoll; but Gladys was not there,
Nor yet my maids. But even then my heart
Held its dull peace; and still as in a dream
I struggled up the windings of the vale
Through that long autumn night, until the dark
Began to fold and gather here and there,
Showing the blasted oak upon the crag,
Above our mountain home. Then in that hour—
That grey, foreboding hour when happy men
Fondly deceive their souls, and dream they hear
In the faint sounds and movements that begin
On every side to stir the quiet air,
Earth's drowsy answer to the call of hope
That wakens her to greet the rising sun;—
In that most dreary hour I passed within
The desolate door, and trod the silent hall,
Where never more should Owain's voice be heard,
Where never more his feet should come again.
Yet this I rather said for her who swooned
The yester-eve beside her husband's corse,
Than felt as she who mourned his loss to-day;
For from the dust my soul had risen to leave
The lifeless sire, and seek the living child.
"Close in the corner of an inner room
A figure crouched, that neither moved nor spoke,
Yet looked like Angharad,—my fairest maid,
Promised to valiant Cynfrân as his bride,—
Like, yet how different! For some ghastly change
Had passed upon her: some mysterious cloud
Hung on her face, and dulled the laughing eyes
That once were clear as day. Yet from behind
That conscious cloud there sparkled out the light
Of a most innocent, indignant soul.
Some wrong that writhed out of the reach of words,
Yet still clung close to loathing memory,
So seemed to gnaw her heart, I feared to ask
Its shape or name; and for a moment's space
My toiling anguish paused to pity hers.
Then did I speak to her;—'O Angharad,
O Angharad the clear-eyed, answer me!
Where is my child?' Slowly she lifted up
Her heavy looks and brought them to my face;
So,—poring on it like a child who pores
On a familiar form in some disguise,—
Found me at length behind my mask of woe,
And in her startled glance. I read my change.
Then, maddened with suspense, again I cried,
'By the three sacred rays which Einig saw
I charge thee,—tell where I may find my child.'
'I know not,' she made answer, sinking back
Into that sullen, self-devouring mood:
Then bowing down her face upon her knees
Till the long waves of shining chestnut hair
Fell round her like a veil, she spoke again:—
'O thank the gods that she is yet a child.'
"I did not weep; but close and, closer still
The leaden weight pressed down my sinking brain,
The senseless slumber lay upon my soul:
A slumber broken by the mournful cries
And wild upbraidings of some second self
That dwelt within the tomb of what I was.
Life ceased to flow like as the Hebsta: flows,—
Now over sounding falls, now in calm pools,
Here glancing in the sun, o'ershadowed there
Below the hanging woods, but always seen,
And always linked in one unbroken course;—
It fell apart disjointed from itself.
Even as the Mellta, that mysteriously
Slips, underground,—to pour her amber waves
Through caverns where the cheerful beams of day
Come never, issuing to the light again
Unlooked for in some far-off valley's side;—
So did the mournful current of my days
Begin to lose its sequence in the dark,
And spring to daylight once again, at wide
And unexpected intervals, as now.
"In that same hour I turned my weary feet,
Forth wandering, all unwitting where I went,
To find my child. Twelve times the flowing sap
Has settled in a larger ring around
The girth of the great forest trees; yet still
I seek my child, and still have found her not,
Thus still I wander on, unwitting where,
To find my child: and this is all my tale."
She ceased: the last vibration of her voice
Died out upon the air, that settled smooth
In utter silence. Then that silence roused
The listeners like a trumpet call; for lo!
They had not seen the setting sun withdraw
The level ray that gilt the grassy ridge
When the sad mother's dolorous tale began.
They had not heard the faint, unfinished songs,
The small, soft rustlings of the wings and feet,
Of nesting birds among the underwood;
Nor felt the chill, moist air, whose poisoned robe
Was folding close and closer round their limbs.
For far away to other scenes and times
That mournful voice had lured their pitying souls,
So that the vacant senses left behind
Saw not, nor heard, nor felt. Now with a start
The wandering powers were at their post and knew
That night had fallen.
Then did the Maccabee,
True to himself, shake off the irksome weight
Of powerless pity; and with a light spring
Mounted the crômlech, crying,
"It were well
To find our pathway to the sheltering hut
Ere the last streak of day fades in the West.
This is the mound, the altar, and the tree
Of which prince Brân at parting spake to us.
'Stand on the stone,' he said, 'and looking North
Mark well the western edge of the huge oak
That faces yon. So marking, you shall find
A wound upon the bark; telling the spot
Whence in old times a Druid's hook, they say,
Severed the sacred plant. If a keen eye
Take aim through this, so shall it deftly light
At a league's distance on a crooked ash
That bends beyond the corner of a wood.
Thither press on, and you shall find a track
Leading to shelter and a faithful friend.'
But if we tarry longer, I misgive,
'Twill take a keener eye than mine to light
At a league's distance upon anything."
"I come," said Julius, paying slender heed,
And thinking more of mournful Guendolen,
Who now again was sitting motionless
As first they saw her; her close folding arms
Clasping her knees; her coldly woful looks
Silently saying,—'This my grief is mine
And not another's, therefore stand aloof.'
But Julius sighed and laid a gentle hand
On the dark wreaths of her disordered hair,
Saying,—"My daughter, may the Highest One,
He whom your bards and Druids blindly serve,
Bless thee, and bring thee all thy heart's desire."
Then paused, withdrew his hand, and spake again:
"The All-mighty is All-merciful. Our pain
Is not His pleasure. Love, and joy, and peace,
Such are His whispers in the soul of man,
Heard in all times though seldom understood.
But now the whisper swells into a voice
That tops all sound beside. For wondrous things
Have happened in the far-off Summer-land
That lies in light beyond the central sea,
The land whence sprung the fathers of your race.
There God, a suffering man with suffering men,
Has walked the weary pathways of the world,
Alluring by majestic tenderness
All longing, restless souls to lean on Him.
Behold! He beckons now the mighty hand
That in its secret hollow holds the sea,
Scoops out the heavens, feeds the fire of the sun
And rolls the planets, is a friendly hand
That delicately guides thy small concerns.
It flings away the robe of mystery,
Lessens itself to suit thy feeble grasp,
And fain would lift the burden of thy cares.
Trust it: ay, trust the skilful hand of Him
Who made thee trust the pitiful heart to which
Thou art more dear than Gladys to thine own.
Speak to Him now: He needs no noise of words,
But hears the silent wishes of the heart.
He knows the darkened eyes and erring feet
Are weak to find the way to His embrace,
And comes Himself to fetch the wanderer home."
She answered nothing, and the drooping wing
Of silence sank again. Then a low sob
Lifted it tremblingly, her fingers loosed
Their straining clasp, and all her sultry griefs
Broke up in showers of kindly tears that fell
Unseen, behind the shadow of her arms.
Then Julius feared to touch the tender bloom
Of these first-fruits, or mar with meddling words
The happy wonder of a waking soul;
And therefore sealed his lips, except to say,
"Farewell; but when this moon that glimmers now
A narrow crescent through the shifting clouds,
Has rounded to the full, her light shall fall
Upon the path that leads us here again."
Meanwhile the keen eye of the Maccabee
Had found the ancient wound upon the bark,
And deftly lighted on the bending ash
That marked the promised shelter; and he stood
Impatient to depart. But when he heard
Julius' farewell,—as ever quick to feel
The need and find the expedient of the hour,—
He turned with hasty gestures to his friend,
Saying in voluble phrases of the Greek
That wrapt the sense from Guendolen,
"Not so:
All thou hast taught, all she has learned were vain,
If now we leave her in the wilderness
Alone, and at the mercy of herself,
The prey of dark conceits. Didst thou not mark
How at the very outset of her tale
She spake of Llyr as grandsire to her lord?
If this be so, his sire was Brân himself;
His brother, royal Caradoc; and thus
The shelter we are bound for were as fit,
As open, for her homeless head as ours."
"Yea, true," said Julius meekly, "I am shamed
Of this my blindness. Verily, it is hard
To balance the nice scales of thought and fact,
Action and meditation. Evermore
We find that we have cast a grain too much
Into the right or left, and this or that
Flies to the beam."
But waiting not to hear
These fine discernments delicately drawn,
Thus spake the Maccabee to Guendolen,
"O Lady, with a brother's faithful heart
I crave to serve thee. Far across the sea
A gentle wife thinks of me; lovely babes
Are taught to lisp their absent father's name.
Therefore my heart grows tender at the thought
Of sorrows such as thine. We go from hence
To find a friendly roof in yonder wood.'
Now hearken to me, Lady; come with us;
And change this wildly-mournful solitude
For kindly faces of thy follow men."
She fastened on his face a searching gaze
As thus he spoke. Then when he ceased arose,
And girt the ruined richness of her robes
About her stately form; saying the while,—
"Yea, I will follow: all my soul is bent
To learn the worship of the God you serve.
But pass before; and while I follow on,
Speak not nor look behind; for if perchance
The hateful thing should track me, I must face
Its last assault alone."
She waved them on,
And they set forward. But a shadow sat
Upon the Maccabee;—"Far be it from me,"
He cried, as Julius joined him on the path,
"To soften down, as thou, the hellish freaks
Of their false priests and falser gods; as if
Falsehood were but another name for truth;
Foulness for purity; blood-thirstiness
For love and pity. Rather let my arm
Strike boldly at the bitter root, and cast
Alone, and at the mercy of herself,
The prey of dark conceits. Didst thou not mark
How at the very ontset of her tale
She spake of Llyr as grandsire to her lord?
If this be so, his sire was Brân himself;
His brother, royal Caradoc; and thus
The shelter we are bound for were as fit,
As open, for her homeless head as ours."
"Yea, true," said Julius meekly, "I am shamed
Of this my blindness. Verily, it is hard
To balance the nice scales of thought and fact,
Action and meditation. Evermore
We find that we have cast a grain too much
Into the right or left, and this or that
Flies to the beam."
But waiting not to hear
These fine discernments delicately drawn,
Thus spake the Maccabee to Guendolen,
"O Lady, with a brother's faithful heart
I crave to serve thee. Far across the sea
A gentle wife thinks of me; lovely babes
Are taught to lisp their absent father's name.
Therefore my heart grows tender at the thought
Of sorrows such as thine. We go from hence
And hurl him from his knees, as if I scorned
His sacred yearnings? Shall I snatch the straw
Out of the drowning hand, before I guide
Its eager clasp to the far-reaching boughs
Of the strong tree of Life?"
"To hear thee speak,"
The younger answered, "one would think that all
The vilest worship of the vilest gods
Of heathendom, were something sound at base;
A gentle error, not a damning sin.
Bold-faced rebellion, foaming out its shame
In loud defiance, ranks in thy soft phrase
As something specious. Thou would'st call the swine
That tramples in the mire the tender plant,
The prop that stays its weakness. Thou would'st call
The cruel reptile lurking in the reeds,
A straw at which the drowning man may catch,
With small advantage but as little hurt."
"Alas," said Julius, "thou but beat'st the wind;
Or at the best the empty robe of words
From whence the spirit of my argument
Flits forth unscathed, untouched, unrecognized.
But let us tempt it back. As far from me
As thee, to soften as thou seem'st to fear
The hellish freaks of heathendom: as if
Falsehood were but another name for truth;
Foulness for purity; blood-thirstiness
For love and pity. Yet be well assured
There never was successful counterfeit
But bare a certain semblance to the true,
Was framed on the idea of the true,
And by that semblance and idea kept
Its hold upon the world. The false, the foul,
The cruel, of the heathen gods would soon
Fall of themselves and crumble into dust;
But that beneath there lurks a vital Truth;
So strong that even the most crushing weight
Of error heaped upon it but benumbs
Its outer workings, cannot quench the life
That throbs and glows within. That truth is this:—
That there is Power above us, felt not seen:
A Power before whose breath we are less strong
Than the light chaff of summer threshing-floors
Before the hurricane, a Power to which
We owe allegiance. Let our task be this:—
To tear asunder the corrupting veil,
And let the struggling life escape, to find
A home in purer forms. Meanwhile, my son,
We know not, truly, if our brother's fault
Be gentle error or a damning sin.
But this we know;—that what we rightly call
The one true knowledge of the one true God,
Revealed to Moses, perfected in Christ,
Is but a shadow of the Truth itself,
A finite symbol of the Infinite.
Yet if a symbol, one divinely given;
And therefore to be hoarded in our hearts
As sacred treasure: yes, more precious far
Than all our fine-spun after-thoughts: a thing
In which to live our life; or, if needs be,
For which to die; with holy modesty
That dreams not we have scaled the heavens, that owns
We see not Him who is invisible,
Save as reflected in the small, dim glass
Of our low thoughts; which still is small and dim
Though his enlightening Spirit pour thereon
Its condescending beams. Perchance, my son,
Our noblest thoughts of God fall farther short
Of the pure splendours of His Infinite
Than does the meanest heathen thought, of ours."
But still the other answered—"Pardon me
For harping still upon this weary string;—
But speaking thus, thou mak'st our sacred ark
That rides alone above a drowning world
One of a happy fleet, all homeward bound.
Yea, speaking thus, may God forgive the word,
Thou mak'st Jove true, only less true than Christ,
Or else Christ false, only less false than Jove."
Then Julius, under breath,—"Nay, God forbid!"
And pausing on the rugged path he sighed,
Sighed out of utter loneliness of soul:
That deepest and most desert solitude,
That farthest exile, when the chosen friend
Is close beside, to hand, and eye, and ear,
Yet severed from us by a boundless gulf.
His baffled spirit stretched her empty arms,
Despairing, to the vague and cold embrace
Of nature; but she held upon her way,
Vast, inarticulate, immoveable,
Brooding on deeper sorrows of her own.
And darker still the sombre twilight fell;
The faint moon-crescent glimmered fainter still
Behind the murky vapours; a white bird
Flitted half seen across the watercourse;
And the sad earth sighed through the fading trees
That loomed in masses on the farther shore.
Then thought the other,—to whom Julius' mood
Was as a colour to a blind man's eye,—
'Something has chafed him; let me change the theme.'
So, when the old man turned serene looks round
And they went forward, with a softened voice
Began the younger:—"Thou did'st speak anon
To this lorn mother of some spiritual child
Held captive in the snares of wicked men.
Prythee, who is this maiden? never yet
Hast thou so much as named her name to me."
"Friend," answered Julius, "she is one of whom
My heart speaks rather than my lips, and more
To God than man." "Nay," said the Maccabee,
"The nearer that a matter lies to the heart
The fitter to be shared by the heart's friend."
"True," groaned the other, "if that your heart's friend
Be capable to share it; but like love,
Friendship full oft cleaves to its opposite,
And cleaves the closer for the difference.
Yet in this mystery do partings lie,
As well as meetings: dangerous variance,
As well as safe accord: mournful farewells
Of soul to soul across a widening gulf
As well as clasped hands and eternal vows.
But for this girl, in whom is garnered up
My childless heart, hers is a tale soon told,
And since thou crav'st to hear it, I will tell.
"She is the child of Aulus Plautius:
The veteran general who when Llyr was king
Beat back the British forces, and returned
In proud ovation; with the emperor
Riding at his right hand; the mellow flutes
Warbling around; his charger's pawing hoofs
Deep in strewn flowers; and far as eye could see,
From the field of Mars on to the Capitol,
His army, rich with trophies, myrtle-crowned,
Pouring through ranks of shouting citizens.
All unaware how at that very hour
The cry of battle rang along the coasts
Of the white island; that the Cymric powers
Had risen again; and Caradoc had won
More than his grandsire lost.
"Now since that day
Has Plantius dwelt in Rome, and with him dwell
His noble wife Pomponia, and their child,
The bright-haired Claudia. It is said in Rome,
She is not theirs by any tie of blood;
But let that pass. She was a wondrous child,
Full of still radiance. When Pomponia
Turned from the heathen rites to worship God,
And with a trembling heart began to break
The mighty change to Claudia,—telling her
Of God and Christ—or ere the child had heard
More than the briefest outline, she arose,
And with a calm face answered, 'Yea, I know:
This is the God who hears me when I pray.
He dwells beyond the incense and the shrines,
And draws me closer, closer, up to Him.
I have loved Him always, knowing not His name
But now I know it I will serve Him too.'
And this Pomponia told me and I came,
Saw the fair child, spake with her, and did find
Most surely that the Spirit of the Lord
Had taken of His truth and shown it her
In the transparent silence of her soul.
But ever with most sweet humility
She sat as at my feet, desiring still
To learn: unguessing how I craved the while
Rather to learn from her. So time went on;
And evermore the promise of her soul
Grew riper, till I saw that she was one
Fashioned for glorious ends. But as a frost
Descends untimely on the buds of March,
So did the blighting breath of a merciless world
Fall on this flower of Heaven. Her plastic soul
Moulded a most fair dwelling for itself.
I have no skill to paint in gandy words
A maiden's beauty. This is all I know;—
That she was lovelier than the loveliest,
As gentle and as graceful as a fawn,
As soft in tint and outline as a flower;
And the still star-like radiance of her looks
Maddened all Rome with love, weary to death
Of brazen brows, and lavish smiles, and eyes
Bright with base meanings. So while yet a child
Her father promised her without her will
To Pudens of the order of the knights:
The best of all her suitors; yet as far
From Claudia as a muddy pool is far
From the pure planet shining on its face.
Then when with quiet tears and earnest words
She craved to be left free, he turned his wrath
On me and on Pomponia; swore by Jove
That we had plagued her fancy with crude fears
Bred of our gloomy faith, and bade me go
And never more darken his palace-doors.
As for his noble wife, he prisoned her
In her own dwelling, holding her apart
From converse with the darling of her soul.
And now the illustrious lady's enemies,—
For many hated her, whose holy light
Reproached their darkness,—finding that she lay
Under the fierce displeasure of her lord,
Took heart against her, who had seemed before
Too high a quarry for their mean assaults.
Now they accused her that she had embraced
A foreign superstition, and required
That she should answer for it to her lord.
So Plautius, following the ancient law,
Summoned her kindred, and before them all
Tried her for life and fame. But in the end,
The majesty and meekness of her words,
Given in that hour by Him who ever walks
Beside His chosen in the baffled fire;
And her unspotted life, that shone the more
The more they pried into her secret ways;
So wrought upon him that he cast aside
The accusers' charge, pronounced her innocent
Of any wrongful courses, and restored
His favour to her. But still resolute
That Claudia shall not suffer further taint
From this new faith, he holds her sternly yet
From her illustrious mother; circles her
With gay companions, fills her nights and days
With songs and dances, garlands, gay attire,
And passionate wooers whispering vanity
In her unguarded ears. Then say, my son,
Have I not lost my child?—and is she not
Held captive in the snares of wicked men?"
"Alas, my father, thou hast cause to grieve,"
The other answered; "'tis a grievous thing
To see a dear soul for the which Christ died
Tossed as a plaything in the enemy's hand.
Yet what were thine own words to Guendolen?—
That 'the all-seeing One, who gave the child
Still has her in His ken though far from thine.'
Thus medicine thine own grief: remembering too
That even our Captain's armour was annealed
By fiery conflict in the wilderness,
Then how much more should ours? If, as thou deem'st,
She has been fashioned for a glorious end,
Most needful was it that her spiritual strength
Be tested sharply. Yet I marvel much
What glorious end she can be fashioned for,
A mere, weak woman."
When he heard these words
A slow smile breaking over Julius' soul
Rose like the dawn and overflowed his face,
As thus he answered,—
"Marvellest thou, my son?
Truly the world and all the ways of God
Are full of marvels. Not the least is this,
That all the mightiest forces that compel
Matter and spirit in their destined grooves
Are silent and unseen. "Perchance, my son,
Your 'mere, weak woman' may be one of these.
Truly she is the mother of us all.
All noble thoughts and pure imaginings,
Incarnated in her, swell in her soul
In darkness, till the growing time is rife
For birth in the activities of man.
Yes, it is possible the Wisest One
May not have erred in trusting to her hands
The fortunes of our race, trusting to her
The pregnant, pliant years of infancy."
So spake the generous Julius; while a spark
That almost looked like scorn brightened his eyes,
And to his words the voluble Maccabee
Answered in such unanswerable sort
He could but smile once more and hold his peace.
And all the grove and all the land about
With wild despairing eyes; then sank again
On the cold ground among the wrinkled roots.
Now Julius bade his comrade by a sign
Remain aloof; and with his eyes tear-dimmed
Went forward in compassionate courtesy
To warn the mourner of their presence near.
His footsteps rustling in the withered leaves
Plucked back her senses, self-withdrawn and drowned
Within the still depths of an absent mind.
A gleam of hope sparkled within her eyes;
And rising calmly, her dilated form
Stood solemnly expectant; but alas!
When she saw nothing but a way-worn man
Advancing towards her, all her features fell,
Displeasure darkened in her gloomy looks,
And pride and sternness stiffened every limb.
"Sad mother," said he gently, "pardon us;
In no officious freedom do we break
Upon thy sacred sorrow. Strangers here,
Seeking a pathway to the inland hills,
We chanced upon this mount; and could not fail
To hear thee mourning for a long-lost child.
The words thou uttered'st touched a secret spring
Of grief in my own breast, and made it flow;
For I too mourn a dear and long-lost child
Held captive by the snares of wicked men."
At this her proud eyes shot a spark of scorn,
And thus she answered—" If thy love were such,
So cold, so careless, as to leave thy child
Captive amid the snares of wicked men,
It is not worthy to sit down and mourn
Here in the dust by mine." But Julius met
Her scorn with meekness, saying, "Let it be;
We will not vex the soreness of our hearts
By any rash reproaches; nor expand
Our tearful woes into a cloud of words
In bitter rivalry. Thy cup of grief,
Lady, I see, is full to overflow;
And mine, God knows, has scanty room to spare.
Yet must I own, my loss has not that edge
Which wounds the instinct of the quivering flesh.
The life which throbs in my child's outward frame
Called me not father; but her soul's dear life
Was fed through mine from the eternal source.
And could I know that still that life is hers,
Our mournful parting I could almost hail
As a delightful meeting. Oftentimes
In silent messages at dead of night
Her spirit to my spirit witnesses
That so it is. Then trembling with the joy
I waken, and give thanks that my lost lamb
Is safe within the Heavenly Shepherd's fold."
These healing thoughts that touched with tender hand
Her inward hurts, so fretted heretofore
With cruel fears and fancies of the brain,
Softened her heart at first so that she stood
With lips half opened and with moistened eyes,
Hanging upon his words; but when he ceased
Her brow regathered all its ominous shade,
And thus she answered him—
"Stranger, thou speak'st
Fantastic riddles to a broken heart:
I only know that I have lost my child.
Not mine by any fanciful conceit,
But by the close, quick tie of motherhood.
Mine,—for she drew her essence from my heart;
Mine,—by an anguish, by a rapture too,
Endured, enjoyed, by me and me alone;
Mine,—by the helpless, formless infancy
That lay unconscious in my arms and thrilled
Their veins with new, unutterable life;
While in each finger that so gently pressed
Her fragile limbs, lay hid a giant's strength
To shield them from the faintest touch of harm."
Before the sacred passion of her grief
Julius a moment paused: then with few words
Emphatic, and a countenance that showed
Through its transparent veil the light within,
He strove to kindle a like cheering flame
Within the gloomy chamber of her heart.
"O lady, rest assured, the All-seeing One,
On whom but even now thy spirit called,—
Who gave the child and gave the love she found,—
Still has her in His ken, though far from thine.
Yet tell me, was thy child stolen from thy side?
Our business takes us far and wide, throughout
The Cymric lands, and we may chance to light
Upon some hints or traces of the maid."
At this a faint light struggled through the gloom
That shadowed all her face; and with a voice
Changed as the worn-out wind changes its voice
When maddening storms abate, she answered him,—
"Like a sick sheep, whom all the butting flocks
Chase from the fold, have I, alas! been long;
My kindred would not bear with my complaints,
And drove me from their homesteads and their paths,
And for the rest I scorned their proffered aid.
Thus dwelling outcast in the caves and woods,—
Conversing only with the reckless winds
And tumbling torrents,—their monotonous sounds
Have sunk into my brain: till all I feel;
All I remember; all that once I was;
And all the horror of the thing I am;—
Has grown an inarticulate misery.
"Yet still it might be uttered, were this all,
Were I alone;—but,—let me whisper it,—
A hateful thing is with me in the woods.
It glares upon me from the noonday sky;
It mocks me from behind the forest-trees;
And when I stoop to drink at any brook,
Features more vile than any words can show,
Yet with a shocking likeness to the face
Worth more than all the world beside to me,
Are pictured in it close beside my own
And ripple in and out and mix with them."
Here Julius snapped the dark thread of her thoughts:—
"O lady, I beesech thee, do not give
The Evil one this mastery over thee,
To speak as if his paltry trickery
Were truth and substance. Rather cast thyself
Into the strong arms of the God of gods;
Gird up thy soul, and boldly trample out
This spark of hell. And truly when we heard
Thy sorrowing voice among these silent trees
Thy words bespoke a mind that knew itself."
"Yea! yea!" she cried, "but hear me, or my heart
Bursts with its ghastly secret. Then at times,
When I have missed the horror for a while
And my crushed soul begins to breathe once more,
And,—like a hunted creature when the hunt
Has swept its cruel pageant out of sight,
Peers timidly from covert and begins
To venture forth into the light again,—
Just as calm thoughts, like clear, delicious springs,
Spread out their coolness through my burning brain,
Then from the very heart of that reprieve
Breaks forth the blackness of a deeper doom;
A voice not mine rings from my loathing lips
In cruel mockery; by the which I know
That through some unwatched door the enemy
Has stolen into my citadel of life
And has me in its wicked will;—"
"Nay, nay,"
Said Julius, "none was ever yet, thank God,
In any wicked will save but his own.
Though like a cruel beast the Evil one
Roams for his prey, a greater far than he
Is still at hand to pluck the trembling soul
Out of his deathful jaws. Cry out to Him,—
To the great Father of the spirits of men,—
And He will hear and rescue."
"It may be:"—
She answered,—"for this quietness I feel,
By which I hear the tumult that is past,
And solve it into words, as I have done;
This quiet fell upon me when I came
By chance on yonder crômlech; which drew out
My longing soul in cryings to the God
Who lives unseen beneath the shows of things;
And Who, perchance, would succour me and give
My lost one to my longing arms again,
If but I brought an offering in my hand.
But all my wealth is seized by grasping men,
My treacherous kindred, who enrich themselves,
Saying that I am mad. There is not left
A single lamb of all my fruitful flocks
To bleed and burn upon the altar now,
In this my utmost need. But as I said,
This quiet fell upon me when my soul
Had cried to the Unseen; and it may be
That He would save me from the hateful thing
If but I brought an offering in my hand."
"Ah, Lady," answered Julius, "He is not
A man, to do a favour for a gift.
Lo! all the creatures of the wilderness,
And all the cattle on a thousand hills,
And all the fulness of the world; are His.
As well to take a single grain of sand
From all the myriads on the ample shore,
And with great pomp of servile sacrifice
Present it to the immeasurable sea. The gift
He asks for is a thankful heart That owns
His love in all things, and in days
Of trouble calls on Him, as calls a child,
With no misgiving, on its father's name.
And as for our transgressions of the law
Writ by His finger in the inward parts,
He wraps His love, like a vast mantle, round
Our naked souls and covers all our sin.
Yes, One that was to Him as much more dear
Than any son to any father's heart,
As God is more than man,—His only One,—
Who was before the eldest worlds were framed,
And was the Word by which He framed the worlds,
He did not spare in this our utmost need."
"Your words are strange," she answered; "and anon
I would hear more; but now that I am free
From that vile presence, let me tell my tale."
Then with authoritative looks that spoke
Of times when many served her signing hand,
She beckoned down the younger from the ridge
And looked beyond them both and spake and said,—
"I was the bride of Owain, valiant Owain,
Golden-haired Owain, heir of all our tribe,
Grandson of Llyr, the ever-gracious king.
Dark as the dusky evening were my looks,
Fair as the morning his and as the day,
The ruddy, lively, and lighthearted day,
Smit with his contrast in the gloomy night
Follows for ever on her silent steps,
So Owain, sunny-hearted, yellow-haired,
Pursued me, dark and moody Gwendolen.
And not more closely in the tender dawn
Are these two wedded than our hearts were wed.
Within that tender dawn a star arose:
Gladys our morning star. Those three brief years
Seem like a lifetime! thronged with pleasant cares
And careful pleasures. Every golden day
Held in its narrow bounds a whole July
Of warmth and sunshine, as I watched my child.
Fast, fast, in strength and loveliness she grew
Within my cradling arms; until at length,
With something of a half regretful joy,
I felt her little hand escape from mine,
And saw her totter off across the grass,
Lured by some sunlit flower."
Here, memory-snared,
The mournful speaker dropped her dreamy eyes
To where beneath the sapling oaks streamed in
A ray of sunset light, and overflowed
The turf with liquid gold.
"Yes, even now
In my cold misery, I could almost smile,
When I remember how the slender stalk
Withstood her soft grasp at the first; and then,
Yielding and suddenly snapping in her hand,
Disturbed the poise of her unpractised limbs,
So that she sank down in a rosy heap.
And how at that a filmy cloud of fear
Bedimmed her innocent brow; yet scarcely seen
Before it vanished in more radiant smiles.
While her soft shout of babbling laughter hailed
The dear-bought trophy.
"But my thoughts have strayed:—
Thus busied with my homeborn happiness
I turned a deaf ear to the moaning griefs
That filled the hapless land. The dissonant clash
Of battle all about, the muttering roll
Of other wars to come, were naught to me.
When Owain spoke in passionate bitterness
Of the great strifes and treacheries of the times,
My lips alone replied, with eager words
Covering my absent thoughts, that still caressed
The child and father. But alas! the while,
And none the less because I would not see,
There creeping came behind, near and more near,
The cruel hour that snatched them from my arms.
Silent, unfeared, it came; like a fell beast
That glides on velvet paws from out a wood,
To where upon the sunny skirting bank
The kids sport merrily.
"For now once more
As the white torrents hurry with fierce leaps
Adown Eriri's grey, precipitous side,
To muster in the depths of Gwynant Vale
And in the rolling Glaslyn issue forth,
The Cymri gathered up their scattered strength,
And pouring from their mountain fastnesses,
Swept down upon the foe.
"Among the rest
Owain arose, the heir of all his tribe,
To lead them to the field. Proudly I wreathed
The golden chaplet round the noble head
That almost quenched it with its yellow curls;
Proudly I bound the shield upon his arm
And gave the long lance to his nervous hand,
While he stood silent, looking in my face
With kind and pitiful eyes, that saw this mood
Was but a ripple on the sea of woe
That drowned my soul at parting with my lord.
One brief and firm embrace, and he was gone.
I saw his war-car smoking down the vale,
Saw through the dust the scythes flash in the sun.
Then anguish came upon me suddenly;
But with a stubborn strength I forced it down.
I took the smiling Gladys in my arms,
And called my trembling maids, and followed-on
After the wheels of Owain. As we went
We met the startled morning, freshly sprung
From the low hills above the Roman camp;
While yet our weary way was half untrod,
Its burning wings had broadened into noon.
Above our throbbing temples; and or ere
Our dusty sandals threaded all the vale,
It passed away behind on curving plumes
And hovered in the west. And now we saw
Wide opened to the East a level tract
Through which the Sabren flowed, her unseen course
Traced by her misty breath that rising filled
The empty spaces of the cooling air.
There, at the valley's mouth, we paused; and climbed
A pine-fringed knoll, that like a sentinel
Kept watch to rearward of the Cymric host.
Mid-distant, by the river's farther shore,
On a green slope that faced the setting sun,
The Romans stood fast-rooted like a rock
On which our surging ranks dissolved in vain.
Again, again the sparkling crest of spears
Arose and flew upon the solid mass;
But harmless as the scattered spray they fell
Upon the close-locked shields, that like the scales
Of some huge monster guarded from assault
The legioned life within. Once and again
Our valiant Cymri charged; once and again
Fell back repulsed and baffled to the ford.
There in the hollow, small as ants, they moved;
And as we watched a sudden shaking seemed
To seize and scatter them; whereat my maids,
All but the noble-hearted Angharad,
Wrung helpless hands and shrieked that all was lost.
But I, who marked still steadfast in the rear
My Owain's chariot, notable afar
By the white steeds whose manes flowed terrible
As meteors in the air, I trembled not,
But saw a martial method in the change.
And soon, more swift than speech, the scythed cars
Dashed from the rear between the opening lines,
And wheeling southwards on the Roman flank,
Cut deep into the legion's quivering heart.
The shouts came faintly to our ears across
The misty meadows; and above the mist,
Small on the dark side of the distant hill,
Where the dim shadow of a purple cloud
Flitted across, I saw the snow-white manes
And the blue glitter of the well-known sword.
The legion wavered; and the serried ranks
Of shining helms fell back in hollow curves,
As fall the ripples of a sullen pool
Where, by the side, a runnel hastens in.
Then for a moment glancing down to still
The restless wailings of the drowsy child,
I lost the links of movement; and before
My dazzled eyes could fit themselves again
To take the farther range, the snow-white manes
And the blue glitter of the well-known sword
Were lost, all trampled out confusedly
Like sparks upon the ground. Then wild with fear
I cast the child into her nurse's arms,
And springing down upon the level plain
Flew towards the river through the misty meads.
I ran as in a dream, on feet that felt.
Nor weight nor weariness; but only seemed
Like wings to the great fear that maddened me
And drove me forward. Now the mangled ground,
Furrowed and stamped where many wheels and feet
Had gathered closer, brought me to the ford;
There, girding up my robes and flinging off
The slippery sandals from my feet, I plunged
Into the stream; whose chilly waters numbed
My trembling ankles. Yet I struggled on
And gained the farther shore; without a pause
Pressed through the clustered footmen; flew between
The trampling horse; threaded the perilous space,
Narrow and shifting, 'twixt the rolling cars;
Caught at the bridles of the tossing heads
That scattered showers of foam, and held them back,
And sprang between the cruel hoofs and wheels;
Deaf to the friendly shouts of those before,
More deaf to the fierce threats of those behind,
Warning me back. Above the thundering cars,
Clearer than all the clashing of the steel,
And more articulate than any speech,
I heard the terror whisper in my heart
That shaped its voice like Owain's dying moan.
But when I gained the spot where glittered last
His waving sword against the dark hill side,
The Romans had arisen, and charging down
The western slopes had left the southern strewn
With the dread wreck of battle. There I found
Him whom I sought; but ask not what I found.
For while I speak once more the darkness comes,
The black, black night that then fell suddenly
On my stunned heart and brain."
Hereat she paused
And reeling, seemed about to swoon away,
While her dark hair swept forward heavily.
But thrusting Julius' friendly arm aside,
She leant her trembling frame against the tree,
Flung the long locks behind, and gasped for breatht;
Then gathering up her forces spoke again,
With pale but resolute lips.
"I knew no more,
Till the soft tears of pitying twilight fell
Upon my face, and I awoke again.
As one who walking in a pleasant place,
In midst of sunshine, flowers, and singing birds,
And murmuring happy fancies to himself,
Suddenly falls into a treacherous pit
Hid by the smiling herbage, and drops down
Mangled and stunned upon the dreary floor;
So from my pleasant path of life I fell,
Suddenly fell; and as that wretched man
After a while begins to stir again,
Painfully moves his miserable limbs,
And marvels at the darkness and the pain;
Then with dim eyes up-gazing to the brink,
Where the wide heavens show dwindled to a point,
By slow degrees draws through his shattered sense
The notion of his fall, so I awoke,
So slowly traced my anguish to its cause.
But in the midst of misery, the thought
Of Gladys glided in athwart my brain,
Even as a lonely star might glide across
That far-off speck and aperture of sky,
Revealed by darkness to the hapless man,
And seem to lure him from his last despair.
I looked around me; but the deepening night
Hid all the distance; save that far below
A trembling gleam showed where the Sabren fled
To hide her blood-stained waters in the sea;
Save that beyond the stream the heavens turned pale
Behind the spectral pines upon the knoll,
Whose dusky arms seemed beckoning me to leave
The lifeless sire, and seek the living child.
Then down the slopes I went as in a dream,
Slow stumbling through the dark among the tracks
Of wheels and hoofs, slipping in blackened pools
That made me shudder, till I reached the ford
And climbed the knoll; but Gladys was not there,
Nor yet my maids. But even then my heart
Held its dull peace; and still as in a dream
I struggled up the windings of the vale
Through that long autumn night, until the dark
Began to fold and gather here and there,
Showing the blasted oak upon the crag,
Above our mountain home. Then in that hour—
That grey, foreboding hour when happy men
Fondly deceive their souls, and dream they hear
In the faint sounds and movements that begin
On every side to stir the quiet air,
Earth's drowsy answer to the call of hope
That wakens her to greet the rising sun;—
In that most dreary hour I passed within
The desolate door, and trod the silent hall,
Where never more should Owain's voice be heard,
Where never more his feet should come again.
Yet this I rather said for her who swooned
The yester-eve beside her husband's corse,
Than felt as she who mourned his loss to-day;
For from the dust my soul had risen to leave
The lifeless sire, and seek the living child.
"Close in the corner of an inner room
A figure crouched, that neither moved nor spoke,
Yet looked like Angharad,—my fairest maid,
Promised to valiant Cynfrân as his bride,—
Like, yet how different! For some ghastly change
Had passed upon her: some mysterious cloud
Hung on her face, and dulled the laughing eyes
That once were clear as day. Yet from behind
That conscious cloud there sparkled out the light
Of a most innocent, indignant soul.
Some wrong that writhed out of the reach of words,
Yet still clung close to loathing memory,
So seemed to gnaw her heart, I feared to ask
Its shape or name; and for a moment's space
My toiling anguish paused to pity hers.
Then did I speak to her;—'O Angharad,
O Angharad the clear-eyed, answer me!
Where is my child?' Slowly she lifted up
Her heavy looks and brought them to my face;
So,—poring on it like a child who pores
On a familiar form in some disguise,—
Found me at length behind my mask of woe,
And in her startled glance. I read my change.
Then, maddened with suspense, again I cried,
'By the three sacred rays which Einig saw
I charge thee,—tell where I may find my child.'
'I know not,' she made answer, sinking back
Into that sullen, self-devouring mood:
Then bowing down her face upon her knees
Till the long waves of shining chestnut hair
Fell round her like a veil, she spoke again:—
'O thank the gods that she is yet a child.'
"I did not weep; but close and, closer still
The leaden weight pressed down my sinking brain,
The senseless slumber lay upon my soul:
A slumber broken by the mournful cries
And wild upbraidings of some second self
That dwelt within the tomb of what I was.
Life ceased to flow like as the Hebsta: flows,—
Now over sounding falls, now in calm pools,
Here glancing in the sun, o'ershadowed there
Below the hanging woods, but always seen,
And always linked in one unbroken course;—
It fell apart disjointed from itself.
Even as the Mellta, that mysteriously
Slips, underground,—to pour her amber waves
Through caverns where the cheerful beams of day
Come never, issuing to the light again
Unlooked for in some far-off valley's side;—
So did the mournful current of my days
Begin to lose its sequence in the dark,
And spring to daylight once again, at wide
And unexpected intervals, as now.
"In that same hour I turned my weary feet,
Forth wandering, all unwitting where I went,
To find my child. Twelve times the flowing sap
Has settled in a larger ring around
The girth of the great forest trees; yet still
I seek my child, and still have found her not,
Thus still I wander on, unwitting where,
To find my child: and this is all my tale."
She ceased: the last vibration of her voice
Died out upon the air, that settled smooth
In utter silence. Then that silence roused
The listeners like a trumpet call; for lo!
They had not seen the setting sun withdraw
The level ray that gilt the grassy ridge
When the sad mother's dolorous tale began.
They had not heard the faint, unfinished songs,
The small, soft rustlings of the wings and feet,
Of nesting birds among the underwood;
Nor felt the chill, moist air, whose poisoned robe
Was folding close and closer round their limbs.
For far away to other scenes and times
That mournful voice had lured their pitying souls,
So that the vacant senses left behind
Saw not, nor heard, nor felt. Now with a start
The wandering powers were at their post and knew
That night had fallen.
Then did the Maccabee,
True to himself, shake off the irksome weight
Of powerless pity; and with a light spring
Mounted the crômlech, crying,
"It were well
To find our pathway to the sheltering hut
Ere the last streak of day fades in the West.
This is the mound, the altar, and the tree
Of which prince Brân at parting spake to us.
'Stand on the stone,' he said, 'and looking North
Mark well the western edge of the huge oak
That faces yon. So marking, you shall find
A wound upon the bark; telling the spot
Whence in old times a Druid's hook, they say,
Severed the sacred plant. If a keen eye
Take aim through this, so shall it deftly light
At a league's distance on a crooked ash
That bends beyond the corner of a wood.
Thither press on, and you shall find a track
Leading to shelter and a faithful friend.'
But if we tarry longer, I misgive,
'Twill take a keener eye than mine to light
At a league's distance upon anything."
"I come," said Julius, paying slender heed,
And thinking more of mournful Guendolen,
Who now again was sitting motionless
As first they saw her; her close folding arms
Clasping her knees; her coldly woful looks
Silently saying,—'This my grief is mine
And not another's, therefore stand aloof.'
But Julius sighed and laid a gentle hand
On the dark wreaths of her disordered hair,
Saying,—"My daughter, may the Highest One,
He whom your bards and Druids blindly serve,
Bless thee, and bring thee all thy heart's desire."
Then paused, withdrew his hand, and spake again:
"The All-mighty is All-merciful. Our pain
Is not His pleasure. Love, and joy, and peace,
Such are His whispers in the soul of man,
Heard in all times though seldom understood.
But now the whisper swells into a voice
That tops all sound beside. For wondrous things
Have happened in the far-off Summer-land
That lies in light beyond the central sea,
The land whence sprung the fathers of your race.
There God, a suffering man with suffering men,
Has walked the weary pathways of the world,
Alluring by majestic tenderness
All longing, restless souls to lean on Him.
Behold! He beckons now the mighty hand
That in its secret hollow holds the sea,
Scoops out the heavens, feeds the fire of the sun
And rolls the planets, is a friendly hand
That delicately guides thy small concerns.
It flings away the robe of mystery,
Lessens itself to suit thy feeble grasp,
And fain would lift the burden of thy cares.
Trust it: ay, trust the skilful hand of Him
Who made thee trust the pitiful heart to which
Thou art more dear than Gladys to thine own.
Speak to Him now: He needs no noise of words,
But hears the silent wishes of the heart.
He knows the darkened eyes and erring feet
Are weak to find the way to His embrace,
And comes Himself to fetch the wanderer home."
She answered nothing, and the drooping wing
Of silence sank again. Then a low sob
Lifted it tremblingly, her fingers loosed
Their straining clasp, and all her sultry griefs
Broke up in showers of kindly tears that fell
Unseen, behind the shadow of her arms.
Then Julius feared to touch the tender bloom
Of these first-fruits, or mar with meddling words
The happy wonder of a waking soul;
And therefore sealed his lips, except to say,
"Farewell; but when this moon that glimmers now
A narrow crescent through the shifting clouds,
Has rounded to the full, her light shall fall
Upon the path that leads us here again."
Meanwhile the keen eye of the Maccabee
Had found the ancient wound upon the bark,
And deftly lighted on the bending ash
That marked the promised shelter; and he stood
Impatient to depart. But when he heard
Julius' farewell,—as ever quick to feel
The need and find the expedient of the hour,—
He turned with hasty gestures to his friend,
Saying in voluble phrases of the Greek
That wrapt the sense from Guendolen,
"Not so:
All thou hast taught, all she has learned were vain,
If now we leave her in the wilderness
Alone, and at the mercy of herself,
The prey of dark conceits. Didst thou not mark
How at the very outset of her tale
She spake of Llyr as grandsire to her lord?
If this be so, his sire was Brân himself;
His brother, royal Caradoc; and thus
The shelter we are bound for were as fit,
As open, for her homeless head as ours."
"Yea, true," said Julius meekly, "I am shamed
Of this my blindness. Verily, it is hard
To balance the nice scales of thought and fact,
Action and meditation. Evermore
We find that we have cast a grain too much
Into the right or left, and this or that
Flies to the beam."
But waiting not to hear
These fine discernments delicately drawn,
Thus spake the Maccabee to Guendolen,
"O Lady, with a brother's faithful heart
I crave to serve thee. Far across the sea
A gentle wife thinks of me; lovely babes
Are taught to lisp their absent father's name.
Therefore my heart grows tender at the thought
Of sorrows such as thine. We go from hence
To find a friendly roof in yonder wood.'
Now hearken to me, Lady; come with us;
And change this wildly-mournful solitude
For kindly faces of thy follow men."
She fastened on his face a searching gaze
As thus he spoke. Then when he ceased arose,
And girt the ruined richness of her robes
About her stately form; saying the while,—
"Yea, I will follow: all my soul is bent
To learn the worship of the God you serve.
But pass before; and while I follow on,
Speak not nor look behind; for if perchance
The hateful thing should track me, I must face
Its last assault alone."
She waved them on,
And they set forward. But a shadow sat
Upon the Maccabee;—"Far be it from me,"
He cried, as Julius joined him on the path,
"To soften down, as thou, the hellish freaks
Of their false priests and falser gods; as if
Falsehood were but another name for truth;
Foulness for purity; blood-thirstiness
For love and pity. Rather let my arm
Strike boldly at the bitter root, and cast
Alone, and at the mercy of herself,
The prey of dark conceits. Didst thou not mark
How at the very ontset of her tale
She spake of Llyr as grandsire to her lord?
If this be so, his sire was Brân himself;
His brother, royal Caradoc; and thus
The shelter we are bound for were as fit,
As open, for her homeless head as ours."
"Yea, true," said Julius meekly, "I am shamed
Of this my blindness. Verily, it is hard
To balance the nice scales of thought and fact,
Action and meditation. Evermore
We find that we have cast a grain too much
Into the right or left, and this or that
Flies to the beam."
But waiting not to hear
These fine discernments delicately drawn,
Thus spake the Maccabee to Guendolen,
"O Lady, with a brother's faithful heart
I crave to serve thee. Far across the sea
A gentle wife thinks of me; lovely babes
Are taught to lisp their absent father's name.
Therefore my heart grows tender at the thought
Of sorrows such as thine. We go from hence
And hurl him from his knees, as if I scorned
His sacred yearnings? Shall I snatch the straw
Out of the drowning hand, before I guide
Its eager clasp to the far-reaching boughs
Of the strong tree of Life?"
"To hear thee speak,"
The younger answered, "one would think that all
The vilest worship of the vilest gods
Of heathendom, were something sound at base;
A gentle error, not a damning sin.
Bold-faced rebellion, foaming out its shame
In loud defiance, ranks in thy soft phrase
As something specious. Thou would'st call the swine
That tramples in the mire the tender plant,
The prop that stays its weakness. Thou would'st call
The cruel reptile lurking in the reeds,
A straw at which the drowning man may catch,
With small advantage but as little hurt."
"Alas," said Julius, "thou but beat'st the wind;
Or at the best the empty robe of words
From whence the spirit of my argument
Flits forth unscathed, untouched, unrecognized.
But let us tempt it back. As far from me
As thee, to soften as thou seem'st to fear
The hellish freaks of heathendom: as if
Falsehood were but another name for truth;
Foulness for purity; blood-thirstiness
For love and pity. Yet be well assured
There never was successful counterfeit
But bare a certain semblance to the true,
Was framed on the idea of the true,
And by that semblance and idea kept
Its hold upon the world. The false, the foul,
The cruel, of the heathen gods would soon
Fall of themselves and crumble into dust;
But that beneath there lurks a vital Truth;
So strong that even the most crushing weight
Of error heaped upon it but benumbs
Its outer workings, cannot quench the life
That throbs and glows within. That truth is this:—
That there is Power above us, felt not seen:
A Power before whose breath we are less strong
Than the light chaff of summer threshing-floors
Before the hurricane, a Power to which
We owe allegiance. Let our task be this:—
To tear asunder the corrupting veil,
And let the struggling life escape, to find
A home in purer forms. Meanwhile, my son,
We know not, truly, if our brother's fault
Be gentle error or a damning sin.
But this we know;—that what we rightly call
The one true knowledge of the one true God,
Revealed to Moses, perfected in Christ,
Is but a shadow of the Truth itself,
A finite symbol of the Infinite.
Yet if a symbol, one divinely given;
And therefore to be hoarded in our hearts
As sacred treasure: yes, more precious far
Than all our fine-spun after-thoughts: a thing
In which to live our life; or, if needs be,
For which to die; with holy modesty
That dreams not we have scaled the heavens, that owns
We see not Him who is invisible,
Save as reflected in the small, dim glass
Of our low thoughts; which still is small and dim
Though his enlightening Spirit pour thereon
Its condescending beams. Perchance, my son,
Our noblest thoughts of God fall farther short
Of the pure splendours of His Infinite
Than does the meanest heathen thought, of ours."
But still the other answered—"Pardon me
For harping still upon this weary string;—
But speaking thus, thou mak'st our sacred ark
That rides alone above a drowning world
One of a happy fleet, all homeward bound.
Yea, speaking thus, may God forgive the word,
Thou mak'st Jove true, only less true than Christ,
Or else Christ false, only less false than Jove."
Then Julius, under breath,—"Nay, God forbid!"
And pausing on the rugged path he sighed,
Sighed out of utter loneliness of soul:
That deepest and most desert solitude,
That farthest exile, when the chosen friend
Is close beside, to hand, and eye, and ear,
Yet severed from us by a boundless gulf.
His baffled spirit stretched her empty arms,
Despairing, to the vague and cold embrace
Of nature; but she held upon her way,
Vast, inarticulate, immoveable,
Brooding on deeper sorrows of her own.
And darker still the sombre twilight fell;
The faint moon-crescent glimmered fainter still
Behind the murky vapours; a white bird
Flitted half seen across the watercourse;
And the sad earth sighed through the fading trees
That loomed in masses on the farther shore.
Then thought the other,—to whom Julius' mood
Was as a colour to a blind man's eye,—
'Something has chafed him; let me change the theme.'
So, when the old man turned serene looks round
And they went forward, with a softened voice
Began the younger:—"Thou did'st speak anon
To this lorn mother of some spiritual child
Held captive in the snares of wicked men.
Prythee, who is this maiden? never yet
Hast thou so much as named her name to me."
"Friend," answered Julius, "she is one of whom
My heart speaks rather than my lips, and more
To God than man." "Nay," said the Maccabee,
"The nearer that a matter lies to the heart
The fitter to be shared by the heart's friend."
"True," groaned the other, "if that your heart's friend
Be capable to share it; but like love,
Friendship full oft cleaves to its opposite,
And cleaves the closer for the difference.
Yet in this mystery do partings lie,
As well as meetings: dangerous variance,
As well as safe accord: mournful farewells
Of soul to soul across a widening gulf
As well as clasped hands and eternal vows.
But for this girl, in whom is garnered up
My childless heart, hers is a tale soon told,
And since thou crav'st to hear it, I will tell.
"She is the child of Aulus Plautius:
The veteran general who when Llyr was king
Beat back the British forces, and returned
In proud ovation; with the emperor
Riding at his right hand; the mellow flutes
Warbling around; his charger's pawing hoofs
Deep in strewn flowers; and far as eye could see,
From the field of Mars on to the Capitol,
His army, rich with trophies, myrtle-crowned,
Pouring through ranks of shouting citizens.
All unaware how at that very hour
The cry of battle rang along the coasts
Of the white island; that the Cymric powers
Had risen again; and Caradoc had won
More than his grandsire lost.
"Now since that day
Has Plantius dwelt in Rome, and with him dwell
His noble wife Pomponia, and their child,
The bright-haired Claudia. It is said in Rome,
She is not theirs by any tie of blood;
But let that pass. She was a wondrous child,
Full of still radiance. When Pomponia
Turned from the heathen rites to worship God,
And with a trembling heart began to break
The mighty change to Claudia,—telling her
Of God and Christ—or ere the child had heard
More than the briefest outline, she arose,
And with a calm face answered, 'Yea, I know:
This is the God who hears me when I pray.
He dwells beyond the incense and the shrines,
And draws me closer, closer, up to Him.
I have loved Him always, knowing not His name
But now I know it I will serve Him too.'
And this Pomponia told me and I came,
Saw the fair child, spake with her, and did find
Most surely that the Spirit of the Lord
Had taken of His truth and shown it her
In the transparent silence of her soul.
But ever with most sweet humility
She sat as at my feet, desiring still
To learn: unguessing how I craved the while
Rather to learn from her. So time went on;
And evermore the promise of her soul
Grew riper, till I saw that she was one
Fashioned for glorious ends. But as a frost
Descends untimely on the buds of March,
So did the blighting breath of a merciless world
Fall on this flower of Heaven. Her plastic soul
Moulded a most fair dwelling for itself.
I have no skill to paint in gandy words
A maiden's beauty. This is all I know;—
That she was lovelier than the loveliest,
As gentle and as graceful as a fawn,
As soft in tint and outline as a flower;
And the still star-like radiance of her looks
Maddened all Rome with love, weary to death
Of brazen brows, and lavish smiles, and eyes
Bright with base meanings. So while yet a child
Her father promised her without her will
To Pudens of the order of the knights:
The best of all her suitors; yet as far
From Claudia as a muddy pool is far
From the pure planet shining on its face.
Then when with quiet tears and earnest words
She craved to be left free, he turned his wrath
On me and on Pomponia; swore by Jove
That we had plagued her fancy with crude fears
Bred of our gloomy faith, and bade me go
And never more darken his palace-doors.
As for his noble wife, he prisoned her
In her own dwelling, holding her apart
From converse with the darling of her soul.
And now the illustrious lady's enemies,—
For many hated her, whose holy light
Reproached their darkness,—finding that she lay
Under the fierce displeasure of her lord,
Took heart against her, who had seemed before
Too high a quarry for their mean assaults.
Now they accused her that she had embraced
A foreign superstition, and required
That she should answer for it to her lord.
So Plautius, following the ancient law,
Summoned her kindred, and before them all
Tried her for life and fame. But in the end,
The majesty and meekness of her words,
Given in that hour by Him who ever walks
Beside His chosen in the baffled fire;
And her unspotted life, that shone the more
The more they pried into her secret ways;
So wrought upon him that he cast aside
The accusers' charge, pronounced her innocent
Of any wrongful courses, and restored
His favour to her. But still resolute
That Claudia shall not suffer further taint
From this new faith, he holds her sternly yet
From her illustrious mother; circles her
With gay companions, fills her nights and days
With songs and dances, garlands, gay attire,
And passionate wooers whispering vanity
In her unguarded ears. Then say, my son,
Have I not lost my child?—and is she not
Held captive in the snares of wicked men?"
"Alas, my father, thou hast cause to grieve,"
The other answered; "'tis a grievous thing
To see a dear soul for the which Christ died
Tossed as a plaything in the enemy's hand.
Yet what were thine own words to Guendolen?—
That 'the all-seeing One, who gave the child
Still has her in His ken though far from thine.'
Thus medicine thine own grief: remembering too
That even our Captain's armour was annealed
By fiery conflict in the wilderness,
Then how much more should ours? If, as thou deem'st,
She has been fashioned for a glorious end,
Most needful was it that her spiritual strength
Be tested sharply. Yet I marvel much
What glorious end she can be fashioned for,
A mere, weak woman."
When he heard these words
A slow smile breaking over Julius' soul
Rose like the dawn and overflowed his face,
As thus he answered,—
"Marvellest thou, my son?
Truly the world and all the ways of God
Are full of marvels. Not the least is this,
That all the mightiest forces that compel
Matter and spirit in their destined grooves
Are silent and unseen. "Perchance, my son,
Your 'mere, weak woman' may be one of these.
Truly she is the mother of us all.
All noble thoughts and pure imaginings,
Incarnated in her, swell in her soul
In darkness, till the growing time is rife
For birth in the activities of man.
Yes, it is possible the Wisest One
May not have erred in trusting to her hands
The fortunes of our race, trusting to her
The pregnant, pliant years of infancy."
So spake the generous Julius; while a spark
That almost looked like scorn brightened his eyes,
And to his words the voluble Maccabee
Answered in such unanswerable sort
He could but smile once more and hold his peace.