Claudia/Part 5
< Claudia
Part V.
Here then the pilgrims plucked their sandals off
And girt their garments close to cross the ford.
Which having done they climbed the rocky heights
And gained the upper stream. But as they searched
Its shores, thinking to leap from rock to rock
And gain the thicket on the farther side,
They saw a wasted figure totter forth
From out the thicket to the water's edge,
And sink exhausted.
Then the Maccabee,
His muscles strung by sudden impulse, sprang
Across the stream and hastened to the spot
Where lay the man, lost in a deadly swoon.
His lean and haggard frame was scantly clothed
With miserable shreds. His long black locks
Streaked with the grey of sorrow, more than time,
Hung by his hollow cheeks and cavernous eyes.
But with a hand as gentle as the hand
With which a mother tends a sickly child
The Maccabee upraised his head from off
The last year's leaves, saying within himself,
'Sure, I have seen or dreamed of such a face
As this before?' And as he thought thereon
And wondered, Julius had reached the place,
And drawn a flask of cordial from his belt,
And touched the breathless nostrils and pale lips;
Until at length with a long, fluttering sigh
The eyelids opened, and the startled soul
Looked forth bewildered. Then he filled a cup
That hung upon the flask, and bade him drink.
Now when the wine had roused his languid pulse
He looked from each to each with eyes that grew
More happy as they gazed; and gazing thus
His deathlike features quickened somewhat, while
He faintly murmured to himself,—"Thank God
It is no dream. These are the very men
In living shape and substance."—Then more loud,
Yet still in weary and exhausted tones,
Looking above,"—O God, dweller in heaven,
I thank Thee who hast thought upon me thus."
And as he spoke, they said within themselves,
'Sure, I have heard or dreamed of such a voice
As this before?'
But now their chiefest care
Was how to find the woodland lodge, that so
Ere nightfall they might safely shelter him,
This helpless wretch, whose trust in the true God
Made them more marvel at his misery.
But when he heard them question of the place,
He raised his heavy eyelids once again,
And bade them stay him upon either side
And he would guide them thither; for himself
Had dwelt there half a life-time—dwelt alone.'
So having lightly raised his wasted frame,
They bore him on the track he showed to them,
And found the place they sought.
It was no hut
Like Cadair's, but a many-chambered hall.
Once a fair summer-palace of the king,
But now half ruined by neglect and time.
Yet was one chamber habitable still,
To which he pointed them: where entering
They found the smouldered ashes of a fire.
Against the wall flapped sadly here and there
Fragments of frayed, discoloured tapestry,
And scanty wrecks of household moveables
Stood on the sloping floor. A heap of fern
Strewed one dark corner. A dry drinking-horn,
An empty trencher, and a broken lamp
Lay on a tottering table. Here they stayed
Their steps, and Julius unclasped his scrip
And fed the stranger; while the Maccabee
Revived the smouldering embers; for the night
Was closing, and the chilly woodland dews
Fell through each gaping crevice in the roof.
Now when the wretched man was warmed and cheered,
They asked him,—"Who art thou? what strange mishap
Has brought thee to this miserable state?
And wherefore art thou dwelling thus alone?"
Then thus he answered:—
"I am Cynfrân: he
Who met you in the marsh five summers since,
The day you landed. But I marvel not
You should not know me."
Here he lifted up
A pale, transparent hand against the fire,
And faintly smiled to see the red flame dance
Through the thin muscle, saying,—
"This frail hand
Then swung the heaviest broad-sword easily
As you might swing a hazel wand; and threw
Straight to its sim the iron-pointed spear
For half a furlong. But 'tware long to tell
What brought me to this miserable plight;
Or rather to that miserable plight
In which you found me all is altered now,
Thanks be to God above. And long to tell
Why thus I dwell in utter solitude,
Or have been dwelling all is altered now,
Thanks be to God, to Llarian, and to you."
"But tell us none the less," the pilgrims said,—
(Whose wonder grew to hear of Llarian)—
"And tell us, more than all, how thou hast learned
To call on the true God."
At that he dropped
His hand and gazed into the fire's red heart
As if the story of his life were traced
In its fantastic forms: while a fierce spark
Shot suddenly from out his hollow eyes,
Fading as suddenly:—
"Ah, sirs!" he said,
"You know not what you ask. I dare not turn
The black page of the past, lest from its grave
The spectre of revenge should rise again
To grapple with my newly rescued soul.
Let this suffice. I was a chieftain's son.
While yet a slender boy my heart rejoiced
In battle: the shrill trumpet-call; the roll
Of scythèd cars; the rattle of the spear
Against the hollow buckler;—were to me
Sweeter than sweetest music. The long roar
Of host encountering host more flushed my heart
Than softest greetings from the rosiest mouth.
The close fight hand to hand; the deadly grip
Of desperate foes;—thrilled my delighted sense
More than the warm clasp of the whitest arms.
So in my youth I followed with my sire
To the king's camp, when Aulus Plantius
Assailed him with the veteran hosts of Gaul.
For three stern years we strove, but strove in vain
To curb the conquests of the aliens;
And in the end they crushed us in the West,
And made the land beyond the eastern streams
A prey to rapine. In that third sad year
I bore a message from Prince Owain,—son Of Brân,
grandson of Llyr the gracious king,
And elder brother of our Caradoc,—
To his dark princess, Lady Guendolen:
For whom and for their child the boding prince
Had found a mountain refuge in the north,
A June day's journey from the royal camp.
Then first I learned that love is something more
Than pleasure in a woman's loveliness.
I saw among the maids of Guendolen
One whose clear beauty was but as the veil
That tempered down the shining of her soul.
Straight my heart clave to her, and hers to me;
And when on the third day, my errand done,
I slowly rode adown the winding vales,
Lost in fond musings,—like a man possessed
With some new life that almost slays the old,
Yet makes him twenty-fold the man he was,—
And sought Prince Owain in the royal camp,
I asked of him the hand of Angharad,
She being an orphan, and he next of kin:
He did not say me nay; and all my heart
Leapt onward to the happy time to come.
"I could not speak of those delightful days
Whose cruel sweetness only mocks me now,
But that this languid pulse, slow settling down
To an eternal stillness, cannot rise
In dangerous throbs.
"Moreover," here he cast
His looks on Julius, "I have learned, though late,
That the most vile, inexpiable 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."
At this Julius rose
Astonished and transfigured by the light
That flashed upon him. "Can it be," he said,
"That bitter utterance, which broke from me
Before I was aware, and for the which
How often have I fasted silently
And wept in secret, was the voice of God
Unto thy soul? Perchance 'tis often so:
That the first impulse of a heart whereon
His spirit broods, may lead a nearer way
To His great ends than colder afterthoughts.
But, I beseech thee, do not check thy tale."
Then Cynfrân spoke again:—
"The autumn came
And Llyr's last fight was fought; the alien bands
Slew or dispersed our hosts; the ancient king
Died broken-hearted, happier far than I
Who lived to curse my life. The morrow morn
I gathered from the forests and the wilds
The scattered troops of Owain, who had fallen
First in the battle, as he led the charge
Of the scythed chariots on the Roman flank.
And as with these I sought the mountain cell,
My heart was heavy with the heavy news
That must be borne to Lady Guendolen.
But for myself!—Oh mortal blindness, cooped
In a stone's throw of space, a point of time;—
As for myself! the bitterest of my grief
Was that I did not grieve more bitterly.
For evermore my untamed heart rebelled
Against the burden of the land undone,
Against the burden of Prince Owain slain,
And danced for rapture, thinking of my love.
As one who gaily takes a poisoned cup,
Unguessing at the fate that lurks within,
And drinks & torturing death with nods and smiles,
So as we neared the place, I spurred my horse
Before the rest, eager for Angharad,
And caring not that common eyes should note
Our greetings:"—
Here he ceased, and slowly rose
To his full height, and staggering to a seat
In the far corner, sank down heavily;
Then spoke from out the darkness with a voice
Half strangled, awful:—
"'Twas a needless care:
No light step flew to meet me: no shy arms
Fell soft about my neck. But as my path
Made its last turn, there, full before me, stood
A wan and ghastly image; with bright hair
Blackened with blood; with arms that thrust me back,
As horror-struck I lighted from my horse;
And a changed voice, that uttered, 'Touch me not
For I am lost;—ruined for evermore.
Aht would that thou hadst slain me with thy sword
Ere thus I died to thee, died to myself,
To all the fair earth and the pleasant skies.
I have striven to take my life, here is the wound
Deep in my temple, but my hand was weak.
O Cynfrân! I was blameless as the lamb
In the wolf's jaws. But yet I cannot live,
Cannot look on thee, never can be thine:
All that has passed the sweetness of our love
Is drowned for ever in this bitter close."
Then sank she to the earth; and as I strove
To lift her, scarcely knowing what I did,—
For right, and wrong, love, pity, and revenge
Whirled in a mad confusion through my brain,—
She snatched my sword, or ere I was aware,
And fell upon the point, and so she died."
Here Cynfrân paused while those two held their breath
In speechless awe and pity. For a space
Nothing was heard except the sobbing flame,
The mournful heaving of the tapestry,
And far aloof within the midnight woods
The howling of the wolves. He spoke again:
"Then fearful darkness fell on me, through which
Shot gleams of light more fearful, for I learned
By timid answers wrested from the troops,
That some before they left the battle field,
And some by flying rumours since the fight,
Had gained the key to this black mystery.
They told that 'on the morning of the fight
The Lady Guendolen,' (how bitterly
I cursed her rashness!) 'left her mountain-cell
Goaded by dark forebodings for her lord,
And with her maidens came to watch the field:
That on a knoll to rearward of our host
They took their stand: that Guendolen ere long,
Missing the glitter of Prince Owain's sword,
Dashed down into the thickest of the fight:'———
But here they checked themselves and cast scared looks
Each on his fellow: looks that seemed to say
'Tell thou the tale, I cannot.' But I urged
And threatened, till they thrust a frightened boy
To the front rank, who told me, stammering,
His mother was the nurse of Owain's child;
That he, her son, stood by her on the knoll:
That when the Lady Guendolen sprang down
Into the battle, she had flung the child
Into his mother's arms; that afterwards—
When the great legion, covered with locked shields,
Rose like a huge sea-tortoise from its place
And moved upon the ford, driving our troops
To right and left, and slaying as it came—
The frighted maidens, all save Angharad,
Fled shrieking; but she said she scorned to flee
And leave her dearest lady succourless.
Then up the valley came the roaring tide
Of flying Cymri, driven before the foe,
And all the knoll swarmed over, black and bright
With the swart aliens and their flashing arms;
The air rang round with shrieks and mockery
And he was trampled down and knew no more;
Save this;'—and here his boyish voice was choked
With sobs and tears;—'that now he sorely feared
His mother must be slain; for one had seen
A Roman soldier bearing off the child,
The little bright-haired Gladys, and he knew
His mother ne'er had yielded up that child
Save with her own last breath.'"
Here Cynfrân paused
Once more; and when he spoke again, his voice
Fell feebler yet:—
"But I must hasten on;
For this strange strength which props my sinking frame
Is but the ruddy gleam that flashes out
From the wild sunset of a stormy day.
My night is near; yet not an endless night;
Beyond I see a calmer day-spring dawn.
But help me now to lay my weary limbs
Upon this bed of bracken."
So they came,
And laid him on the bracken, spreading out
Their upper garments on his trembling frame,
With tender hands; then raised his sinking head
And held the cup of cordial to his lips;
And as he drank thereof, his soul revived,
So that he spoke again.
"Within the cell
We found the other maids of Guendolen,
All scared and stricken by their fellow's fate.
Scared too by a weird vision they had seen
Of Guendolen herself at earliest dawn,
Stalking in dumb, unnoting misery
Through all the chambers to an inner room,
Where Angharad lay crouched with whom she held
A brief discourse; and then with wilder looks
Rushed forth into the passes of the wood,
Calling on Gladys ('twas her lost child's name),—
On 'Gladys!' 'Gladys!'—till her distant voice
Died in the leafy depths, and all was still.
"Upon a golden bier of autumn boughs
We placed my Angharad. I would not let
A hand except those virgin hands and mine
Lay finger on her, nor would let an eye
Gaze on her beauty, saving theirs and mine.
How calm she lay! all shame and bitterness
Wiped from the solemn sweetness of her looks.
Then ere we bare her out, adown her face
We drew the shining veil of chestnut hair.
With my own hands I dug her little grave
In the pine grove where first we plighted troth,
And there we left her. But before I turned
To leave her grave, I wrang from out my heart
The last slow drop of human kindliness,
(O God, forgive me!—yea, thou hast forgiven),
And swore a fearful oath by the three Rays,—
The sacred Rays that speak the unspoken Name,—
Henceforth to live apart from all mankind;
To make my life one long revenge; nor rest
From that revenge until my life was done:
To abjure the perils of the open fight
And so to lengthen out that long revenge.
"Thus through the nine brave years while Caradoc
Repulsed the aliens, with a fiendish joy
I wrought my will upon them, day by day
Dooming my spirit to a deeper death.
When Caradoc defeated and betrayed
Was borne to Rome, I made my secret haunt
Within this summer palace of the king,
Hence only issuing forth as a wild beast
To seek his prey. And so the years went on,
Each darker than the last; for the high God
Was slowly wreaking out his vast revenge
Upon me; that revenge, which as thou saidst,
Is love and pity.
"But there came a day
When from the cliffs above the tawny sea
I watched an alien vessel in the bay,
With hatred in my heart, and fierce desire
That craved the more the more I pampered it
With foul and cruel deeds. I saw you land;
Judged you were Romans; tracked your steps until
We met upon the marsh;—the rest you know.
Thy stern rebuke like midnight lightning lit
My darkened heart, and showed me to myself;
And loathing all things, and myself the most,
I sought my solitary lair again;
There evermore I struggled to forget;
But evermore came sounding in my ears
That stern rebuke. And evermore my soul
Reproached me with the vast and cruel wrong
Of selling her pure beauty to revenge,
And making her the shrinking paramour
Of all she loathed the most. And evermore
I strove to struggle forward to the light
And see the face of God; but could not go:
A thousand dark suggestions plucked me back.
And in those days the Druids of the land,
As now, were prisoned in the sacred Isle,
So there was none to guide.
"Then I recalled
A tale, which lightly heard in happier times,
Had lain as dead within my memory,
But now, requickened by occasion, rose
Alive with meaning. 'Twas a Druid's tale,
A legend from that far-off Indian clime
Which sages say lies in the utmost East,
Beyond the sunrise of the sunrise land.
It told of a fierce man of many sins
Who, when his sins had grown and multiplied,
And turned upon him like a troop of wolves,
Rending his soul, until he cried aloud
To God and man for help,—but there was none,—
Had met with one who bade him make his home
Within some drear and solitary place,
And there subdue himself with toilsome days
And sleepless nights; to seek no grateful shade
From the hot sun of summer, neither fire
In the keen cold of winter; to abuse
His palate with all bitter meats and drinks,
And these in scanty measure. Farther yet;
To scourge his shrinking flesh, and, if needs be,
Thrust cruel hooks through all his quivering limbs;
That so the sin which loves an easy home
Should find no rest in him. All this I did:
My strength would fail me now to utter half
The torments that I gathered to myself
With greedy hands, and bore without a groan;
Witness these scarred limbs, and this wasted frame
Dying untimely. But 'twas all in vain;
For while I slew the sin upon the right,
Upon the left the unslain self arose,
More vigorous than before. I could not lift
Myself above myself. And evermore,
As thus I vainly strove, the thicker grew
The veil upon my heart, and farther off
Glimmered the awful face of the Unseen.
And evermore a colder horror crept
Through all my spirit, as the fear of fears
Drew closer, showing ghastlier lineaments.
The fear that death instead of leading me
To the calm circle of eternal bliss
Would plunge me deep within the lowest sphere,
Penning my wretched soul within the husk
Of some brute form, to expiate my sin.
"So passed the miserable years, until
This harvest gilt the valleys; and I heard,
Far off, as one entombed alive might hear,
The voices of the reapers, and the songs
Of happy maidens binding up the sheaves.
Then did a subtle fever creep within
My almost empty veins, and the thin blood
Rose in a steamy cloud, and dimmed my brain;
While mortal heaviness that was not sleep
Glued down my burning limbs. Time passed no more
On those alternate steps of night and day
Which freshen even misery, but writhed
In hideous indistinguishable length.
Thus had I lain—how long I know not—when
I heard a rustling sound within the room,
Which moved a wish in me to ope mine eyes,
Had not the weight of mountains held the lids.
Then cooling moisture touched my lips, a draught
Of blessed water met my parching thirst,
And a man's voice spake kindly; but my voice
Refused to answer, as my eyes to look:
For all my vital force had sunk as low
As the last drop within a wasted well.
Yet over all my heart a still content
Spread at that voice.
"Strength fails me now to tell
Of all his patient watching by my bed;
Of all the tender offices of love,
Hard for a man to show to a dear friend,
In which he spent himself unsparingly
On me, a stranger. After many days
The fever left me; and I woke from sleep
Like a new man, yet feeble as a babe.
Then first I saw him plainly; for before,
'Twas a dim dream, in which a hand, a face,
A robe of many colours, moved obscure
Among the visions of my wavoring brain.
He was a graceful youth, clad like the youths
Who loarn the subtle mystorios of the bards;
And with a face as clear as sammer skies.
He told me how that journeying down the glen
He chanced upon this place, and found me laid
Sick unto death; and so had staid awhile
To tend me in that sickness; making light
Of his grost service,
"As he moved about
With noiseless steps, and watched for every wish,
And day by day, unwearied, sought abroad
Among the flocks gone wild among the bills,
And in the garden, choked with rankest weeds,
For all I needed, how my heart upewelled
With wonder at the patience of his love!
And when at length I found a feeble voice
This wonder reached my lips, and, 'Oh,' I sighed,
'Would that the great Unseen, Unsearchable,
Would have compassion on my soul, as thou
Hast hed upon my body!'
"'Then,' said he,
'Thou hast thy wish, The pity I have shown
Is but a spark enkindled by the flame
Of His compassion.'
"So he spake, and drew
My sad tale from me, till I told him all;
Told of the bitter blighting of my youth;
Of the vile vow kept but too well; of how
Your words had burnt asunder like a flame
The bondage of that vow; yet left me bound
In thraldom full as hopeless though less vile.
At that a glow of glad astonishment
Flushed all his face, as thus he answered me:—
"'Now God be thanked. These are the very men
From whom I learned the things that set me free.
They taught me that the great Unsearchable;—
He whom the Druids name not; who they say
Dwells inapproachable, immoveable,
Far off among the vast eternities,
Shut in serene self-glory, heeding not
Our sighing waves that break about His feet;
Or, at the best, as elder sages taught,
Whose boundless being is the sea whereon
The transient ripples of our lives arise,
In which they sink, unknowing and unknown:—
That He is Father of the souls of men;
As much, yea more a thousand, thousand fold
Than earthly sires are fathers of our flesh;
And as a father pities us. That still,
As earthly sires who wisely love their sons
Will seek for them a strenuous discipline
To mould the plastic mind and stubborn will;
So has the Heavenly Parent built for us
This schoolhouse of the world, wherein to learn
The long laborious lessons framed to fit
Our inner manhood for the life beyond.
Nor this alone; but that a blessed One,
Visible image of the unseen God,
Had late, within the memory of man,
Been born, and lived, and died upon the earth
To show these things. That now the time was passed
For gifts of pain, and sacrifice of blood,
Since all men in His gift and sacrifice
Were gathered homeward to our Father's heart,
If so we willed it.'
"Thus he spake, and more.
I cannot set it forth in ordered words;
I cannot trace the way it wrought on me;
I only know that all my fetters fell;
That while my spirit slept the sleep of death,
And only saw wild phantoms, only felt
A freezing nightmare holding me from God,
His eye was resting on me. And at length,—
As when a watcher bends a steadfast gaze
Upon the close-locked lids of one that sleeps,
His gaze awakes the sleeper,—so beneath
The Eye of love that lights the unseen world,
My wondering spirit woke from death to life."
Then said the Maccabee, "Let God be thanked.
But where is Llarian? he who succoured thee?"
And Cynfrân answered. "When my sickness turned
He went his way along the downward vale;
For he was bent to find you, and had gone
Upon your track in vain for many a moon.
But on the third day after that on which
I watched his many-coloured robe grow dim
Within the woods, my sickness came again.
Again the subtle fever crept within
My almost empty veins; again the blood
Rose in a steamy cloud and dimmed my brain.
Then driven by raging thirst, I staggered forth,—
But all was like a dream, a feverish dream,—
To seek the coolness of the stream below."
With that he closed his eyes; and turned his face
To the blank wall, and said, "I can no more;—
I weary to the death and fain would sleep.
The burning pain has left me. Yea, who knows
But that I yet may live? Well, life is sweet,
And what an altered thing would life be now."
And so he murmured till he slept. All night
The pilgrims watched alternate by his bed;
And when his spirit stirred in sleep, the sense
Went wandering back to times long passed away.
As relics of a wreck which after-storms
Wash on the shore, the fragments of the past
Came sadly into sight. Again he rode,
Lost in fond musings, down the winding vales;
Again he seemed to talk with Angharad.
Her name returned for ever to his lips
And dwelt upon them, like the sweetest phrase
Of some old melody. So went the night;
But when the day began to break, they saw
A solemn and unutterable change.
No sunrise could uplift the leaden veil
That masked his features. Then they thought,—'perchance
His soul has passed;'—and touched him; but at that
He slowly opened eyes in which the light
Was quenched for ever; made a feeble sign
That they should raise him; and when this was done
Lay leaning upon Julius' breast, his arms
Drooping on either side, as droop the boughs
Of blasted trees. Then,—in an altered voice,
Whose plaintive hoarseness seemed the pining ghost
Of the deep tones of other days,—he said—
"Last night I thought, or dreamed I thought, perchance
I yet might live. That thought is gone: and gone
The wish that gave it birth. For now I know
Such lives as mine are like to precious drops
Spilled on the ground: they mock recovery.
But in my heart of hearts a surer hope
Takes root among the ruins of the past.
The Hand that made me will not cast me off;
The Love that through my darkest wanderings,
When least I dreamed of it and least desired,
Has followed me with whispers in the soul,
With touches reaching from the outer life,
Will follow still, beyond the unpierced dark
That fronts me now with scarce a step between."
He paused; and even the Maccabee himself
Felt hands of silence laid upon his lips:
Yet an officions conscience,—prone to think
We do God service when we violate
The heart's fine instincts,—forced him into speech:
So with constrained voice and disordered looks
That showed the lack of inward harmony,
He spoke abruptly to the dying man:—
"Nay, friend, not so, there is no after-chance;
Lose the soul here and all is lost beyond,
But save it here, and all the life is saved:"
And would have babbled more;—but Julius laid
A warning finger on his lifted arm,
Saying:—
"And canst thou not entrust this soul
To Him who died to win it? He has dealt
In secret with it, whispering as of old
To those that were the closest to his heart,
'Lo! I have many things to say to you,
But now ye cannot bear them.' Yet there comes
A pentecost to every waiting soul,
And therefore, soon or late, or here or there,
It comes to him."
Meanwhile, the dying man
Heard not nor heeded; but with radiant smiles,
Shed forth on that which seemed but empty air,
Looked out beyond them; slowly raised his hand
As one who waves a signal to a friend,
And called aloud:—"I come!" Then the hand fell,
The head sank forward, and the feeble breaths
Came feebler yet and farther each from each,
Till one as gentle as an infant's sigh
On which none other followed.
In that hour
The liquid sunrise, dropped through dewy trees,
Fell by the ruined casement to the floor;
And rested on the russet couch, and reached
The shrank and colourless hand, and wove a crown
Of flickering rays about the faded brow.
Amidst the utter stillness of the room
They heard the soft sounds of the waking woods,—
The insects' hum, the small birds' twittering,—
Nearer and clearer; till at last a lark,
Pierced to the heart with joy, sprang from the grass
Of the neglected plot, and poured his soul
In floods of music, rising as he sung
Higher and higher in the brightening heavens.
Now when a second, evening gilt the woods
And painted clouds were glassed within the stream,
The pilgrims who had toiled all day to fit
The ruined lodge to hold its royal guests,
Flung their tired limbs upon the grassy bank
Beside the ford. But scarce the Maccabee
Had lain a moment, scarce had time to note
How motionless the birch-sprays' tracery hung
Against the amber sky, when such a flood
Of fearful rapture,—held in check awhile
By strenuous toil and death's stern presence,—rushed
Into his heart, he leapt upon his feet,
Saying within himself:—'This very eve,
Perchance this very hour! O perilous joy,
Whose cup uplifted to my thirsty lips,
May yet be spilled untasted!' At that thought
He turned a troubled face upon his friend,
Crying:—"My father, all my heart is torn
With cruel fears; call thou aloud on God."
Then instantly the soul of Julius
Girt up her loins to climb the shining steps
Let down from heaven to earth. And as she rose
His worn-out bodily frame arose with her,
Unconsciously uplifted by her strength.
And when he ceased a calm ineffable
Sank on the Maccabee; and in his soul
He set his seal to this that God is true
And all-sufficing; that come joy, come woe,
All shall be well; well in the after-world
If evil here: well in the after-time
If evil now.
But ere the sun's last smile
Had faded from the topmost eastern ridge,
The sound of steps and voices in the glen
Greeted the pilgrims' ears. And as they rose
Trembling with eagerness, the king appeared,
Striding before his kin and followers
To front the edge of danger. Then they ran
To meet him, and the aged Julius bent
To kiss the faded border of his robe;
But Caradoc, whose stern, still reticence,
Shaken by many sorrows, now dissolved
In nameless pangs at sight of a friend's face,
Caught him in troubled silence to his breast;
Then, loosening his grasp, cried,—
"Pardon! O my friend,
If at this hour of meeting, after years
Of woful exile on my part, on thine
Of toils untold, I speak but moodily.
God knows I am not thankless for His gifts:
Liberty, safe return with all I love
To my own land, and such a friend as thou
Restored to me and most of all, the gift
Too priceless to be named with even these:
Acquaintance with Himself, which should bring peace,
And does in part. Yet bitter 'tis and strange,
That.here upon the dear soil for the which
My fathers bled, and over which they held
A sway at least more righteous than the sway
Of other kings, their son should stand unknown,
Unrecked of, unlamented, undesired.
Here through this central fortress of our tribe,—
The tribe which hailed me sovereign, with a shout
That shook the Cæsars from their purple rest
Far off in Rome; which for nine glorious years
I led from victory to victory,
Until we hurled the veteran legions back
Beyond the Sabren and the tawny sea;—
Here, through Siluria, these three desolate days,
I pass, the aim of every curious eye,
Yet not a soul has greeted me but thou,
And thou an alien. No, I have not found one
That had the grace, remembering Caradoc,
To pause and look upon me with a sigh,
As if he thought:—'This squalid wayfarer
Is like the King; or would be like the King
But for the mighty difference.' No, not one!
I am as much forgotten as the dead;
Nay, more forgotten. Peace, I know full well
All thou wouldst say: how I commanded you,—
By that great oath I swore unwillingly
Before the hateful city of the south
Opened her gates to set me free, and which
Though sworn unwillingly must still be kept,
Because, if Rome be faithless, God is true
And hates a lie;—ye should not spread the fame
Of this my coming, lest the faithful few
That still have held their fealty should arise
To greet me as their king, and shed their blood
For that which cannot be. I might have spared
Such fine, fantastic scruples."
Here he laughed,
A dry, self-scorning laugh:—"Why, I have been
As simple as a maid; who, honest soul,—
A little vain but honest,—fears to spoil
The peace of some forbidden lover, and so
Weaves many a subtle, self-deceiving plot
To shun him, or greet coldly. While his heart
Is all the while freer by half than hers,
Which bleeds in secret at the chilling change.
Yea, I did charge you thus, and would again,
And mean it from my heart. But ah! my friend,
'Tis easier to deny a lover's prayer
Than rest contented when the faithless lips
That framed it have forgot their own desire.
"But shame upon the selfish heart that broods
On its own griefs in such an hour as this.
Behind me come my father and my queen,
The spouse and children of the Maccabee,
With faithful friends and servants who have shared
Our exiled fortunes. Eirgen and her lord
Have taken second shipping at the port
Of Venta, thence to cross the tawny sea
To Avon and the City of the Cleft;
So by the healing Waters of the Sun
To Sarrlog town beside the hanging stones,
Where lie his lands."
Then Julius, seeing the king
Answered himself, and turned to other themes,
Forbore to answer him. And Caradoc
Passed onwards to the ford, a lonely man,
With self but half subdued. And as he went
He waved a stately hand to Julius
To leave him and to meet the prince and queen.
And soon those frosty-haired, dry-wrinkled men,
Prince Brân and Julius, on each other's necks
Fell with right joyful greetings. For their hearts,
Kept fresh by sap of generous sympathies,
Were in mid-summer still. And Julius kissed
The hem of the Queen's robe, the sad-faced Queen;
Who, worn with exile and the many woes
Which falling on the head of him she loved
Descended with a double weight on hers,
And wearied with rough journeying, had scarce
The life left in her that could frame a smile.
Meanwhile the Maccabee had hastened forth
To welcome his dear spouse and tender babes.
Deep in the wood he met with Miriam.
Then dumb at first even with excess of bliss
They hung upon each other's quivering lips.
Next, held apart the length of loving arms,
Gazed each on each, half doubtfully; the while
Strange, painful laughter, mixed with painless tears,
Shook all their unnerved features. Till the babes,
Half shy, half jealous, only half assured,
Thrust their small hands into their mother's hands.
Then the vague rapture inexpressible
Found voice and action; as the mother held
The doubtful boy in reassuring arms,
And made him know his father; who the while
Crushed all his dusky curls caressingly
With his large hand, and looked him in the face
With gentleness ineffable, and smoothed
And lessened the deep rolling of his voice
To suit his shaken spirits. While the girl,
One hand still clinging to her mother's robe,
Ventured the other in the broad brown palm
That courted its caress: then as if nerved
By its firm pressure, stood erect and raised
Her soft lips to the stranger's bearded mouth,
Sealing the triple bond that binds the world.
So passed they with their followers to the ford.
But Julius lingered, thinking in himself,
"Ah, wherefore did I let a casual word
Tempt me to long for that which cannot be."
But as he thought he lifted mournful eyes,
And saw—was it a dream?—or did he see
A maiden standing where the path emerged
From the thick wood? As motionless she stood
As any statue, gazing at the fall.
Then Julius stammered in his very thoughts—
Thinking:—'How like,—yet ah! the difference!
This is a woman, and my Claudia
Is but a child, a simple, slender child.'
But as he thought, and stammered in his thoughts,
She turned and saw him, and a rosy dawn
Of recognition overflowed her face,—
Her rare, sweet face;—and forth she flew to him,
Embraced his hand and laid it on her head,
Crying:—"My father Julius!"
Then he wept
For joy and gratitude, and clasped her hands
Within his own, and gazed upon her face
To find the little Claudia of old times
In this fair woman. So with trembling lips
Thanked God between his tears; and when at length
He found a settled voice, inquired of her
How this great wonder might have come to pass.
Then in a chastened voice she answered him,—
"Alas! my father, 'tis a weary tale:
Let this suffice thee. In these five long years
Have I been learning that my direst foes
Are those of my own house. I do not speak
Of Plautius,—God forgive him,—but of things
In my own bosom: subtle enemies
That lurk within the heart, and clothe themselves
With light like angels. I have been sore bestead;
My steps have well nigh slipped; but the kind Christ
Has still upheld my weakness. When the foe
Has pressed the closest, He was closer still
And stronger than the strongest. He has sent
His ministering spirits, oftentimes unseen
But often seen, and clothed in flesh and blood,
To succour me when ready to despair.
The chief of these has been the noble Brân,
Whom on the fatal day of massacre
I saw with thee. Again, and yet again,
His keen-eyed watchfulness has found the net
Spread for my feet, and by a timely word,
Or secret sign, has saved me. God be thanked!
At length Pomponia, mother of my love,
Hearing a rumour that the prince and king
Were set at large on oath of fealty,
And would return to Britain, urged on me
(Speaking in secret by my faithful nurse)
To leave the wicked city, and with them
Sail to the land I loved, the land whose name
Was graven on my heart. So after strife
Of sore conflicting thoughts, yearnings of heart
Which only He that made me comprehends,
I saw the path where He would have me go;
And here, in mine own land, with His good help,
Will I be His more fully; spend myself,—
Yea and be spent, when my reluctant soul
Hangs back from sacrifice, for those He loves."
While thus she spake they reached the ford, o'er which
The faithful servants following the king
Had laid a rugged bridge of boughs fresh hewn,
That the faint queen and Miriam and her babes
Might pass dry shod. And Claudia ceased to speak,
And looked around bewildered to the fall.
That poured from the high cliff, and to the pool,
And to the woods above. Till Julius said,
"What has amazed thee, daughter?" To the which
She answered:—
"'Tis most strange. As even now
Through the arched woodland path I saw beyond
The silver-flashing fall, it seemed to me
A most familiar thing; and now again
That strange, mysterious sense of new, yet old,
At once disturbs and calms me. Either in,
Or severed from the body, I have seen
This place before; but whether in a dream,
Or in the waking world, I cannot tell."
Then Julius, marvelling, held his peace. And while
It seemed to her he thought of other things,
His fancy,—like the hoar-frost shooting through
The scattered moisture and congealing it
Into symmetrical, articulate forms,—
Arranged her fragmentary memories
With other fragments caught from other lives,
Till in a perfect whole they crystallized
On the transparent surface of his mind.
Thus speaking, silent thus, they crossed the stream,
And climbed the heights, and gained the ruined lodge.
There as they entered, stood the prince and king,
Gazing with speechless pity in their eyes
Upon the dead, the while the Maccabee
Rehearsed his dolorous tale. To tender hearts
All bitter things, though past, are bitter still;
And sorrow sorrowful, ev'n when assuaged
For evermore.
Upon the morrow morn
The pilgrims hollowed his sequestered grave
Above the sounding fall. And round the grave
Arose the chaunt of many voices blent
In psalms of praise for his deliverance.
Now on that day on which the pilgrims left
The herdsman's hut, the heart of Guendolen
Could find no rest. Some power within her seemed
To urge her to go forth and follow them.
Therefore when on the morrow Llarian came,
Full bent to find them, straightway she arose
And claimed his guidance. With a reverent hand
He led her forth, and through the woodland wilds
Retraced his steps. Four days they journeyed thus
By gentle stages, and on the fifth morn
Entered the glen where the white torrent poured
Through tumbled rocks. And when the sun rode high,
Crossing the ford, they heard the funeral psalm
Ring through the woods above, blent with the roar
Of falling waters. Nearer drawn, one voice
Soared in sweet shrillness high above the rest.
Then in the shadowed border of the wood
They checked their steps, until the latest note
Died on the air.
Then Guendolen went forth,
Calmly as one who takes expected bliss,
And gathered Claudia closely to her heart,
And claimed her as her child and Owain's child,
Saying,—"I need no proof: thy eyes are his,
And all thy bright face and thy golden hair
Are his, my Owain's. Here we dwelt in peace
Before the rising of the Cymric tribes,
And here, 'twas shown me, we should meet again.
Upon the level turf beside the ford
Thy tender feet first tottered off alone,
Lured by some sunlit flower, and here thy hand
Shall stay my feet when tottering to the grave.
And when long centuries have rolled away,
This waterfall, my Gladys, shall be called
Still by thy name."
And in those days she fell
Into a trance, and saw with opened eyes
The visions of the future. And she said,—
"When three-score generations shall have slipped
Into the life unseen, whose waters wide
Sweep round the life we see;—when this new faith,
Old as the sun, yet new as is the dawn,
Has mastered all the masters of the world;—
When lightened by its light the eye of man
Begins to spell the universe and solve
Its secret mysteries;—when having drawn
The wisdom of high Heaven into his heart
Even with his mother's milk; yea, long before,
Through countless veins of custom and descent,—
He turns and plumes himself thereon, as if
All were his own, himself the source of all,
And whispers to his own proud heart,—'Behold
Thou art my God, and there is none beside.'
Yea, even then, the memory of my child
Shall still be blessed in Britain."
Thus the lodge
Become the peaceful homestead of the prince,
The king, the queen, the widowed Guendolen,
And Claudia, darling of their fallen house.
Beside the knoll where first the pilgrims found
The lady Guendolen, the prince upreared
A temple to the living God, the first
That ever rose in Britain. Thither too
Came many bards and bardic novices,
Drawn from the sacred isle by Llarian's fame,
To sit at Julius' feet and learn from him
The worship of the living God, and pass
Through mystic waters to the side of Christ;
To lead new lives of holy thoughts and deeds,
And solemn prayers and praises: so the place
Is called the Church of Ilid to this day.
And hard beside the church, the Maccabee
Dwelt with his dark-eyed Miriam; and their house
Grew bright with children's beauty, musical
With children's voices; while he went and came
Leading a pastoral life among the flock
Brought homewards from the heathen wilderness.
But as for Claudia:—how she kept her vow
Of service to her Lord:—whether apart
From tenderer earthly ties she followed close
Behind His bleeding feet, alone like Him;—
Or whether bent beneath a homelier cross
She moved in lower paths, and daily died
In daily discipline of household cares,
Sweetened by love whose sweetness symbols His;—
We know not: only knowing that her name,
Embalmed by purest saintship, lingers still
In old traditions as a blessed name.
Her tale is told: the legendary spring
That trickled from the summits of the past
Has poured its little urn, and all is still.
And girt their garments close to cross the ford.
Which having done they climbed the rocky heights
And gained the upper stream. But as they searched
Its shores, thinking to leap from rock to rock
And gain the thicket on the farther side,
They saw a wasted figure totter forth
From out the thicket to the water's edge,
And sink exhausted.
Then the Maccabee,
His muscles strung by sudden impulse, sprang
Across the stream and hastened to the spot
Where lay the man, lost in a deadly swoon.
His lean and haggard frame was scantly clothed
With miserable shreds. His long black locks
Streaked with the grey of sorrow, more than time,
Hung by his hollow cheeks and cavernous eyes.
But with a hand as gentle as the hand
With which a mother tends a sickly child
The Maccabee upraised his head from off
The last year's leaves, saying within himself,
'Sure, I have seen or dreamed of such a face
As this before?' And as he thought thereon
And wondered, Julius had reached the place,
And drawn a flask of cordial from his belt,
And touched the breathless nostrils and pale lips;
Until at length with a long, fluttering sigh
The eyelids opened, and the startled soul
Looked forth bewildered. Then he filled a cup
That hung upon the flask, and bade him drink.
Now when the wine had roused his languid pulse
He looked from each to each with eyes that grew
More happy as they gazed; and gazing thus
His deathlike features quickened somewhat, while
He faintly murmured to himself,—"Thank God
It is no dream. These are the very men
In living shape and substance."—Then more loud,
Yet still in weary and exhausted tones,
Looking above,"—O God, dweller in heaven,
I thank Thee who hast thought upon me thus."
And as he spoke, they said within themselves,
'Sure, I have heard or dreamed of such a voice
As this before?'
But now their chiefest care
Was how to find the woodland lodge, that so
Ere nightfall they might safely shelter him,
This helpless wretch, whose trust in the true God
Made them more marvel at his misery.
But when he heard them question of the place,
He raised his heavy eyelids once again,
And bade them stay him upon either side
And he would guide them thither; for himself
Had dwelt there half a life-time—dwelt alone.'
So having lightly raised his wasted frame,
They bore him on the track he showed to them,
And found the place they sought.
It was no hut
Like Cadair's, but a many-chambered hall.
Once a fair summer-palace of the king,
But now half ruined by neglect and time.
Yet was one chamber habitable still,
To which he pointed them: where entering
They found the smouldered ashes of a fire.
Against the wall flapped sadly here and there
Fragments of frayed, discoloured tapestry,
And scanty wrecks of household moveables
Stood on the sloping floor. A heap of fern
Strewed one dark corner. A dry drinking-horn,
An empty trencher, and a broken lamp
Lay on a tottering table. Here they stayed
Their steps, and Julius unclasped his scrip
And fed the stranger; while the Maccabee
Revived the smouldering embers; for the night
Was closing, and the chilly woodland dews
Fell through each gaping crevice in the roof.
Now when the wretched man was warmed and cheered,
They asked him,—"Who art thou? what strange mishap
Has brought thee to this miserable state?
And wherefore art thou dwelling thus alone?"
Then thus he answered:—
"I am Cynfrân: he
Who met you in the marsh five summers since,
The day you landed. But I marvel not
You should not know me."
Here he lifted up
A pale, transparent hand against the fire,
And faintly smiled to see the red flame dance
Through the thin muscle, saying,—
"This frail hand
Then swung the heaviest broad-sword easily
As you might swing a hazel wand; and threw
Straight to its sim the iron-pointed spear
For half a furlong. But 'tware long to tell
What brought me to this miserable plight;
Or rather to that miserable plight
In which you found me all is altered now,
Thanks be to God above. And long to tell
Why thus I dwell in utter solitude,
Or have been dwelling all is altered now,
Thanks be to God, to Llarian, and to you."
"But tell us none the less," the pilgrims said,—
(Whose wonder grew to hear of Llarian)—
"And tell us, more than all, how thou hast learned
To call on the true God."
At that he dropped
His hand and gazed into the fire's red heart
As if the story of his life were traced
In its fantastic forms: while a fierce spark
Shot suddenly from out his hollow eyes,
Fading as suddenly:—
"Ah, sirs!" he said,
"You know not what you ask. I dare not turn
The black page of the past, lest from its grave
The spectre of revenge should rise again
To grapple with my newly rescued soul.
Let this suffice. I was a chieftain's son.
While yet a slender boy my heart rejoiced
In battle: the shrill trumpet-call; the roll
Of scythèd cars; the rattle of the spear
Against the hollow buckler;—were to me
Sweeter than sweetest music. The long roar
Of host encountering host more flushed my heart
Than softest greetings from the rosiest mouth.
The close fight hand to hand; the deadly grip
Of desperate foes;—thrilled my delighted sense
More than the warm clasp of the whitest arms.
So in my youth I followed with my sire
To the king's camp, when Aulus Plantius
Assailed him with the veteran hosts of Gaul.
For three stern years we strove, but strove in vain
To curb the conquests of the aliens;
And in the end they crushed us in the West,
And made the land beyond the eastern streams
A prey to rapine. In that third sad year
I bore a message from Prince Owain,—son Of Brân,
grandson of Llyr the gracious king,
And elder brother of our Caradoc,—
To his dark princess, Lady Guendolen:
For whom and for their child the boding prince
Had found a mountain refuge in the north,
A June day's journey from the royal camp.
Then first I learned that love is something more
Than pleasure in a woman's loveliness.
I saw among the maids of Guendolen
One whose clear beauty was but as the veil
That tempered down the shining of her soul.
Straight my heart clave to her, and hers to me;
And when on the third day, my errand done,
I slowly rode adown the winding vales,
Lost in fond musings,—like a man possessed
With some new life that almost slays the old,
Yet makes him twenty-fold the man he was,—
And sought Prince Owain in the royal camp,
I asked of him the hand of Angharad,
She being an orphan, and he next of kin:
He did not say me nay; and all my heart
Leapt onward to the happy time to come.
"I could not speak of those delightful days
Whose cruel sweetness only mocks me now,
But that this languid pulse, slow settling down
To an eternal stillness, cannot rise
In dangerous throbs.
"Moreover," here he cast
His looks on Julius, "I have learned, though late,
That the most vile, inexpiable 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."
At this Julius rose
Astonished and transfigured by the light
That flashed upon him. "Can it be," he said,
"That bitter utterance, which broke from me
Before I was aware, and for the which
How often have I fasted silently
And wept in secret, was the voice of God
Unto thy soul? Perchance 'tis often so:
That the first impulse of a heart whereon
His spirit broods, may lead a nearer way
To His great ends than colder afterthoughts.
But, I beseech thee, do not check thy tale."
Then Cynfrân spoke again:—
"The autumn came
And Llyr's last fight was fought; the alien bands
Slew or dispersed our hosts; the ancient king
Died broken-hearted, happier far than I
Who lived to curse my life. The morrow morn
I gathered from the forests and the wilds
The scattered troops of Owain, who had fallen
First in the battle, as he led the charge
Of the scythed chariots on the Roman flank.
And as with these I sought the mountain cell,
My heart was heavy with the heavy news
That must be borne to Lady Guendolen.
But for myself!—Oh mortal blindness, cooped
In a stone's throw of space, a point of time;—
As for myself! the bitterest of my grief
Was that I did not grieve more bitterly.
For evermore my untamed heart rebelled
Against the burden of the land undone,
Against the burden of Prince Owain slain,
And danced for rapture, thinking of my love.
As one who gaily takes a poisoned cup,
Unguessing at the fate that lurks within,
And drinks & torturing death with nods and smiles,
So as we neared the place, I spurred my horse
Before the rest, eager for Angharad,
And caring not that common eyes should note
Our greetings:"—
Here he ceased, and slowly rose
To his full height, and staggering to a seat
In the far corner, sank down heavily;
Then spoke from out the darkness with a voice
Half strangled, awful:—
"'Twas a needless care:
No light step flew to meet me: no shy arms
Fell soft about my neck. But as my path
Made its last turn, there, full before me, stood
A wan and ghastly image; with bright hair
Blackened with blood; with arms that thrust me back,
As horror-struck I lighted from my horse;
And a changed voice, that uttered, 'Touch me not
For I am lost;—ruined for evermore.
Aht would that thou hadst slain me with thy sword
Ere thus I died to thee, died to myself,
To all the fair earth and the pleasant skies.
I have striven to take my life, here is the wound
Deep in my temple, but my hand was weak.
O Cynfrân! I was blameless as the lamb
In the wolf's jaws. But yet I cannot live,
Cannot look on thee, never can be thine:
All that has passed the sweetness of our love
Is drowned for ever in this bitter close."
Then sank she to the earth; and as I strove
To lift her, scarcely knowing what I did,—
For right, and wrong, love, pity, and revenge
Whirled in a mad confusion through my brain,—
She snatched my sword, or ere I was aware,
And fell upon the point, and so she died."
Here Cynfrân paused while those two held their breath
In speechless awe and pity. For a space
Nothing was heard except the sobbing flame,
The mournful heaving of the tapestry,
And far aloof within the midnight woods
The howling of the wolves. He spoke again:
"Then fearful darkness fell on me, through which
Shot gleams of light more fearful, for I learned
By timid answers wrested from the troops,
That some before they left the battle field,
And some by flying rumours since the fight,
Had gained the key to this black mystery.
They told that 'on the morning of the fight
The Lady Guendolen,' (how bitterly
I cursed her rashness!) 'left her mountain-cell
Goaded by dark forebodings for her lord,
And with her maidens came to watch the field:
That on a knoll to rearward of our host
They took their stand: that Guendolen ere long,
Missing the glitter of Prince Owain's sword,
Dashed down into the thickest of the fight:'———
But here they checked themselves and cast scared looks
Each on his fellow: looks that seemed to say
'Tell thou the tale, I cannot.' But I urged
And threatened, till they thrust a frightened boy
To the front rank, who told me, stammering,
His mother was the nurse of Owain's child;
That he, her son, stood by her on the knoll:
That when the Lady Guendolen sprang down
Into the battle, she had flung the child
Into his mother's arms; that afterwards—
When the great legion, covered with locked shields,
Rose like a huge sea-tortoise from its place
And moved upon the ford, driving our troops
To right and left, and slaying as it came—
The frighted maidens, all save Angharad,
Fled shrieking; but she said she scorned to flee
And leave her dearest lady succourless.
Then up the valley came the roaring tide
Of flying Cymri, driven before the foe,
And all the knoll swarmed over, black and bright
With the swart aliens and their flashing arms;
The air rang round with shrieks and mockery
And he was trampled down and knew no more;
Save this;'—and here his boyish voice was choked
With sobs and tears;—'that now he sorely feared
His mother must be slain; for one had seen
A Roman soldier bearing off the child,
The little bright-haired Gladys, and he knew
His mother ne'er had yielded up that child
Save with her own last breath.'"
Here Cynfrân paused
Once more; and when he spoke again, his voice
Fell feebler yet:—
"But I must hasten on;
For this strange strength which props my sinking frame
Is but the ruddy gleam that flashes out
From the wild sunset of a stormy day.
My night is near; yet not an endless night;
Beyond I see a calmer day-spring dawn.
But help me now to lay my weary limbs
Upon this bed of bracken."
So they came,
And laid him on the bracken, spreading out
Their upper garments on his trembling frame,
With tender hands; then raised his sinking head
And held the cup of cordial to his lips;
And as he drank thereof, his soul revived,
So that he spoke again.
"Within the cell
We found the other maids of Guendolen,
All scared and stricken by their fellow's fate.
Scared too by a weird vision they had seen
Of Guendolen herself at earliest dawn,
Stalking in dumb, unnoting misery
Through all the chambers to an inner room,
Where Angharad lay crouched with whom she held
A brief discourse; and then with wilder looks
Rushed forth into the passes of the wood,
Calling on Gladys ('twas her lost child's name),—
On 'Gladys!' 'Gladys!'—till her distant voice
Died in the leafy depths, and all was still.
"Upon a golden bier of autumn boughs
We placed my Angharad. I would not let
A hand except those virgin hands and mine
Lay finger on her, nor would let an eye
Gaze on her beauty, saving theirs and mine.
How calm she lay! all shame and bitterness
Wiped from the solemn sweetness of her looks.
Then ere we bare her out, adown her face
We drew the shining veil of chestnut hair.
With my own hands I dug her little grave
In the pine grove where first we plighted troth,
And there we left her. But before I turned
To leave her grave, I wrang from out my heart
The last slow drop of human kindliness,
(O God, forgive me!—yea, thou hast forgiven),
And swore a fearful oath by the three Rays,—
The sacred Rays that speak the unspoken Name,—
Henceforth to live apart from all mankind;
To make my life one long revenge; nor rest
From that revenge until my life was done:
To abjure the perils of the open fight
And so to lengthen out that long revenge.
"Thus through the nine brave years while Caradoc
Repulsed the aliens, with a fiendish joy
I wrought my will upon them, day by day
Dooming my spirit to a deeper death.
When Caradoc defeated and betrayed
Was borne to Rome, I made my secret haunt
Within this summer palace of the king,
Hence only issuing forth as a wild beast
To seek his prey. And so the years went on,
Each darker than the last; for the high God
Was slowly wreaking out his vast revenge
Upon me; that revenge, which as thou saidst,
Is love and pity.
"But there came a day
When from the cliffs above the tawny sea
I watched an alien vessel in the bay,
With hatred in my heart, and fierce desire
That craved the more the more I pampered it
With foul and cruel deeds. I saw you land;
Judged you were Romans; tracked your steps until
We met upon the marsh;—the rest you know.
Thy stern rebuke like midnight lightning lit
My darkened heart, and showed me to myself;
And loathing all things, and myself the most,
I sought my solitary lair again;
There evermore I struggled to forget;
But evermore came sounding in my ears
That stern rebuke. And evermore my soul
Reproached me with the vast and cruel wrong
Of selling her pure beauty to revenge,
And making her the shrinking paramour
Of all she loathed the most. And evermore
I strove to struggle forward to the light
And see the face of God; but could not go:
A thousand dark suggestions plucked me back.
And in those days the Druids of the land,
As now, were prisoned in the sacred Isle,
So there was none to guide.
"Then I recalled
A tale, which lightly heard in happier times,
Had lain as dead within my memory,
But now, requickened by occasion, rose
Alive with meaning. 'Twas a Druid's tale,
A legend from that far-off Indian clime
Which sages say lies in the utmost East,
Beyond the sunrise of the sunrise land.
It told of a fierce man of many sins
Who, when his sins had grown and multiplied,
And turned upon him like a troop of wolves,
Rending his soul, until he cried aloud
To God and man for help,—but there was none,—
Had met with one who bade him make his home
Within some drear and solitary place,
And there subdue himself with toilsome days
And sleepless nights; to seek no grateful shade
From the hot sun of summer, neither fire
In the keen cold of winter; to abuse
His palate with all bitter meats and drinks,
And these in scanty measure. Farther yet;
To scourge his shrinking flesh, and, if needs be,
Thrust cruel hooks through all his quivering limbs;
That so the sin which loves an easy home
Should find no rest in him. All this I did:
My strength would fail me now to utter half
The torments that I gathered to myself
With greedy hands, and bore without a groan;
Witness these scarred limbs, and this wasted frame
Dying untimely. But 'twas all in vain;
For while I slew the sin upon the right,
Upon the left the unslain self arose,
More vigorous than before. I could not lift
Myself above myself. And evermore,
As thus I vainly strove, the thicker grew
The veil upon my heart, and farther off
Glimmered the awful face of the Unseen.
And evermore a colder horror crept
Through all my spirit, as the fear of fears
Drew closer, showing ghastlier lineaments.
The fear that death instead of leading me
To the calm circle of eternal bliss
Would plunge me deep within the lowest sphere,
Penning my wretched soul within the husk
Of some brute form, to expiate my sin.
"So passed the miserable years, until
This harvest gilt the valleys; and I heard,
Far off, as one entombed alive might hear,
The voices of the reapers, and the songs
Of happy maidens binding up the sheaves.
Then did a subtle fever creep within
My almost empty veins, and the thin blood
Rose in a steamy cloud, and dimmed my brain;
While mortal heaviness that was not sleep
Glued down my burning limbs. Time passed no more
On those alternate steps of night and day
Which freshen even misery, but writhed
In hideous indistinguishable length.
Thus had I lain—how long I know not—when
I heard a rustling sound within the room,
Which moved a wish in me to ope mine eyes,
Had not the weight of mountains held the lids.
Then cooling moisture touched my lips, a draught
Of blessed water met my parching thirst,
And a man's voice spake kindly; but my voice
Refused to answer, as my eyes to look:
For all my vital force had sunk as low
As the last drop within a wasted well.
Yet over all my heart a still content
Spread at that voice.
"Strength fails me now to tell
Of all his patient watching by my bed;
Of all the tender offices of love,
Hard for a man to show to a dear friend,
In which he spent himself unsparingly
On me, a stranger. After many days
The fever left me; and I woke from sleep
Like a new man, yet feeble as a babe.
Then first I saw him plainly; for before,
'Twas a dim dream, in which a hand, a face,
A robe of many colours, moved obscure
Among the visions of my wavoring brain.
He was a graceful youth, clad like the youths
Who loarn the subtle mystorios of the bards;
And with a face as clear as sammer skies.
He told me how that journeying down the glen
He chanced upon this place, and found me laid
Sick unto death; and so had staid awhile
To tend me in that sickness; making light
Of his grost service,
"As he moved about
With noiseless steps, and watched for every wish,
And day by day, unwearied, sought abroad
Among the flocks gone wild among the bills,
And in the garden, choked with rankest weeds,
For all I needed, how my heart upewelled
With wonder at the patience of his love!
And when at length I found a feeble voice
This wonder reached my lips, and, 'Oh,' I sighed,
'Would that the great Unseen, Unsearchable,
Would have compassion on my soul, as thou
Hast hed upon my body!'
"'Then,' said he,
'Thou hast thy wish, The pity I have shown
Is but a spark enkindled by the flame
Of His compassion.'
"So he spake, and drew
My sad tale from me, till I told him all;
Told of the bitter blighting of my youth;
Of the vile vow kept but too well; of how
Your words had burnt asunder like a flame
The bondage of that vow; yet left me bound
In thraldom full as hopeless though less vile.
At that a glow of glad astonishment
Flushed all his face, as thus he answered me:—
"'Now God be thanked. These are the very men
From whom I learned the things that set me free.
They taught me that the great Unsearchable;—
He whom the Druids name not; who they say
Dwells inapproachable, immoveable,
Far off among the vast eternities,
Shut in serene self-glory, heeding not
Our sighing waves that break about His feet;
Or, at the best, as elder sages taught,
Whose boundless being is the sea whereon
The transient ripples of our lives arise,
In which they sink, unknowing and unknown:—
That He is Father of the souls of men;
As much, yea more a thousand, thousand fold
Than earthly sires are fathers of our flesh;
And as a father pities us. That still,
As earthly sires who wisely love their sons
Will seek for them a strenuous discipline
To mould the plastic mind and stubborn will;
So has the Heavenly Parent built for us
This schoolhouse of the world, wherein to learn
The long laborious lessons framed to fit
Our inner manhood for the life beyond.
Nor this alone; but that a blessed One,
Visible image of the unseen God,
Had late, within the memory of man,
Been born, and lived, and died upon the earth
To show these things. That now the time was passed
For gifts of pain, and sacrifice of blood,
Since all men in His gift and sacrifice
Were gathered homeward to our Father's heart,
If so we willed it.'
"Thus he spake, and more.
I cannot set it forth in ordered words;
I cannot trace the way it wrought on me;
I only know that all my fetters fell;
That while my spirit slept the sleep of death,
And only saw wild phantoms, only felt
A freezing nightmare holding me from God,
His eye was resting on me. And at length,—
As when a watcher bends a steadfast gaze
Upon the close-locked lids of one that sleeps,
His gaze awakes the sleeper,—so beneath
The Eye of love that lights the unseen world,
My wondering spirit woke from death to life."
Then said the Maccabee, "Let God be thanked.
But where is Llarian? he who succoured thee?"
And Cynfrân answered. "When my sickness turned
He went his way along the downward vale;
For he was bent to find you, and had gone
Upon your track in vain for many a moon.
But on the third day after that on which
I watched his many-coloured robe grow dim
Within the woods, my sickness came again.
Again the subtle fever crept within
My almost empty veins; again the blood
Rose in a steamy cloud and dimmed my brain.
Then driven by raging thirst, I staggered forth,—
But all was like a dream, a feverish dream,—
To seek the coolness of the stream below."
With that he closed his eyes; and turned his face
To the blank wall, and said, "I can no more;—
I weary to the death and fain would sleep.
The burning pain has left me. Yea, who knows
But that I yet may live? Well, life is sweet,
And what an altered thing would life be now."
And so he murmured till he slept. All night
The pilgrims watched alternate by his bed;
And when his spirit stirred in sleep, the sense
Went wandering back to times long passed away.
As relics of a wreck which after-storms
Wash on the shore, the fragments of the past
Came sadly into sight. Again he rode,
Lost in fond musings, down the winding vales;
Again he seemed to talk with Angharad.
Her name returned for ever to his lips
And dwelt upon them, like the sweetest phrase
Of some old melody. So went the night;
But when the day began to break, they saw
A solemn and unutterable change.
No sunrise could uplift the leaden veil
That masked his features. Then they thought,—'perchance
His soul has passed;'—and touched him; but at that
He slowly opened eyes in which the light
Was quenched for ever; made a feeble sign
That they should raise him; and when this was done
Lay leaning upon Julius' breast, his arms
Drooping on either side, as droop the boughs
Of blasted trees. Then,—in an altered voice,
Whose plaintive hoarseness seemed the pining ghost
Of the deep tones of other days,—he said—
"Last night I thought, or dreamed I thought, perchance
I yet might live. That thought is gone: and gone
The wish that gave it birth. For now I know
Such lives as mine are like to precious drops
Spilled on the ground: they mock recovery.
But in my heart of hearts a surer hope
Takes root among the ruins of the past.
The Hand that made me will not cast me off;
The Love that through my darkest wanderings,
When least I dreamed of it and least desired,
Has followed me with whispers in the soul,
With touches reaching from the outer life,
Will follow still, beyond the unpierced dark
That fronts me now with scarce a step between."
He paused; and even the Maccabee himself
Felt hands of silence laid upon his lips:
Yet an officions conscience,—prone to think
We do God service when we violate
The heart's fine instincts,—forced him into speech:
So with constrained voice and disordered looks
That showed the lack of inward harmony,
He spoke abruptly to the dying man:—
"Nay, friend, not so, there is no after-chance;
Lose the soul here and all is lost beyond,
But save it here, and all the life is saved:"
And would have babbled more;—but Julius laid
A warning finger on his lifted arm,
Saying:—
"And canst thou not entrust this soul
To Him who died to win it? He has dealt
In secret with it, whispering as of old
To those that were the closest to his heart,
'Lo! I have many things to say to you,
But now ye cannot bear them.' Yet there comes
A pentecost to every waiting soul,
And therefore, soon or late, or here or there,
It comes to him."
Meanwhile, the dying man
Heard not nor heeded; but with radiant smiles,
Shed forth on that which seemed but empty air,
Looked out beyond them; slowly raised his hand
As one who waves a signal to a friend,
And called aloud:—"I come!" Then the hand fell,
The head sank forward, and the feeble breaths
Came feebler yet and farther each from each,
Till one as gentle as an infant's sigh
On which none other followed.
In that hour
The liquid sunrise, dropped through dewy trees,
Fell by the ruined casement to the floor;
And rested on the russet couch, and reached
The shrank and colourless hand, and wove a crown
Of flickering rays about the faded brow.
Amidst the utter stillness of the room
They heard the soft sounds of the waking woods,—
The insects' hum, the small birds' twittering,—
Nearer and clearer; till at last a lark,
Pierced to the heart with joy, sprang from the grass
Of the neglected plot, and poured his soul
In floods of music, rising as he sung
Higher and higher in the brightening heavens.
Now when a second, evening gilt the woods
And painted clouds were glassed within the stream,
The pilgrims who had toiled all day to fit
The ruined lodge to hold its royal guests,
Flung their tired limbs upon the grassy bank
Beside the ford. But scarce the Maccabee
Had lain a moment, scarce had time to note
How motionless the birch-sprays' tracery hung
Against the amber sky, when such a flood
Of fearful rapture,—held in check awhile
By strenuous toil and death's stern presence,—rushed
Into his heart, he leapt upon his feet,
Saying within himself:—'This very eve,
Perchance this very hour! O perilous joy,
Whose cup uplifted to my thirsty lips,
May yet be spilled untasted!' At that thought
He turned a troubled face upon his friend,
Crying:—"My father, all my heart is torn
With cruel fears; call thou aloud on God."
Then instantly the soul of Julius
Girt up her loins to climb the shining steps
Let down from heaven to earth. And as she rose
His worn-out bodily frame arose with her,
Unconsciously uplifted by her strength.
And when he ceased a calm ineffable
Sank on the Maccabee; and in his soul
He set his seal to this that God is true
And all-sufficing; that come joy, come woe,
All shall be well; well in the after-world
If evil here: well in the after-time
If evil now.
But ere the sun's last smile
Had faded from the topmost eastern ridge,
The sound of steps and voices in the glen
Greeted the pilgrims' ears. And as they rose
Trembling with eagerness, the king appeared,
Striding before his kin and followers
To front the edge of danger. Then they ran
To meet him, and the aged Julius bent
To kiss the faded border of his robe;
But Caradoc, whose stern, still reticence,
Shaken by many sorrows, now dissolved
In nameless pangs at sight of a friend's face,
Caught him in troubled silence to his breast;
Then, loosening his grasp, cried,—
"Pardon! O my friend,
If at this hour of meeting, after years
Of woful exile on my part, on thine
Of toils untold, I speak but moodily.
God knows I am not thankless for His gifts:
Liberty, safe return with all I love
To my own land, and such a friend as thou
Restored to me and most of all, the gift
Too priceless to be named with even these:
Acquaintance with Himself, which should bring peace,
And does in part. Yet bitter 'tis and strange,
That.here upon the dear soil for the which
My fathers bled, and over which they held
A sway at least more righteous than the sway
Of other kings, their son should stand unknown,
Unrecked of, unlamented, undesired.
Here through this central fortress of our tribe,—
The tribe which hailed me sovereign, with a shout
That shook the Cæsars from their purple rest
Far off in Rome; which for nine glorious years
I led from victory to victory,
Until we hurled the veteran legions back
Beyond the Sabren and the tawny sea;—
Here, through Siluria, these three desolate days,
I pass, the aim of every curious eye,
Yet not a soul has greeted me but thou,
And thou an alien. No, I have not found one
That had the grace, remembering Caradoc,
To pause and look upon me with a sigh,
As if he thought:—'This squalid wayfarer
Is like the King; or would be like the King
But for the mighty difference.' No, not one!
I am as much forgotten as the dead;
Nay, more forgotten. Peace, I know full well
All thou wouldst say: how I commanded you,—
By that great oath I swore unwillingly
Before the hateful city of the south
Opened her gates to set me free, and which
Though sworn unwillingly must still be kept,
Because, if Rome be faithless, God is true
And hates a lie;—ye should not spread the fame
Of this my coming, lest the faithful few
That still have held their fealty should arise
To greet me as their king, and shed their blood
For that which cannot be. I might have spared
Such fine, fantastic scruples."
Here he laughed,
A dry, self-scorning laugh:—"Why, I have been
As simple as a maid; who, honest soul,—
A little vain but honest,—fears to spoil
The peace of some forbidden lover, and so
Weaves many a subtle, self-deceiving plot
To shun him, or greet coldly. While his heart
Is all the while freer by half than hers,
Which bleeds in secret at the chilling change.
Yea, I did charge you thus, and would again,
And mean it from my heart. But ah! my friend,
'Tis easier to deny a lover's prayer
Than rest contented when the faithless lips
That framed it have forgot their own desire.
"But shame upon the selfish heart that broods
On its own griefs in such an hour as this.
Behind me come my father and my queen,
The spouse and children of the Maccabee,
With faithful friends and servants who have shared
Our exiled fortunes. Eirgen and her lord
Have taken second shipping at the port
Of Venta, thence to cross the tawny sea
To Avon and the City of the Cleft;
So by the healing Waters of the Sun
To Sarrlog town beside the hanging stones,
Where lie his lands."
Then Julius, seeing the king
Answered himself, and turned to other themes,
Forbore to answer him. And Caradoc
Passed onwards to the ford, a lonely man,
With self but half subdued. And as he went
He waved a stately hand to Julius
To leave him and to meet the prince and queen.
And soon those frosty-haired, dry-wrinkled men,
Prince Brân and Julius, on each other's necks
Fell with right joyful greetings. For their hearts,
Kept fresh by sap of generous sympathies,
Were in mid-summer still. And Julius kissed
The hem of the Queen's robe, the sad-faced Queen;
Who, worn with exile and the many woes
Which falling on the head of him she loved
Descended with a double weight on hers,
And wearied with rough journeying, had scarce
The life left in her that could frame a smile.
Meanwhile the Maccabee had hastened forth
To welcome his dear spouse and tender babes.
Deep in the wood he met with Miriam.
Then dumb at first even with excess of bliss
They hung upon each other's quivering lips.
Next, held apart the length of loving arms,
Gazed each on each, half doubtfully; the while
Strange, painful laughter, mixed with painless tears,
Shook all their unnerved features. Till the babes,
Half shy, half jealous, only half assured,
Thrust their small hands into their mother's hands.
Then the vague rapture inexpressible
Found voice and action; as the mother held
The doubtful boy in reassuring arms,
And made him know his father; who the while
Crushed all his dusky curls caressingly
With his large hand, and looked him in the face
With gentleness ineffable, and smoothed
And lessened the deep rolling of his voice
To suit his shaken spirits. While the girl,
One hand still clinging to her mother's robe,
Ventured the other in the broad brown palm
That courted its caress: then as if nerved
By its firm pressure, stood erect and raised
Her soft lips to the stranger's bearded mouth,
Sealing the triple bond that binds the world.
So passed they with their followers to the ford.
But Julius lingered, thinking in himself,
"Ah, wherefore did I let a casual word
Tempt me to long for that which cannot be."
But as he thought he lifted mournful eyes,
And saw—was it a dream?—or did he see
A maiden standing where the path emerged
From the thick wood? As motionless she stood
As any statue, gazing at the fall.
Then Julius stammered in his very thoughts—
Thinking:—'How like,—yet ah! the difference!
This is a woman, and my Claudia
Is but a child, a simple, slender child.'
But as he thought, and stammered in his thoughts,
She turned and saw him, and a rosy dawn
Of recognition overflowed her face,—
Her rare, sweet face;—and forth she flew to him,
Embraced his hand and laid it on her head,
Crying:—"My father Julius!"
Then he wept
For joy and gratitude, and clasped her hands
Within his own, and gazed upon her face
To find the little Claudia of old times
In this fair woman. So with trembling lips
Thanked God between his tears; and when at length
He found a settled voice, inquired of her
How this great wonder might have come to pass.
Then in a chastened voice she answered him,—
"Alas! my father, 'tis a weary tale:
Let this suffice thee. In these five long years
Have I been learning that my direst foes
Are those of my own house. I do not speak
Of Plautius,—God forgive him,—but of things
In my own bosom: subtle enemies
That lurk within the heart, and clothe themselves
With light like angels. I have been sore bestead;
My steps have well nigh slipped; but the kind Christ
Has still upheld my weakness. When the foe
Has pressed the closest, He was closer still
And stronger than the strongest. He has sent
His ministering spirits, oftentimes unseen
But often seen, and clothed in flesh and blood,
To succour me when ready to despair.
The chief of these has been the noble Brân,
Whom on the fatal day of massacre
I saw with thee. Again, and yet again,
His keen-eyed watchfulness has found the net
Spread for my feet, and by a timely word,
Or secret sign, has saved me. God be thanked!
At length Pomponia, mother of my love,
Hearing a rumour that the prince and king
Were set at large on oath of fealty,
And would return to Britain, urged on me
(Speaking in secret by my faithful nurse)
To leave the wicked city, and with them
Sail to the land I loved, the land whose name
Was graven on my heart. So after strife
Of sore conflicting thoughts, yearnings of heart
Which only He that made me comprehends,
I saw the path where He would have me go;
And here, in mine own land, with His good help,
Will I be His more fully; spend myself,—
Yea and be spent, when my reluctant soul
Hangs back from sacrifice, for those He loves."
While thus she spake they reached the ford, o'er which
The faithful servants following the king
Had laid a rugged bridge of boughs fresh hewn,
That the faint queen and Miriam and her babes
Might pass dry shod. And Claudia ceased to speak,
And looked around bewildered to the fall.
That poured from the high cliff, and to the pool,
And to the woods above. Till Julius said,
"What has amazed thee, daughter?" To the which
She answered:—
"'Tis most strange. As even now
Through the arched woodland path I saw beyond
The silver-flashing fall, it seemed to me
A most familiar thing; and now again
That strange, mysterious sense of new, yet old,
At once disturbs and calms me. Either in,
Or severed from the body, I have seen
This place before; but whether in a dream,
Or in the waking world, I cannot tell."
Then Julius, marvelling, held his peace. And while
It seemed to her he thought of other things,
His fancy,—like the hoar-frost shooting through
The scattered moisture and congealing it
Into symmetrical, articulate forms,—
Arranged her fragmentary memories
With other fragments caught from other lives,
Till in a perfect whole they crystallized
On the transparent surface of his mind.
Thus speaking, silent thus, they crossed the stream,
And climbed the heights, and gained the ruined lodge.
There as they entered, stood the prince and king,
Gazing with speechless pity in their eyes
Upon the dead, the while the Maccabee
Rehearsed his dolorous tale. To tender hearts
All bitter things, though past, are bitter still;
And sorrow sorrowful, ev'n when assuaged
For evermore.
Upon the morrow morn
The pilgrims hollowed his sequestered grave
Above the sounding fall. And round the grave
Arose the chaunt of many voices blent
In psalms of praise for his deliverance.
Now on that day on which the pilgrims left
The herdsman's hut, the heart of Guendolen
Could find no rest. Some power within her seemed
To urge her to go forth and follow them.
Therefore when on the morrow Llarian came,
Full bent to find them, straightway she arose
And claimed his guidance. With a reverent hand
He led her forth, and through the woodland wilds
Retraced his steps. Four days they journeyed thus
By gentle stages, and on the fifth morn
Entered the glen where the white torrent poured
Through tumbled rocks. And when the sun rode high,
Crossing the ford, they heard the funeral psalm
Ring through the woods above, blent with the roar
Of falling waters. Nearer drawn, one voice
Soared in sweet shrillness high above the rest.
Then in the shadowed border of the wood
They checked their steps, until the latest note
Died on the air.
Then Guendolen went forth,
Calmly as one who takes expected bliss,
And gathered Claudia closely to her heart,
And claimed her as her child and Owain's child,
Saying,—"I need no proof: thy eyes are his,
And all thy bright face and thy golden hair
Are his, my Owain's. Here we dwelt in peace
Before the rising of the Cymric tribes,
And here, 'twas shown me, we should meet again.
Upon the level turf beside the ford
Thy tender feet first tottered off alone,
Lured by some sunlit flower, and here thy hand
Shall stay my feet when tottering to the grave.
And when long centuries have rolled away,
This waterfall, my Gladys, shall be called
Still by thy name."
And in those days she fell
Into a trance, and saw with opened eyes
The visions of the future. And she said,—
"When three-score generations shall have slipped
Into the life unseen, whose waters wide
Sweep round the life we see;—when this new faith,
Old as the sun, yet new as is the dawn,
Has mastered all the masters of the world;—
When lightened by its light the eye of man
Begins to spell the universe and solve
Its secret mysteries;—when having drawn
The wisdom of high Heaven into his heart
Even with his mother's milk; yea, long before,
Through countless veins of custom and descent,—
He turns and plumes himself thereon, as if
All were his own, himself the source of all,
And whispers to his own proud heart,—'Behold
Thou art my God, and there is none beside.'
Yea, even then, the memory of my child
Shall still be blessed in Britain."
Thus the lodge
Become the peaceful homestead of the prince,
The king, the queen, the widowed Guendolen,
And Claudia, darling of their fallen house.
Beside the knoll where first the pilgrims found
The lady Guendolen, the prince upreared
A temple to the living God, the first
That ever rose in Britain. Thither too
Came many bards and bardic novices,
Drawn from the sacred isle by Llarian's fame,
To sit at Julius' feet and learn from him
The worship of the living God, and pass
Through mystic waters to the side of Christ;
To lead new lives of holy thoughts and deeds,
And solemn prayers and praises: so the place
Is called the Church of Ilid to this day.
And hard beside the church, the Maccabee
Dwelt with his dark-eyed Miriam; and their house
Grew bright with children's beauty, musical
With children's voices; while he went and came
Leading a pastoral life among the flock
Brought homewards from the heathen wilderness.
But as for Claudia:—how she kept her vow
Of service to her Lord:—whether apart
From tenderer earthly ties she followed close
Behind His bleeding feet, alone like Him;—
Or whether bent beneath a homelier cross
She moved in lower paths, and daily died
In daily discipline of household cares,
Sweetened by love whose sweetness symbols His;—
We know not: only knowing that her name,
Embalmed by purest saintship, lingers still
In old traditions as a blessed name.
Her tale is told: the legendary spring
That trickled from the summits of the past
Has poured its little urn, and all is still.
The End.