Poems

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POEMS

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BY

Pan and the Maiden

POEMS

tpp|PAN AND THE MAIDEN| <>Scene I.—A deep wood in Spring

{sc}<>The Maiden

Pan, I have sought thee leaving the hot world, And all the skein of tangled nights and days— The mirth, the tears, the impotence of man, Because I am very weary, and my heart Waastes for thee, longing sadly for cool glades And pleasant speech of leaves and quiet air. <>(She pauses.) |end=follow

I am tired, I am tired, oh, Pan! the gods have sown New growths of men and days—new harvestings, And the new fields are scattered with strange seed, And there are sterile songs and wasted breath, And Beauty is a thing divorced from Life. <>(She sinks on the moss.) Hast thou forgotten, Pan, the days that were— The quickening of woods, the tumult and fresh joy Of budding fields, the wild expectant hands Of living new-born things which yearned to thee, The melodies frail reeds gave forth—desire Of Love, mad ecstasy of song—faun-feet Which danced tumultuous over bounding moss? Hast thou forgotten? Art thou sleeping, Pan?

ppoem| start=follow| And are thy glades deserted, and no more Shall the delicious joy and surging mirth Of laughing woodland women sound again? Has it become a dream, a dream to thee— And are thy lips hushed and the ancient hopes, And all the happy moments of the world?

<>Pan (in the distance)

The old days call me with familiar lips.

{sc}<>The Maiden

I who am one with thee and bound with ties Inextricable of life to all the woods— My heart the heart of saplings and my blood Full of the warm desire of Spring for earth, Now call upon thee, Pan, and all live things Call on thee with dumb lips and pleading eyes, Speechless and longing for thee. Slumber not |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Lest the world die—lest the world die, oh, Pan!

{sc}<>Pan

One calls me from the unforgotten years.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Oh, Pan! the years are very sorrowful— There is no splendour now amongst the gods. There is no beauty of words, nor any more Does song pour forth from ripe Olympian lips— And like a dream forgotten are the gods; And like a ruined dream their temples are, And sadder than the eyes of Hecate The Gorgon eyes of sorrow freeze the world, Crushing the soul of man and all good days.

{sc}<>Pan

I come. I come—one calls me—I must hear— |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Maiden

Surely, oh, Pan! though all the great gods slept Still thou wouldst hearken—nay, thou slumberest not, Because the fields still quicken and the rain Falls with a kindly freshness on the land, And trees bear blossom, and the woods are full Of manifold deep life and echoing sounds— Fluting of wood-birds, buzz of drowsy flies, Shy creatures crouching in the undergrowth, Wild thickets bearing fruit and laden boughs— Is not thy great existence evident In all this Nature, since if thou wert dead— If thou wert dead there would be no more life, But barren deserts—overwhelming floods, And forests crowned with no sweet growth of green, But hollow winds and empty silences. |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>Pan

The ancient years are living, and the songs—

{sc}<>The Maiden

And now thy splendour fills me and the great And sacred glory of thy words—the air Conceals thy breath—thy thoughts enclose the world. This leaf I touch is a wise thought of thine; And all the grass a-tremble 'neath my foot, And all the eloquent soft speech of leaves Is thine, and most inseparable from thee.

{sc}<>Pan

Oh, Woman! from the gulf of banished Time You called, and my sleep left me—and I came.

{sc}<>The Maiden

I am afraid, oh, Pan! have mercy on me! |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>Pan

Who fears the gods when they command not fear?

{sc}<>The Maiden

Ah, Pan! the woods are slipping, slipping from me! {sc}<>Pan

Dost thou fear love and speech of ancient days?

{sc}<>The Maiden

The fear of thee is heavy on me, Pan!

{sc}<>Pan

Fear not, the old times live and the old speech.

{sc}<>The Maiden

The new days blind me, burn me, fetter me! |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>Pan

Cast all their glamour from thee—I am here.

{sc}<>The Maiden

This is the travail of death which brings forth Life,

{sc}<>Pan

Pan dies not, nor the memory of Pan— The great gods sleep—they shall not always sleep— Nor shall the world lose Beauty till it die.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Oh, Pan! thy words are fruitful memories And madden me with thoughts of ardent days And Greek nights, insatiate when the astonished woods Woke 'neath the maddened overwhelming cry |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Of satyrs, and the air reeled, and the shout Of Bacchanalian laughter twined itself With silences of night, and the uncurled Wild vines burst forth in leaf and made a green And reckless arbour over the warm land, And there was sound of flutes and pleasant pipes.

{sc}<>Pan

Exchange these memories for a newer bliss!

{sc}<>The Maiden

Oh, Pan! the gods rejoiced and laughed, and cried 'Behold the strength of Pan'—thy kisses live Still, still upon my lips constraining me— And they have quivered on my lips these years Through all the changes which have veiled my soul— |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Through all the manifold great waves of Time— And bid me cleave to thee, a creature wrought Of woods and wilds and pastures and sweet shades.

{sc}<>Pan

And thou shalt come, oh, well-beloved of Pan! Seeing Pan's kiss is stronger than strong years, And still the forest is green and still the roots Bear grain and blossom, and the woods shall cleave Even to thy heart and thou shalt wander forth, An evident woodland spirit, and thy life Become a portion of the life of Pan.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Oh, Pan! there is great tumult at my heart— Madness of life and all my words seem fraught With wind and eloquent passion of green leaves. |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| But oh! the years which lie betwixt us now Weigh mournfully upon me, and the thought Of new things veils the ancient—Pan, forgive, The unimagined shades of life are on me, And even now there cleaves a Love to me— No boy of Aphrodite, but a thing Terrible, grave, with deep, imploring eyes, Which calls me to it for a last farewell.

{sc}<>Pan

Even Aphrodite slumbers, and her Loves.

{sc}<>The Maiden

And I must seek it, Pan, and bid farewell, Else it would haunt me and its eyes become Fires, nor could any coolness of the woods Nor fragrance quench the intolerable light. But if I seek it, showing how my heart Is only thine, and how the woods lay hold |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| And draw me to them, then, oh, Pan, its strength May wither and its ardent breath grow nought But sleep among all sleeping human things.

{sc}<>Pan

Go not, lest the sad music of the world Compel your spirit utterly from me.

{sc}<>The Maiden

No music, Pan, in all the world is strong To dim thy music in me. I whose life First shaped itself upon thy lips—a note Conceived of music growing visible From very excess of rapture. (Great art thou To bind thy singing round all gods and men. Hast thou forgotten how the god of song, The marvellous Apollo, lay all day, Motionless, dazed with visions, whilst thy notes |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Led him through groves and labyrinths of sweet sound Till all his wise and beautiful heart was lost And tangled in the melody?—how then Shall I prove stronger than he and feel thy song No more but cleave unto strange words and works And alien, infidel hearts, and lose all love, All knowledge of thee, Pan? Such things are not.

{sc}<>Pan

Go, since the spirit of the world is weak, Cold are the joys, the sorrows of the world, And I am Pan! and stronger than all gods. |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| <>Scene II.—A terrace overlooking woods and hills

{sc}<>The Lover

Even as God's thought first formed and wrought the world With colour and sun and seas and hills and woods, So has my soul conceived and brought forth Love And formed a world of Love where all fair things Are born, and plaintive music and low words.

{sc}<>The Maiden

The clouds are stiller than the hills to-night.

{sc}<>The Lover

They are filled with exquisite peace and no desire. |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Maiden

The woods seem living in the living night.

{sc}<>The Lover

They hold the gentle longing of the world.

{sc}<>The Maiden

I hear the distant lonely voice of waves—

{sc}<>The Lover

Infinite seas of Love surround the world.

{sc}<>The Maiden

And voices calling through the gloom—not sprung From aught of human nor sorrowful, but glad With all the unpunished ecstasy of dreams, And strange delirious joy of woods and hills. |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Lover

What cry is this—what lives are these, what mirth?

{sc}<>The Maiden

The cry of the unchangeable gods who send A message to the world through thoughtless lips— The lives illimitable of strange hosts, Dim denizens of undiscovered glades, Impenetrable seas and drowsy hills— Of these the mirth I hear—of these the joy!

{sc}<>The Lover

The old gods pass—and the old ways of men— Theirs was the earth, and lust of Beauty and Life, Theirs was the earth a little while, and soft Sweet perfumes and cool temples and wild loves— |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| A little time of laughter and warm breath, A little space of pleasure and strained lips, And afterwards the world put on new thoughts, And the gods passed away like fallen foam, And one great sacred spirit held the world.

{sc}<>The Maiden

No, no! they are potent still—they are potent still— Nor any alien island in far seas Holds them—but in their ancient Halls of Mirth They slumber, and their dreams are quickening fires Which hold the world from barrenness and death.

{sc}<>The Lover

Why are your eyes wild with a pagan light— A strange and passionate language on your lips? |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Maiden

I am of them—I am of them—and now I must depart, and I must wander forth Through other fairer paths and holier woods. I am not of this world, nor have my feet Been glad in fruitful pastures—nor has Life Seemed gracious unto me since Grecian days, When Beauty lived and the old gods were strong.

{sc}<>The Lover

Oh! my beloved, you are strange to-night.

{sc}<>The Maiden

I sprang from them—my life is a mere note Born of the windy music of Pan's reeds— With happy feet I clove the forest shades, Lived, loved, breathed, laughed and slept beneath green boughs. |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Then through the years I wandered, died and lived And died and lived again, full of new thoughts, New loves and new desires, but evermore Pan's seal was set upon me. Hold me not, For I have seen him and his lips revive The old earth-madness in me, and my eyes Have gazed on him again and mine has grown The soul of woods once more, and never strength Of atheist hearts shall break or mar the bond.

{sc}<>The Lover

You speak a thing disastrous—fraught with ill.

{sc}<>The Maiden

The old and passionate gods were dear to me— My spirit is the spirit of a faun— The wild vines and the ivy cling to me, |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| And the long tendrils wind around my heart So that no other thought may sojourn there.

{sc}<>The Lover

The gods are perished—utterly undone.

{sc}<>The Maiden

They live, but now they slumber and the world Slumbers, but soon the petals of Time's flower Shall blossom forth with colour and soft scent, And like a rose shall overspread all lands.

{sc}<>The Lover

You have brought fire and anguish through the years, Malicious flames to sear and torture me.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Be glad, because I bid farewell to you, |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| And I shall be most joyous if your love Unwinds its coils of passion from my life, Not fettering it, and I would have it sleep Forgetting me with reasonable heart.

{sc}<>The Lover

This is an evil and a foolish thing— Pan is not strong—Pan is not strong as Love.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Pan can break Love and fetter Love with bonds.

{sc}<>The Lover

The ancient yearning is alive in you, But I am strong with the new growth of days.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Alas! the growth is sad of the new day! Yet think not I am heedless of your love— |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Leaving it lightly as a thing outworn. I should have withered in my loneliness Had you not come with life and pitying love, Had you not brought new love, new life to me.

{sc}<>The Lover

I gave you all I had and all my soul.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Ah! sweet, ah! sweet the day I saw you first.

{sc}<>The Lover

Then was I conscious first of Life, and lived.

{sc}<>The Maiden

I knew Life first when first you touched my hand.

{sc}<>The Lover

I dared not think of you except in dreams— |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Maiden

I writhed to feel that you could never love me.

{sc}<>The Lover

My love walked timidly with doubtful steps.

{sc}<>The Maiden

And mine wept silent tears because Love came not.

{sc}<>The Lover

You seemed too sacred for the speech of man—

The whole world's mystic heart was in your eyes.

{sc}<>The Maiden

You read the whole world's lonely sadness there.

{sc}<>The Lover

What followed on that sadness when we kissed? |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Maiden

The transformation of all worlds and stars.

{sc}<>The Lover

Ah! God, the peril, the peril, the madness of it— Now it must pass, now it must pass—ah, God!

{sc}<>The Maiden

Would you could read my heart and understand!

{sc}<>The Lover

Oh! my beloved—is it nought to you The first imperfect sighs, which breathed of Love, Timidly, daring but to live—no more— The clasping of hot hands which burned to meet, The mingling of tired lips which sobbed to kiss— The life that makes its own eternity— What is the god's wild rapture to this thing? |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Maiden

I love you—oh, I love you—blame me not!

{sc}<>The Lover

The gods have nothing left to give, the world Faints even before my love, and we shall die, Beloved, if you will, and cast our souls Upon the eternal never-ending waves Which beat around the awful feet of God.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Oh! I am fearful of your words—they burn.

{sc}<>The Lover

Or we will leave the greyness of sad days And seek those countries of the god's first birth, Where the tired sky yearns downwards to green trees, |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Raise Pan a temple and a dwelling-place Wrought of cold marble twined about with flowers, Wild woodland plants, vines, sinuous ivy stems, And on his altars sacrificial grain Shall burn, and incense scent the heavy air— That he seeing we forget him not may grant Forgiveness and accomplishment of joy.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Pan needs no temple fairer than the world— The whole world is his temple and the trees His wreathed columns, and the fields are his, Glowing with living offerings and prayers, The scent of earth his incense—but he craves All tremulous woodland hearts to blend with him, And mine is full of woodland ecstasy. |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Lover

And mine of bitter agony and death.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Ah! turn your heart to Pan, and seek him too.

{sc}<>The Lover

I have drunk deep the bitter wine of Life, And in my breast are wells of human tears, Such as Pan tastes not, and my eyes have scanned Words more profound than you can comprehend— Words not of you nor of the thoughtless gods— And I shall perish by a subtler death, A subtler wound than you can ever know.

{sc}<>The Maiden

I love you—oh, I love you, and my heart Has known, it too, pale images of death— And deeper thoughts, and holier hopes than those |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Which filled it when the dancing fauns of Pan Roused Bacchanalian laughter in the woods.

{sc}<>The Lover

Beloved, we are thirsting each for each, But you are dazed with evil, and strange dreams; Yet seek strong shelter in my soul, for you Will surely crave amongst these alien lives Familiar sanctuary—you will grieve For known accustomed days, the human lips, The comforting speech of tears, the dear desires, Close days of mortal rapture. They are hard, These gods—they are warm with superficial warmth, And since they reigned the world has tasted pain,

{sc}<>The Maiden

Oh! I shall sorrow for you, sorrow for you— |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Almost I wish I had not bowed to Pan— And yet—and yet—

{sc}<>The Lover

Look on the woods no more—

See the great moon has risen, and her light Forgets the evil of men, and all their wrong And folly 'sinks to some forgotten dream, Some empty, fevered vision of waste hours, And all this thing is but a perished dream You have dreamt, sweet, and this alone is true— My arms about you and my soul; your soul, And Love, and a great gladness born of Love.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Hold me close—close—I dare not raise my eyes.

{sc}<>The lover

You are mine—you are mine—fear not, the gods were strong |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| But love has overwrought the ancient gods And seared their cruelty with a present flame.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Take me away, I dare not linger here— <>(Echoes and sounds of voices rise from the woods.) Ah! what is that—ah! what is that? The sound— The old familiar sound of woodland mirth!

{sc}<>The Lover

It is the tumult of the evening wind.

{sc}<>The Maiden

Their feet are dancing, are dancing, and the sward Pulses beneath innumerable feet— See, see the wild gleam of the Mænad's hair! |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Pan lives—Pan lives—Pan lives—Pan lives to- night! The fauns awake, the satyrs dance to-night— Oh, tingling blood which stings and whirls me on, And hurls me to them—loose me—let me go.

{sc}<>The Lover

Never! I hold you fast—you shall not leave me!

{sc}<>The Maiden

This one night, only this night, I will return— Oh, my beloved! I will come again, But now my limbs are mad to wind themselves With branches of the vine—the kiss of Pan Burns on my lips, it burns my soul away— |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Oh—oh, look not upon me, for your eyes Are terrible—mournful, and your mouth is sad, And tortures me—Pan calls—Pan calls. I dare not Stay any longer with your lips and eyes.

{sc}<>The Lover

Though I shall die, you shall not leave me now! >>(She breaks away from him.)

{sc}<>The Maiden

Farewell—farewell, your love has fallen from me, And there is nothing left for me save mirth And tumult of woods and pastures and wild lives. >>(She darts off.) |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sc}<>The Lover

You shall not leave me, though I die, you shall not— >>(He follows her.)

{sc}<>A Voice in the Distance

I come, oh, Pan! I come—

The Poet

Beneath the faint far sky at night When a cold harvesting of stars The moon reaps and the dim moonlight Pours down 'twixt cloudy prison bars He moved as one whom no grief mars.

And with wide rapture lost all sense Of self within the night's cool breath, Grew portion of all things immense, Tides infinite of life and death, And those great words the ocean saith.

Or with the shadows of a wood, Or some deserted, treeless plain, Mingled the throbbings of his blood, Loosing all human thought and pain, And things that grow and things that wane—

In knowledge of the clouds that flit— Pale birds of Heaven, across the sky— Time's slow hands weaving bit by bit A manifold embroidery Of all things born to live and die.

So was he fashioned that his thought Suffered when something would annul Those words his brain divinely wrought— And left him, for the beautiful, Merely dark shades confused and dull.

And all his suffering rose and drew Pale phantoms on his anguished mind, Which overcast and overthrew His soul—as poisonous serpents wind Their victims, so his thoughts would blind.

Nor could he rest, nor weep, nor pray— Only a company of mimes Fantastical—in strange array— His lips would summon forth at times, Dim hosts of feebly-fashioned rhymes.

Yet once his soul with splendid fire Broke every bond and fettering cord— Beyond the reach of all desire Sprang, as from out its sheath, a sword, And clove the Heavens with a word.

No conscious music filled his soul— Nor trembled on his lips—he grew Beyond the reach of all control— A hollow vase, from which men drew God's wine, and nothing further knew.

Or as a flame which burns its way Elate, through fields of scorching grass, Nor knows its power to sere and slay, Nor where its molten footsteps pass; Even thus his burning spirit was.

Where teemed a gulf of nights and days Chaotic, he from the blank sod Called from those shapeless, voiceless ways Divinely as a fashioning god Another world where Beauty trod.

Such was his recompense, but when He gazed astonished at the thing Wrought with pure fire of heart and brain A surging tumult seemed to sting His blood, and round his being cling.

Not yet could he participate In sweet accomplished work—his will Stood with drawn weapon at the gate Of his own Paradise, that still The unfulfilled he might fulfil.

Nor, the abyss of chaos spanned, Could he for any period rest— Awaiting his creative hand The thought of Heavens unpossess'd Roused all the passion in his breast.

With yearning heart and eyes afire— With tears and splendid speech imbued, Scarce conscious of his own desire, He endless world on world pursued Of ever-growing magnitude.

The Death of Beatrice

And since the Lady Beatrice was Merely on earth a traveller— Weep not; she saw as through a glass The earth, but ever would confer With angels that in God's sight pass.

Half consciously she moved within This world, not once her spirit grew Clouded by any mist of sin— But all things that around her drew Part of her beauty seemed to win.

As though her spirit were a pool Of such great virtue, all were saved From some foul fever's loathed rule If they their sickly bodies laved In those deep waters hushed and cool.

No evil thing possessed her eyes But rose transformed; before her sight Fear clad himself in Hope's disguise— Hate turned to love, darkness to light, And folly grew a thing most wise.

But who may know her dreams—too sweet Were they for any spoken word, Or any fancy incomplete Of ours—they seemed the soft winds stirred Round God's perpetual Mercy Seat.

Unfading harmonies and songs Such chords of lovely music wrought, Full of all sounds for which life longs; In all the pauses of her thought No discord lived that mars or wrongs.

One who has seen a river flow Across some bare and songless waste, Reflecting not the dearth below But the fair sky, has surely gazed On her and striven her soul to know.

One who has loved a prayer which kept His soul (the prayer scarce understood, Yet beautiful), when his strength slept In tortuous paths of wrong and good, Has felt how through men's souls she stept.

Love made her spirit like his own Moulded in all respects to him In loveliness and round his throne Her thoughts, most mystical, most dim, Discoursed sweet songs like music blown

From holy heights, unguessed, untrod, Save by an angel when he bares His rapture in a living flood Of such pure chords the music dares Live only in the sight of God.

Ah! Beatrice, what word have we Sufficient—vainly do we speak, And vainly sing—what song to thee Of all our songs abashed and weak, Shall wing towards Heaven worthily?

Alone our silence speaks—more strong, More passionate our silence seems Than any chord of any song. Oh! Lady, take, oh! take our dreams, Moulding them even as we long

To magnify them—yet our praise How shall it touch thee? Who shall weave For thee around whose head the rays Of the sun's splendour burn and cleave Discordant crowns of earthly days?

One sings indeed, but his voice is The very voice of sorrow; all Death's most beloved mysteries He takes and weaves a coronal To crown the brows of Beatrice.

Slowly he comes now the pale shades Of evening grow distinct, whilst still The sun a flaming garland braids Round the calm forehead of the hill, And, full of sleep, the long day fades.

There runs no murmur through the street, No voice of mirth, no hushed replies; And no man's sorrow incomplete Breaks that grey woe that round him lies, Or strives to stay his quiet feet.

God surely made beyond desire, Even of an angel, his great soul, And filled it with eternal fire, And wrought for it an aureole With flames for ever leaping higher

To flush the ages with their light, Intense in power that should consume Men's souls, and clear their darkened sight Which Time's own fingers should relume— His own breath blow the flame more bright.

He kneels beside our Lady's bier And we who gaze as though a spell Held us, half deem the steps drew near Of very grief grown visible— Sorrow made manifest and clear.

Lowly he kneels, thus murmuring, 'Oh! face, beyond expression pure, Oh! marvellous face, what offering, What gift is mine? How shall endure, After the Spring, the songs of Spring!

'How pale art thou, who conquerest Death! Life sits beside thee winged and fair, Thy silence quivers with his breath, The wind is still and the quiet air Full, full of the great words he saith.

'Oh! Wonderful! not even Love May know thee, nay, not the white flame Wherewith he writes all names above, Shall spell the letters of that name Thou—thou alone—art worthy of.

'Sleep on—I would not have thee wake, For mirrored in thy sleep I see Thy newer life, and the bonds break Which lie athwart the soul of me, And I even in thy bliss partake.

'Ah! sleep, and let thy slumber guard The courts and palaces of life, That nought may hinder nor retard My steps, nor paths unclean of strife Lure me and leave my spirit marred.

'Oh! silence mystical—oh! eyes Silent; oh! silent lips; oh! hands Most silent, hold me in such wise That I may find those holy lands She treads—cool fields of Paradise.'

And now the evening wanes, and one Draws nigh, even as though he came From out the portals of the sun, With wings that burn like a great flame, And feet which seem to spurn and shun

The earth; who bending over him That weeps, and her, in one the twain Joins with a thread wondrous and dim— Such as from out Love's crimson skein Unravel still the Seraphim.

Witchcraft

To love an alien woman, for a space He gazed upon the beauty of her face, Nor saw therein the loveliness of Hell.

Through bower and court a silence reigned the day Whereon she entered. August fever lay On Summer splendour. 'Neath his fiery sway All war-like jousts and tournaments, God wot, Gave little joy. She passed within the hall; Great marvel filled the knights assembled all. 'Whence come ye?' cried the king. She answered not.

Most strange it was to see her stand alone Voiceless. The silence now oppressive grown Seemed pregnant with an evil, yet unknown, Fatal to life. Her lips were more intense With secrecy than speech, she seemed to be

Delicious slumber, cloying every sense, Which men despise and crave for equally.

Then Arthur's voice rang clear and audible, As though to break the presence of that spell Which held their souls with power invisible. 'Damsel,' he cried, 'whence comest thou?' The words Died on his lips, but echoed hushed and low, As waters spellbound in their overflow, Or muffed calls of Winter-famished birds.

Unanswering still, across her face a smile Played like an Autumn twilight, all the guile Of tempest hid therein. She breathed the while A keen quick sigh that startled every sense. And those who gazed within her eyes beheld

How strangely there the drowsy silence swelled, Full of swift meaning, instant and intense.

And many yielded to that smile and leapt Entrancéd to their feet. Her red robe crept In clinging folds around her; on she swept Along the mystic streets of Camelot. Famed knights were they who followed:—Pelleas, Gareth, and more (as phantom armies pass, So moved they), Tristram, Gawain, Lancelot.

Then cried the king, 'Alas! my knights no more Honour the vows they made, as heretofore, They learn a newer life, a newer lore!' Sir Galahad and pure Sir Percivale,

With other knights of more enduring mould Stayed still within the hall, though day waxed old, And mournful shadows brooded thin and pale,

'Alas!' the king made moan, 'how little is Remained to me of former might and bliss Save fallen hopes and out-worn memories; 'And all my dreams, and every battle won Over the heathen, and the holy love, Wherewith to fill each knightly heart I strove Oblivion soon shall claim in Avalon.'

Two days had fallen lifeless, little heard Was Glory's voice the while, but, ere the third Languished towards night, resounding armour stirred The mournful streets; with weary steps they came,

But how or where their yielding feet she led, They nothing told, nor whence the damsel sped, Nor what the honour won nor what the shame.

Yet, natheless, though again in fealty Each knight bowed head before the king's decree, And exercised all wonted chivalry, Such vice which in those breasts had taken hold Became accelerated, Lancelot's sin With Guinevere grew much enhanced therein, Gawain and Ettarre, Tristram and Isolde.

None knew from whence she came nor what her heart Contained of evil; when she drove apart King Arthur's Hall by soft and hidden art No token left she when she passed away,