Volume 5 — ARIADNE.

Dryad: We shadowy Oceanides, Jove's warders of the island trees, The tufted pillars tall and stout, And all the bosky camp about, Maintain our lives in sounding shades Of old æolian colonnades; But post about the neighbor land In woof of insubstantial wear: Our ways are on the water sand, Our joy is in the desert air. The very best of our delights Are by the moon of summer nights. Darkness to us is holiday: When winds and waves are up at play, When, on the thunder-beaten shore, The swinging breakers split and roar, Then is the moment of our glory, In shadow of a promontory, To trip and skip it to and fro, Even as the flashing bubbles go. Or on the bleaker banks that lie, For the salt seething wash, too high, Where rushes grow so sparse and green, With baked and barren floors between. We glance about in mazy quire, With much of coming and retire; Nor let the limber measure fail, Till, down behind the ocean bed, The night dividing star is sped, And Cynthia stoops the marish vale, Wound in clouds and vigil pale, Trailing the curtains of the west About her ample couch of rest. Thus, nightly on, we lead the year Through all the constellated sphere. But more obscure, in brakes and bowers, During the sun-appointed hours, We lodge, and are at rest, and see, Dimly, the day's festivity, Nor hail the spangled jewel set Upon Aurora's coronet; Nor trail in any morning dew; Nor roam the park, nor tramp the pool Of lucid waters pebble cool, Nor list the satyr's far halloo. Noon, and the glowing hours, seem Mutations of a laboring dream. Yet subject, still, to Jove's decree, That governs, from the Olympian doors, The populous and lonely shores, We do a work of destiny; When any mortal, sorely spent, Girt with the thorns of discontent, Or care, or hapless love, invades, This ancient neighborhood of shades, Our gracious leave is to dispense, Of woods, the slumbrous influence; The waverings and the murmurings Of umber shades and leafy wings; Through all the courts of sense applying, With sights, and sounds, and odorous sighing, To the world-wearied soul of man, The gentle universal Pan— As now we must: the roots around, Of forests clutch a certain sound Of weary feet; go, sisters, out: Some one is pining, hereabout.

[Another part of the Island. Enter Ariadne.] Ariadne: Here, in the heart of this sea-moated isle, Where we, but last night, made a summer's lodge Of transient rest from many pendulous days Of swinging on the sick unquiet deep, Why left he me, so lone, so unattended? What converse had he with felonious Night, That underneath her dark consenting cloak, He stole unchallenged from his Ariadne? If, out of hope, I cannot answer that, Slant-eyed Conjecture at my elbow stands, To whisper me of things I would not hear. Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone! Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Oh how shall I, an unacquainted maid, So uninformed of whereabout I am, And in a wild completely solitary, Hope to find out my strangely absent lord! Sadness there is, and an unquiet fear, Within my heart, to trace these hereabouts Of idle woods, unthreaded labyrinths, Rude mannered brooks, unpastured meadow sides, All vagrant, voiceless, pathless, echoless, Oh for the farthest breath of mortal sound! From lacqueyed hall, or folded peasant hut,— Some noontide echo sweetly voluble; Some song of toil reclining from the heat, Or low of kine, or neigh of tethered steeds, Or honest clamor of some shepherd dog, Laughter, or cries, or any living breath, To make inroad upon this dreariness. Methinks no shape of savage insolence, No den unblest, nor hour inopportune, Could daunt me now, nor warn my maiden feet From friendly parle, that am distract of heart, With doubt, desertion, utter loneliness. Death would I seek to run from lonely fear, And deem a hut a heaven, with company. Yea, now to question of my true heart's lord, And of the ports and alleys of this isle, Which way they lead the clueless wanderer To fields suburban, and the towers of men, I would confront the strangest things that haunt In horrid shades of brooding desolation: Griffin, or satyr, sphinx, or sybil ape, Or lop-eared demon from the dens of night, Let loose to caper out of Acheron. Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone! Who left that crock of water at my side? Who stole my dog that loved no one but me? Why was the tent unstruck, I unawaked, I left, most loved, and last to be forgotten By much obtaining, much indebted Theseus? Left to sleep on, to dream and slumber on; Nothing to know, save fancies of the air, While he, so strangly covert in his thoughts, Was softly stirring to be gone from me. Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Hast thou, in pleasant sport, deserted me? Is it a whim, a jest, a trick of task, To mesh me in another labyrinth? Could Theseus so make mirth of Ariadne? Unless he did, I would not think he could. And yet I will believe he is in jest. More false than that, he could not be to me, Since false to me, to his own self were false. Now do I hold in hope what I have heard, That love will sometimes cunning masks put on, Speak with strange tongues, and wear odd liveries, Transform himself to seemings most unlike, And still be love in fearful opposites. So may it be, but my immediate fear Jostles that hope aside, and I remember Of what my tutor Ætion did forewarn me. Oh fond old man! if thou didst know me here, Thou wouldst move heaven and earth to have me home. Much was his care of my uncaring youth, And, with a reverend and considerate wit, He curbed the frolic of my pupilage, Less by the bridle, than the feeding it With stories ending in moralities, With applications and similitudes Tacked to the merest leaf I looked upon, Till, so it was, we two did love each other, The sage and child, with mutual amity. Oft, hand in hand, we passed my father's gate, At evening, when the horizontal day Chequered his farewell on the western wall; Shying the court, where, for the frolic lords, Under the profaned silence of the rose, The syrinx, and the stringed sonorous shell, Governed the twinkling heeled Terpischore. We softly went and turned towards the bay, And found another world, contemplative Of shells and pebbles by the ocean shore. I do remember, once, on such an eve, Pacing the polished margin of the deep, We found two weeds that had embraced each other, And talked of friendship, love and sympathy. My pupil sweet, said he, beware of Love: For thou wilt shortly be besieged by him, From the four winds of heaven, because thou art Daughter of Minos, and already married To expectation of a royal dower. But O beware! for, listen what I say, By strong presentments I have moved thy father Bating a fair and well intending nay, To leave thy love to thine unmuffled eye. This is rare scope, my girl, O use it rarely, Be slow and nice in thy sweet liberty, And let discretion honor thee in choice. For love is like a cup with dregs at bottom! Hand it with care, and pleasant it shall be— Snatch it, and thou may'st find its bitterness. And now, my soon, my all sufficient lord, How shall I answer old Sir Oracle? It is too true that I have snatched my love, And taste already of its bitterness. But trifle not with love, my sportful Theseus. Affection, when it bears an outward eye, Be it of love, or social amity, Or open-lidded general charity, Becomes a holy universal thing— The beauty of the soul, which, therein lodged, Surpasses every outward comeliness— Makes fanes of shaggy shapes, and, of the fair, Such presences as fill the gates of heaven. Why is the dog, that knows no stint of heart, But roars a welcome like an untamed bear, And leaps a dirty-footed fierce caress, More valued than the sleek smooth mannered cat, That will not out of doors, whoever comes, But hugs the fire in graceful idleness? Birds of a glittering gilt, that lack a tongue, Are shamed to drooping with the euphony Of fond expression, and the voice beneath The russet jacket of the soul of song. What is that girdle of the Queen of Love, Wherewith, as with the shell of Orpheus, Things high and humble, the enthroned gods, And tenants of the far unvisited huts Of wildernesses, she alike subdues Unto the awe of perfect harmony? What else but sweetness tempered all one way, And looks of sociable benignity? Which when she chooseth to be all herself, She doth put on, and in the act thereof, Such thousand graces lacquey her about, And in her smile such plenitude of joy— The extreme perfection of the divine gods— Shines affable, as, to partake thereof, Hath oftentimes set Heaven in uproar. By these, and many special instances, It doth appear, or may be plainly shown, That, of all life, affection is the savor— The soul of it—and beauty is but dross: Being but the outer iris—film of love, The fleeting shade of an eternal thing. Beauty—the cloudy mock of Tantalus; Daughter of Time, betrothèd unto Death, Who, all so soon as the lank anarch old Fingers her palm, and lips her for his bride, Suffers collapse, and straightway doth become A hideous comment of mortality. Know this, my lord, while thou dost run from me, The tide of true love hath its hours of ebb, If the attendant orb withdraw his light; And though there be a love as strong as death, There is a pride stronger than death or love; And whether 'tis that I am royal born, Or kingly blooded, or that once I was Sometimes a mistress in my father's court, I have of patience much—not overmuch— And thou hadst best beware the boundary. Oh thou too cruel and injurious thorn! What hast thou done to my poor innocent hand! Thou art like Theseus, thou dost make me bleed; Offenceless I, yet thou dost make me bleed. This scratch I shall remember well, my lord! Deceiver false! deserter! runaway! My quick-heeled slave! my loose ungrateful bird! Where'er thou art, or if thou hear or no, Know that thou art from this time given o'er, To tarry and return what time thou wilt. It is most like that thou dost lurk not far, In twilight of some envious cave or bower. Well, if thou dost—why—lurk thy heart's content. Poor rogue! thou art not worth this weariness. I will not flutter more, nor cry to thee. Since thou art fledged, and toppled from the nest, Go—pick thy crumbs where thou canst find them best.

Once more, once more, O yet again once more, Spent is my breath with fear and weariness! Vain toil it is to track this tangled wild— This rank o'ergrown imprisoned solitude— Whose very flowers are fetters in my way; Where I am chained about with vines and briers, Led blindfold on through mazes tenantless, And not a friendly echo answers me. Oh for a foot as airy as the wing Of the young brooding dove, to overpass, On swift commission of my true heart's love, All metes and bournes of this lone wilderness: So should I quickly find my truant lord. But, as it is, I can no farther go. What shall I do? despair? lie down and die? If I give o'er my search I shall despair, And if I do despair, I quickly die. Avaunt Despair! I will not yet despair. Begone, grim herald of oblivious Death! Strong-pinioned Hope, embrace thy wings about me; Shake not my fingers from thy golden chain. Oh still bear up and pity Ariadne! Alas! what hope have I but only Theseus, And Theseus is not here to pity me. Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Thou dost forget that thou hast called me wife, And with sweet influence of holy vows Grappled and grafted me unto thyself. Oh how shall I, not knowing where thou art, Be all myself—thou dost dissever me. Yonder I'll rest awhile, for now I see, Through meshes of the internetted leaves, A little plot, girt with a living wall; A sylvan chamber, that the frolic Pan Has built and bosomed with a leafy dome, And windowed with a narrow glimpse of heaven. Its floor, sky-litten with the noontide sun, Shows garniture of many colored flowers, More dainty than the broidered webs of Tyre; And all about, from beeches, oaks and pines, Recesses deep of vernal solitude, Come sounds of calm that woo my ruffled spirits To a resigned and quiet contemplation. Yond brook, that, like a child, runs wide astray, Sings and skips on, nor knows its loneliness; A squirrel chatters at a doorless nut: A hammer bird drums on his hollow bark; And bits of winged life, with aëry voices, Tinkle like fountains in a corridor. Fair haunt of peace, ye quiet cadences, Ye leafy caves of sadness and sweet sounds, That have no feeling nor a fellowship With the rash moods of terror and of pain, I did not think ye could, in such an hour, So steal from me, as in a sleep, a dream— What is't that comes between me and the light? Protect me, Jove! Lo, what untended flowers, That all night long, like little wakeful babes, Darkly repine, and weep themselves asleep, In the orient morning lift their pretty eyes, Tear smiling, to behold the sun their sire Enter the gilded chambers of the east— Strange droopingness! What quality of air? [Ariadne falls asleep.—Enter, the Dryads, as before.] 1st Dryad: Sprinkle out of flower bells Mortal sense entrapping spells; Make no sound On the ground; Strew and lap and lay around. Gnat nor snail Here assail, Beetle, slug, nor spider here, Now descend, Nor depend, Off from any thorny spear. 2d Dryad: So conclude. Whatever seems, We have her in a chain of dreams. 3d Dryad: As fair as foreign! Who is here In disarray of princely gear? Here were a lass whose royal port Might make an awe in Heaven's court; But sorrowing beauty testifies In tears that journey from her eyes, To touches of interior pain; And on her hand a sanguine stain. Hair unlooped and sandals torn, Zone unloosened from its bourne; Surely some wandering bride of Sorrow. 4th Dryad: So let her sleep, and bid good morrow. 1st Dryad: But, sisters, me it doth astound, What maid it is that we have bound, And Bacchus not, nor Ceres found. 2d Dryad: Bacchus has gone to Arcady; Where certain swains, that merry be, Have found a happy thunder stone, That Jove has cast the vale upon; So take occasion to be blest, And Bacchus was invited guest. His shaggy crew have helped the plan. Silenus made the pipes of Pan, The Satyrs teased the vines about, And Bacchus sent a lubber lout, Who lurked, and stole, ere wink of moon, The heedless Amalthea's horn. Now all are gone to Arcady, Head bent on rousing jollity. Now riot rout will be, anon, That shall the very sun aston, By waters whilst, and on the leas, Under the old fantastic trees. The oldest swain with longest cane, And sad experience in his brain, On such mad mirth shall fail to wink, And grimly go aside to think. 3d Dryad: But, cedar-cinctured sister, say, What news has winged our Queen away? 2d Dryad: Ceres has gone to see the feast Made by the King of all East; Who breasts a beard so black and fair; And breathes a wealth of gorgeous air, Now all divided with Gulnare— Whose odorous train came up from far, Last night, at shut of evening star, And filled, with pomp majestical, The gardens and the palace hall. So Ceres runs to give them aid, In likeness of an Indian maid— Presents them each a dove apiece, And wishes blessing and increase. 3d Dryad: Hark! hark! I hear her rolling car. Our Queen is not so very far. 4th Dryad: Now make your faces long, I ween Here comes our sweet majestic Queen.

Ceres: What! loose, and chatting here at play, All in the broad and staring day! Why children! this is something queer! 1st Dryad: But, mistress, see the sleeper here. Ceres: A fair excuse, I own, the sight! Theseus deserted her last night. 2d Dryad: How knew you that, my lady dear? Ceres: Well sought—for I was far from here: Whiles o'er the crisp Ionian main I shook the winnowed dragon rein— 3d Dryad: Invented error! Sister! fie! Our Queen has trapped you in a lie. 2d Dryad: A lie! Ceres A lie? 3d Dryad: Deceit forgets How Truth is always trailing nets. While you, sweet Empress, berry crowned, Were on the Ionian westward bound, Our sister puffed you towards the east, With words about a wedding feast. Ceres How thin a bubble blame may be! I sought for doves in Italy; But orient was my main intent, And on an Indian nuptial bent. 2d Dryad: Now honey-lips, the lie is where? 4th Dryad: She weeps— 2d Dryad: Fool fingered thing!— Ceres Forbear. Whiles o'er the crisp Ionian main I shook the winnowed dragon rein, A Triton clove the wake behind, And, with a hailing will, did wind Such parley through his crankled horn, As all the air was echo torn. I stayed—he told what did betide Of truant Theseus and his bride; Which having heard, I did repair Unto that subterranean lair Wherein the dreadful Sisters three Vex out the threads of destiny, But they were sorely overtasked; So techy, too, that when I asked If he could not be plagued for this Unloving piece of business, With knots and burs upon his thread, They would not speak, nor lift the head: Yet saw I how his flax did run Smoothly, and much is yet unspun. 4th Dryad: Sweet Queen, adieu—come, let's away, We keep no sunshine holiday. Ceres Stay, children, stay. Poor things! I do remember me, How I did seek Proserpiné. We must not leave her thus forlorn: Auroral grace in her is born, And, rarer else, the finest sense Of feeling and intelligence. Mortals of such ethereal grain Are quickened both for joy and pain; Theirs is the affluence of joy, And pain that sorely doth annoy. And, therefore, if we leave her thus, To find the truth of Theseus, She will, with such a madness burn, And do herself so sad a turn, As that the very thought erewhile, Will drive us all to quit the isle. 1st Dryad: Alack! O no! What must be done? Ceres Go, you, and you, and every one— To stay such heart distracting harm, Go, each bring flowers upon her arm: Pink, pansy, poppy, pimpernell, Acanthus, almond, asphodel. [The Dryads disperse and gather flowers with which they return to Ceres.] Ceres Now all join hands; [They join hands.] Fair fall the eyes Of any weary destinies! I bruise these flowers, and so set free Their virtue for adversity. Then, with my unguent finger tips, Touch twice and once on cheeks and lips. When this sweet influence comes to naught, Vexed she shall be, but not distraught. And now let music winnow thought: Bucolic sound of horn and flute, In distant echo nearly mute. Then louder borne, and swelling near, Make bolder murmur in her ear. 2d Dryad: See, see, what change is in her face: Ceres Break hands, the lady wakes apace. [Ceres and the Dryads loose hands and disappear.]

Ariadne: I dreamed a dream of sadness and the sea, And I will turn again, if yet I may, To where the rolling rondure of the deep Broadly affront the sky's infinity. Sleeping or waking, knew I naught but this; Sorrow and Love, above a desolate main, From the sheer battlements of opposite clouds, Kissed, and embraced, and parted company.... This is the self-same bay where we put in, Yonder the restless keel did gore the sand. There was the sailor's fire, and up and down, Are scattered mangled ropes, splinters, and spars, Fragments and shreds—but ship and all are gone. Here is my wreath. How brief, since yester eve, Then, when the sun, like an o'erthirsty god, Had stooped his brows behind the ocean brim, And the west wind, bearing his martial word, The limber-footed and the courier west, Went smoothly whist over the furrowed floor, To bid the night, then gazing up the sphere, Advance his constellated banners there, I leaned above the vessel's whispering prow, With an unusual joy, and drink, from out The heaven of those true repeated depths, Infinite calm, as though I did commune With the still spirit of the universe. So leaning, from my hair did I unwind This chain of flowers, and dropped it in the sea; Blessing that twilight hour, the port, the bay, The deep dim isle of interlunar woods, My love, and all the world, and naming them Waters of rest—now lies my garland here. What words are these thus furrowed on the shore? These are the very turns of Theseus' hand: If from thy hook the fish to water fall, Think not to catch that fish again at all. Too well my thought unlocks these cruel lines. Oh drench of grief! I thank ye, piteous powers, Who sent not this without forewarning drops. Oh miserable me! distressful me! Despised, disdained, deserted, desolate: Oh world of dew! Oh morning water drops! Lack-lustre, irksome, dull mortality! Oh now, oh now, that heaven all is black, Wherein the rainbow of my joy did stand! Oh love! oh life! oh life entire in love! All lost, all gone, or just so little left As is not worth the care to throw away! All lost, all gone, wrecked, rifted, sunk, devoured: Wrecked with false lights on Theseus' rocky heart! Oh man, perverse, dry-eyed, untender man, Enchanting man, so sleek so serpent-cold! Was it for this that thou didst swear to me, By all the gods in the three worlds at once, That thou didst love distractedly, and I, With certain tender and ingenuous tears, Did presently confess to thee as much? Was it for this, that I, who had a home, Like an Elysium in the lap of Crete, Did beckon buffets, and, for thee, did dare The rough unknown and outside of the world? Was it for this that thou didst hither bring me, Unto this isle of thorny loneliness, And, in the night, without foreargued cause, Any aggrievance, any allegation, Didst, like a coward traitor, run from me? Thou man of snow! thou art assailed by this— Be sure of it—thou art begrimed as black As if thou hadst been hanged a thousand years Under the murky cope of Pluto's den. Oh agony! but thou shalt know my soul, Which gropes for daggers at the thought of this. Yea, from the day-beams of adoring love, Goes headlong to as vast a reprobation. Thou, Theseus, wast a cloud, and I a cloud, Quickened from thee with such pervading flame, As that thou canst not now so part from me Without the fiery iterance of my heart. Hear, hear me, love, who on the swathèd tops Of ribbed Olympus, and thy steadfast throne, Dost sit the sùpreme judge of gods and men, And bear within thy palm the living bolt, High o'er the soilèd air of this wan world; Look on yon helot wretch, and, wheresoe'er, Coursing what sea, or cabled in what port, The greatness of thine eye may light on him, Crush him with thunder! Thou, too, great Neptune of the lower deeps, Heave thy wet head up from the monstrous sea; Advance thy trident high as to the clouds, And with a not to be repeated blow, Dash the sin-freighted ship of that rash man! And thou, old iron-sceptred Eolus, Shatter the bars of thine enclosed winds; Unhinge the doors of thy great kennel house, And 'twixt the azure and the roaring deep Cry out thy whole inflated Strongyle— Cry ruin on that man! But wherefore, thus, Do I invoke the speedy desolation Of any mighty magisterial soul, Whose will is weaponed with the elements! For oh— Let the great spies of Jove, the sun and moon, The stars, and all the expeditious orbs That in their motions are retributive, Look blindly on, and seem to take no note Of any deep and deadly stab of sin— Let vengeance gorge a gross Cerberean sop, Grovel and snore in swinish sluggardness, Yea, quite forget his dagger and his cup— It is enough, for any retribution, That guilt retain remembrance of itself. Guilt is a thing, however bolstered up, That the great scale-adjusting Nemesis, And Furies iron-eyed, will not let sleep. Sail on unscarred—thou canst not sail so far, But that the gorgon lash of vipers fanged Shall scourge this howler home to thee again. Yes, yes, rash man, Jove and myself do know That from this wrong shall rouse an Anteros, Fierce as an Atë, with a hot right hand, That shall afflict thee with the touch of fire, Till, scorpion-like, thou turn and sting thyself. What dost thou think—that I shall perish here, Gnawed by the tooth of hungry savageness? Think what thou list, and go what way thou wilt. I, that have truth and heaven on my side, Though but a weak and solitary woman, Forecast no fear of any violence— But thou, false hound! thou would'st not dare come back, Thou would'st not like to feel my eyes again. Go get thee on, to Argos get thee on; And let thy ransomed Athens run to thee, With portal arms, wide open to her heart— To stifling hug thee with triumphant joy. Thou canst not wear such bays, thou canst not so O'erpeer the ancient and bald heads of honor, That I would have the back or follow thee. Let nothing but thy shadow follow thee; Thy shadow is to thee a curse enough; For thou hast done a murder on thyself. Thou hast put on the Nessus' fiery hide. Thou hast stepped in the labyrinths of woe, And in thy fingers caught the clue to Death. What solace have the gods for such as thou, That is not stabbed by this one thrust through me? From this black hour, this curse anointing hour, The currents of thy heart are all corrupt; The motions of thy thoughts are serpentine; And thy death-doing and bedabbled soul Is maculate with spots of Erebus. Aye me!—and yet—Oh that I should say so! Thou wast a noble scroll of Beauty's pen, Where every turn was grandly charactered. Hadst thou a heart—but thou hadst no such thing— And having none, it was not thee I loved; Only my maiden thoughts were perfect, Theseus. O no, no, no, I never did love thee, Thou outside shell and carcase of a man. And I—what was it thou didst take me for? A paroquet of painted shallowness? A silly thing to whistle to and fro, And peck at plums, and then be whistled off? Oh, Theseus, Theseus, thou didst never know me— In this unworthy clasp of woman's mould, This poor outside of pliant prettiness, There was a heart and in that heart a love, And in that love there was an affluence Full as the ocean, infinite as time, Deep as the spring that never knew an ebb. Too truly feeling what I left for thee, And with what joy I left it all for thee, And how I would have only followed thee, With soul, mind, purpose, to the far world's end, I cannot think on thee as thou deservest, But scorn is drownéd in a well of tears; I will go sit and weep.—