MR. LEWIS MORRIS.

I.

SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. With Portrait. Eleventh Edition, price 5s.

II.

THE EPIC OF HADES. With an Autotype Illustration, Nineteenth Edition, price 5s.

III.

GWEN and THE ODE OF LIFE. With Frontispiece. Sixth Edition, price 5s.

THE EPIC OF HADES. Third Illustrated Edition. With Sixteen Autotype Plates after the Drawings by the late George R. Chapman, 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, price 21s.

THE EPIC OF HADES. The Presentation Edition. 4to, cloth extra, price 10s. 6d.

SONGS UNSUNG. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 6s.

*** For Notices of the Press, see end of this Volume.

London: Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.

THE POETICAL WORKS OF LEWIS MORRIS

VOLUME TWO

THE EPIC OF HADES

LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1885

Then with wings Of gold we soared, I looking in his eyes Over yon dark broad river, and this dim land.

Page 228.

THE EPIC OF HADES

IN THREE BOOKS

BY

LEWIS MORRIS

M.A.; HONORARY FELLOW OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXFORD KNIGHT OF THE REDEEMER OF GREECE, ETC., ETC.

"DIFFICILE EST PROPRIE COMMUNIA DICERE"

NINETEENTH EDITION.

LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1885

"The three excellences of Poetry: simplicity of language, simplicity of subject, and simplicity of invention"—The Welsh Triads.

(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.)

TO ALL WHO LOVE THE LITERATURE OF GREECE THIS POEM IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.

BOOK I. TARTARUS.

[3]

THE EPIC OF HADES.

In February, when the dawn was slow, And winds lay still, I gazed upon the fields Which stretched before me, lifeless, and the stream Which laboured in the distance to the sea, Sullen and cold. No force of fancy took My thought to bloomy June, when all the land Lay deep in crested grass, and through the dew The landrail brushed, and the lush banks were set With strawberries, and the hot noise of bees[4] Lulled the bright flowers. Rather I seemed to move Thro' that weird land, Hellenic fancy feigned, Beyond the fabled river and the bark Of Charon; and forthwith on every side Rose the thin throng of ghosts.

First thro' the gloom Of a dark grove I strayed—a sluggish wood, Where scarce the faint fires of the setting stars, Or some cold gleam of half-discovered dawn, Might pierce the darkling pines. A twilight drear Brooded o'er all the depths, and filled the dank And sunken hollows of the rocks with shapes Of terror,—beckoning hands and noiseless feet Flitting from shade to shade, wide eyes that stared With horror, and dumb mouths which seemed to cry, Yet cried not. An ineffable despair Hung over them and that dark world and took The gazer captive, and a mingled pang[5] Of grief and anger, grown to fierce revolt And hatred of the Invisible Force which holds The issue of our lives and binds us fast Within the net of Fate; as the fisher takes The little quivering sea-things from the sea And flings them gasping on the beach to die Then spreads his net for more. And then again I knew myself and those, creatures who lie Safe in the strong grasp of Unchanging Law, Encompassed round by hands unseen, and chains Which do support the feeble life that else

Were spent on barren space; and thus I came To look with less of horror, more of thought, And bore to see the sight of pain that yet Should grow to healing, when the concrete stain Of life and act were purged, and the cleansed soul, Renewed by the slow wear and waste of time, Soared after æons of days.[6]

They seemed alone, Those prisoners, thro' all time. Each soul shut fast In its own jail of woe, apart, alone, For evermore alone; no thought of kin, Or kindly human glance, or fellowship Of suffering or of sin, made light the load Of solitary pain. Ay, though they walked Together, or were prisoned in one cell With the partners of their wrong, or with strange souls Which the same Furies tore, they knew them not, But suffered still alone; as in that shape Of hell fools build on earth, where hopeless sin Rots slow in solitude, nor sees the face Of men, nor hears the sound of speech, nor feels The touch of human hand, but broods a ghost, Hating the bare blank cell—the other self, Which brought it thither—hating man and God, And all that is or has been[7].

A great fear And pity froze my blood, who seemed to see A half-remembered form.

An Eastern King It was who lay in pain. He wore a crown Upon his aching brow, and his white robe Was jewelled with fair gems of price, the signs Of pomp and honour and all luxury, Which might prevent desire. But as I looked There came a hunger in the gloating eyes,[8] A quenchless thirst upon the parching lips, And such unsatisfied strainings in the hands Stretched idly forth on what I could not see, Some fatal food of fancy; that I knew The undying worm of sense, which frets and gnaws The unsatisfied stained soul.

Seeing me, he said: "What? And art thou too damned as I? Dost know This thirst as I, and see as I the cool Lymph drawn from thee and mock thy lips; and parch For ever in continual thirst; and mark The fair fruit offered to thy hunger fade Before thy longing eyes? I thought there was No other as I thro' all the weary lengths Of Time the gods have made, who pined so long And found fruition mock him.

Long ago, When I was young on earth, 'twas a sweet pain[9] To ride all day in the long chase, and feel Toil and the summer fire my blood and parch My lips, while in my father's halls I knew The cool bath waited, with its marble floor; And juices from the ripe fruits pressed, and chilled With snows from far-off peaks; and troops of slaves; And music and the dance; and fair young forms. And dalliance, and every joy of sense, That haunts the dreams of youth, which strength and ease Corrupt, and vacant hours. Ay, it was sweet For a while to plunge in these, as fair boys plunge Naked in summer streams, all veil of shame Laid by, only the young dear body bathed And sunk in its delight, while the firm earth, The soft green pastures gay with innocent flowers, Or sober harvest fields, show like a dream; And nought is left, but the young life which floats Upon the depths of death, to sink, maybe,[10] And drown in pleasure, or rise at length grown wise And gain the abandoned shore.

Ah, but at last The swift desire waxed stronger and more strong, And feeding on itself, grows tyrannous; And the parched soul no longer finds delight In the cool stream of old; nay, this itself, Smitten by the fire of sense as by a flame, Holds not its coolness more; and fevered limbs, Seeking the fresh tides of their youth, may find No more refreshment, but a cauldron fired With the fires of nether hell; and a black rage Usurps the soul, and drives it on to slake Its thirst with crime and blood.

Longing Desire! Unsatisfied, sick, impotent Desire! Oh, I have known it ages long. I knew Its pain on earth ere yet my life had grown[11] To its full stature, thro' the weary years Of manhood, nay, in age itself; I knew The quenchless weary thirst, unsatisfied By all the charms of sense, by wealth and power And homage; always craving, never quenched— The undying curse of the soul! The ministers And agents of my will drave far and wide Through all the land for me, seeking to find Fresh pleasures for me, who had spent my sum Of pleasure, and had power, not even in thought, Nor faculty to enjoy. They tore apart The sacred claustral doors of home for me, Defiled the inviolate hearth for me, laid waste The flower of humble lives, in hope to heal The sickly fancies of the king, till rose A cry of pain from all the land; and I Grew happier for it, since I held the power To quench desire in blood.[12]

But even thus The old pain faded not, but swift again Revived; and thro' the sensual dull lengths Of my seraglios I stalked, and marked The glitter of the gems, the precious webs Plundered from every clime by cruel wars That strewed the sands with corpses; lovely eyes That looked no look of love, and fired no more Thoughts of the flesh; rich meats, and fruits, and wines Grown flat and savourless; and loathed them all, And only cared for power; content to shed Rivers of innocent blood, if only thus I might appease my thirst. Until I grew A monster gloating over blood and pain.

Ah, weary, weary days, when every sense Was satisfied, and nothing left to slake The parched unhappy soul, except to watch[13] The writhing limbs and mark the slow blood drip, Drop after drop, as the life ebbed with it; In a new thrill of lust, till blood itself Palled on me, and I knew the fiend I was, Yet cared not—I who was, brief years ago, Only a careless boy lapt round with ease, Stretched by the soft and stealing tide of sense Which now grew red; nor ever dreamed at all What Furies lurked beneath it, but had shrunk In indolent horror from the sight of tears And misery, and felt my inmost soul Sicken with the thought of blood. There comes a time When the insatiate brute within the man, Weary with wallowing in the mire, leaps forth Devouring, and the cloven satyr-hoof Grows to the rending claw, and the lewd leer To the horrible fanged snarl, and the soul sinks And leaves the man a devil, all his sin[14] Grown savourless, and yet he longs to sin And longs in vain for ever.

Yet, methinks, It was not for the gods to leave me thus. I stinted not their worship, building shrines To all of them; the Goddess of Love I served With hecatombs, letting the fragrant fumes Of incense and the costly steam ascend From victims year by year; nay, my own son Pelops, my best beloved, I gave to them Offering, as he must offer who would gain The great gods' grace, my dearest.

I had gained Through long and weary orgies that strange sense Of nothingness and wasted days which blights The exhausted life, bearing upon its front Counterfeit knowledge, when the bitter ash Of Evil, which the sick soul loathes, appears[15] Like the pure fruit of Wisdom. I had grown As wizards seem, who mingle sensual rites And forms impure with murderous spells and dark Enchantments; till the simple people held My very weakness wisdom, and believed That in my blood-stained palace-halls, withdrawn, I kept the inner mysteries of Zeus And knew the secret of all Being; who was A sick and impotent wretch, so sick, so tired, That even bloodshed palled.

For my stained soul, Knowing its sin, hastened to purge itself With every rite and charm which the dark lore Of priestcraft offered to it. Spells obscene, The blood of innocent babes, sorceries foul Muttered at midnight—these could occupy My weary days; till all my people shrank To see me, and the mother clasped her child[16] Who heard the monster pass.

They would not hear. They listened not—the cold ungrateful gods— For all my supplications; nay, the more I sought them were they hidden.

At the last A dark voice whispered nightly: 'Thou, poor wretch, That art so sick and impotent, thyself The source of all thy misery, the great gods Ask a more precious gift and excellent Than alien victims which thou prizest not And givest without a pang. But shouldst thou take Thy costliest and fairest offering, 'Twere otherwise. The life which thou hast given Thou mayst recall. Go, offer at the shrine Thy best belovèd Pelops, and appease Zeus and the averted gods, and know again The youth and joy of yore.'[17]

Night after night, While all the halls were still, and the cold stars Were fading into dawn, I lay awake Distraught with warring thoughts, my throbbing brain Filled with that dreadful voice. I had not shrunk From blood, but this, the strong son of my youth— How should I dare this thing? And all day long I would steal from sight of him and men, and fight Against the dreadful thought, until the voice Seared all my burning brain, and clamoured, 'Kill! Zeus bids thee, and be happy.' Then I rose At midnight, when the halls were still, and raised The arras, and stole soft to where my son Lay sleeping. For one moment on his face And stalwart limbs I gazed, and marked the rise And fall of his young breast, and the soft plume Which drooped upon his brow, and felt a thrill Of yearning; but the cold voice urging me[18] Burned me like fire. Three times I gazed and turned Irresolute, till last it thundered at me, 'Strike, fool! thou art in hell; strike, fool! and lose The burden of thy chains.' Then with slow step I crept as creeps the tiger on the deer,

Raised high my arm, shut close my eyes, and plunged My dagger in his heart.

And then, with a flash, The veil fell downward from my life and left Myself to me—the daily sum of sense— The long continual trouble of desire— The stain of blood blotting the stain of lust— The weary foulness of my days, which wrecked My heart and brain, and left me at the last A madman and accursèd; and I knew, Far higher than the sensual slope which held The gods whom erst I worshipped, a white peak Of Purity, and a stern voice pealing doom[19]— Not the mad voice of old—which pierced so deep Within my life, that with the reeking blade Wet with the heart's blood of my child I smote My guilty heart in twain.

Ah! fool, to dream That the long stain of time might fade and merge In one poor chrism of blood. They taught of yore, My priests who flattered me—nor knew at all The greater God I know, who sits afar Beyond those earthly shapes, passionless, pure, And awful as the Dawn—that the gods cared For costly victims, drinking in the steam Of sacrifice when the choice hecatombs Were offered for my wrong. Ah no! there is No recompense in these, nor any charm To cleanse the stain of sin, but the long wear Of suffering, when the soul which seized too much Of pleasure here, grows righteous by the pain[20] That doth redress its ill. For what is Right But equipoise of Nature, alternating The Too Much and Too Little? Not on earth The salutary silent forces work Their final victory, but year on year Passes, and age on age, and leaves the debt Unsatisfied, while the o'erburdened soul Unloads itself in pain.

Therefore it is I suffer as I suffered ere swift death Set me not free, no otherwise; and yet There comes a healing purpose in my pain I never knew on earth; nor ever here The once-loved evil grows, only the tale Of penalties grown greater hourly dwarfs The accomplished sum of wrong. And yet desire Pursues me still—sick, impotent desire, Fiercer than that of earth.[21]

We are ourselves Our heaven and hell, the joy, the penalty, The yearning, the fruition. Earth is hell Or heaven, and yet not only earth; but still, After the swift soul leaves the gates of death, The pain grows deeper and less mixed, the joy Purer and less alloyed, and we are damned Or blest, as we have lived."

He ceased, with a wail Like some complaining wind among the pines Or pent among the fretful ocean caves, A sick, sad sound.

Then as I looked, I saw His eyes glare horribly, his dry parched lips Open, his weary hands stretch idly forth As if to clutch the air—infinite pain And mockery of hope. "Seest thou them now?" He said. "I thirst, I parch, I famish, yet[22] They still elude me, fair and tempting fruit And cooling waters. Now they come again. See, they are in my grasp, they are at my lips, Now I shall quench me. Nay, again they fly And mock me. Seest thou them, or am I shut From hope for ever, hungering, thirsting still, A madman and in Hell?"

And as I passed In horror, his large eyes and straining hands Froze all my soul with pity[23].

Then it was A woman whom I saw: a dark pale Queen, With passion in her eyes, and fear and pain Holding her steadfast gaze, like one who sees Some dreadful deed of wrong worked out and knows Himself the cause, yet now is powerless To stay the wrong he would.

Seeing me gaze In pity on her woe, she turned and spake With a low wailing voice—

"Thou well mayst gaze With horror on me, sir, for I am lost; I have shed the innocent blood, long years ago, Nay, centuries of pain. I have shed the blood Of him I loved, and found for recompense[24] But self-inflicted death and age-long woe, Which purges not my sin. And yet not I It was who did it, but the gods, who took A woman's loveless heart and tortured it With love as with a fire. It was not I Who slew my love, but Fate. Fate 'twas which brought My love and me together, Fate which barred The path of blameless love, yet set Love's flame To burn and smoulder in a hopeless heart, Where no relief might come.

The King was old, And I a girl. 'Tis an old tale which runs Thro' the sad ages, and 'twas mine. He had spent His sum of love long since, and I—I knew not A breath of Love as yet. Ah, it is strange To lose the sense of maidenhood, drink deep Of life to the very dregs, and yet not know A flutter of Love's wing. Love takes no thought[25] For pomp, or palace, or respect of men; Nor always in the stately marriage bed, Closed round by silken curtains, laid on down, Nestles a rosy form; but 'mid wild flowers Or desert tents, or in the hind's low cot, Beneath the aspect of the unconscious stars, Dwells all night and is blest.

My love, my life! He was the old man's son, a fair white soul— Not like the others, whom the fire of youth Burns like a flame and hurries unrestrained Thro' riotous days and nights, but virginal And pure as any maid. No wandering glance He deigned for all the maidens young and fair Who sought their Prince's eye. But evermore, Upon the high lawns wandering alone, He dwelt unwed; weaving to Artemis, Fairest of all Olympian maids, a wreath[26] From the unpolluted meads, where never herd Drives his white flock, nor ever scythe has come, But the bee sails upon unfettered wing Over the spring-like lawns, and Purity Waters them with soft dews;[1] and yet he showed Of all his peers most manly—heart and soul A very man, tender and true, and strong And pitiful, and in his limbs and mien Fair as Apollo's self.

It was at first In Trœzen that I saw him, when he came To greet his sire. Amid the crowd of youths He showed a Prince indeed; yet knew I not Whom 'twas I saw, nor that I held the place Which was his mother's, only from the throng Love, with a barbed dart aiming, pierced my heart Ere yet I knew what ailed me. Every glance[27] Fired me; the youthful grace, the tall straight limbs, The swelling sinewy arms, the large dark eyes Tender yet full of passion, the thick locks Tossed from his brow, the lip and cheek which bore The down of early manhood, seemed to feed My heart with short-lived joy.

For when he stood Forth from the throng and knelt before his sire, Then raised his eyes to mine, I felt the curse Of Aphrodité burn me, as it burned My mother before me, and I dared not meet His innocent, frank young eyes.

Said I then young? Ay, but not young as mine. For I had known The secret things of life, which age the soul In a moment, writing on its front their mark 'Too early ripe;' and he was innocent, My spouse in fitted years, within whose arms[28] I had defied the world.

I turned away Like some white bird that leaves the flock, which sails High in mid air above the haunts of men, Feeling some little dart within her breast, Not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks Down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt Unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool, And pines until the end.

Even from that day I strove to gain his love. Nay, 'twas not I, But the cruel gods who drove me. Day by day We were together; for in days of old Women were free, not pent in gilded jails As afterwards, but free to walk alone, For good or evil, free. I hardly took Thought for my spouse, the King. For I had found My love at last: what matter if it were[29] A guilty love? Yet love is love indeed, Stronger than heaven or hell. Day after day I set myself to tempt him from his proud And innocent way, for I had spurned aside Care for the gods or men—all but my love.