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THE STEADFAST PRINCE.

PART II.

I.
What man shall say that he the deepest deep
Has reached, whereto misfortune may him bring?
That never from her fatal urn may leap
A lot inscribed with heavier suffering
Than that he knows? that now of everything
Which sweetens life, his life is stript so bare,
That worse with him henceforth it cannot fare?

II.

Not he, who had been hurled with impulse rude

Down from the honourable high estate
Wherein observed and reverenced once he stood;
He yet must be misfortune’s trustier mate—
Must lie exposed to keener shafts of fate:
He, knowing much of ill, must find that more,
Bitterer and sharper, is for him in store.

III.

For now his foes, by malice partly moved,

Because they saw it solaced him to share
All griefs and labours which the others proved;
And how that all, though oft they threatened were,
And punished for their deed, yet still would bear
To him all reverence and respect, and bring
Homage to him as to a crownèd king;—

IV.

And partly, for they dreaded lest his frame,

Which had been ever tender, weak, and frail,
And evidently weaker now became
With each succeeding day should wholly fail
With each succeeding day, should wholly fail,
Nor longer to sustain itself avail;—
Lest it should sink beneath its cruel toil,
And them of all their promised gain despoil,—

V.

They now denied him the sad liberty

To share whatever pains the others knew:
Shut in a narrow dungeon must he lie,
Shut from their fellowship and service true;
There he his resolution high may rue,
If ever ruth on high and noble deeds,
Whatever consequence they bring, succeeds.

VI.

Oh dreary months! months growing into years,

Which o’er their heads, bringing no respite, past;
And they must mingle still their drink with tears,
While fell upon them thicker and more fast
The shafts of anguish;—yet for him at last,
The noblest sufferer of this suffering band,
The hour of his deliverance was at hand.

VII.

For once, when they as usual passed before

His vault, and softly called him, no reply
Might they obtain;—but listening at the door,
They only heard him breathing heavily,
And caught at intervals a long-drawn sigh;
Till, more times called, he faintly did desire
Who called to know, and what they might require.
 VIII.

—“Oh! fares it, dearest lord, so ill with thee,

That now thou dost no more our voices know,
Who once could’st tell us each from each, if we
Did but so much as near thy dungeon go,
Bound on our weary errands to and fro?”
—“Oh, pardon me, my friends,—my extreme pain
Hath robbed me of all sense and dulled my brain.

IX.

“But go and say in what an evil case

I find me now;—perchance they will relent
So far that I may in this noisome place,
For my short time remaining, not be pent;
Or at my prayer they will at least consent
That one of you may now continue nigh,
And watch beside me—for, dear friends, I die.”

X.

To the king’s presence straight they forced their way,

Regardless of what dangers they might meet:
Before him prone upon the earth they lay;
They kissed the very ground beneath his feet,
Laying the dust with tears, and did entreat
In anguish that their lord might not be left
Unhelped to perish, of all aid bereft.

XI.

But little might they find of pity there;

New insults and new taunts were all they won;
New insults and new taunts were all they won;
These, with rude blows, their only answer were:
—“Back to your tasks, ye Christian dogs—begone—
Away! from me compassion finds he none:
Let him upon himself compassion show;
I swear, by Heaven, he shall no other know!

XII.

“What! shall ye come in arms to waste our land,

God’s people to extirpate shall ye come,
And then, when it fares ill with you, demand
Our pity?—no; accept your righteous doom,
O fools! that in your own land had not room
To dwell—that had not strength to conquer ours;
Fools, whose desires so far outstrip your powers!

XIII.

“Where are they now, that with the fire and sword
Our land to harry were so free of old?
Can they no pity to your Prince afford?
Where is your King, and where your captains bold?
Or has it not in Portugal been told
What here is done, and what by him is borne
Of shame and outrage, and of extreme scorn?”

XIV.

It seemed that for those votaries of Mahound

All love, all mercy quite had fled away;
Yet in one heart this much of grace they found,
That when their tasks were ended of the day,
He who the dungeon where the sufferer lay
Kept, unto them consented to afford
A brief communion with their dying lord.

XV.

Admitted there, from cries and loud lament,

Untimely now, they scarcely could refrain:
Fain would they with their shrieks the vault have rent;
They knelt beside him,—kissed his hands, the chain
That on his wasted limbs did still remain;
They cast themselves the dungeon-floor along,
And tore their beards, and did their faces wrong.

XVI.

Sobs choked their utterance wholly, to behold

The lineaments so marred and so defaced,
Which they had loved and reverenced so of old.
He too was deeply moved, but sooner chased
The weakness from him, and with calm replaced:
Then from the strawen pallet where he lay
Himself a little raising, thus did say:—

XVII.

“If I sometimes an earnest hope have fed,

That I might breathe again my native air,
And tread my natal soil—this wish was bred
By the desire I cherished to prepare
For you such honourable shelter there,
As could none other do, who did not know
How truly you have served me in my woe.

XVIII.
“For had I sate a king upon my throne,
All wealth, all honour waiting on mine eye,
You never could have truer service shown
Than you have shown me in my misery—
Nor I from any found more loyalty,
Than that which I have found upon your parts,
Oh children dear! oh true and faithful hearts!

XIX.

“And now that I am hastening to my rest,

One only thought of trouble doth employ
My soul, that I am leaving you opprest
With this huge weight of woe;—the perfect joy
My bosom feels, knows only this alloy,
That many, when my lips are closed in death,
Will seek to draw you from your holy faith.

XX.

“But oh! whatever of worst ill betide,

Seek not this manner to evade your woe.
Be true to God—on him in faith abide,
And sure deliverance you at length shall know;
It may be that some path his hand will show
To your dear earthly homes—or he will shape
For you at length my way of glad escape.

XXI.

“Be true to God—forsake not him, and you

In all your griefs forsake he never will;
The true of heart have found him ever true:
And this I say, who having known much ill,
D ffi hi f ithf l t f lfil
Do now affirm him faithful to fulfil
All promises—and boldly say that he
In all my griefs hath not forsaken me.”

XXII.

No more he spake—but speechless sank, oppressed

With the fierce fever that within him burned;
But oh! what anguish then the hearts possessed
Of that poor captive band, who weeping turned,
And their dear lord, as now departed, mourned,—
Forth filing from that vault, a weeping train
Who had beheld him now, and should not see again.

XXIII.

Now seemed they desolate—for he, although

Helpless his dearest to defend with power
From the least insult of the meanest foe,
Had seemed to them a shelter and a tower
Of refuge in affliction’s fiercest hour,
From his lone dungeon spreading broad above
Their heads the buckler of his faith and love.

XXIV.

And still the tears flowed faster from their eyes,

As each his fellow weeping did remind
Of all his loving gentle courtesies,
And gracious acts—how oft, as one that pined,
E’en ere that sickness took him, he declined
His scanty portion of the food prepared,
Which among them with this pretext he shared.
 XXV.

—“He knew our fetters’ clank, and with quick ear

One from another by that mournful sound
He could discern, nor ever passed we near
His dungeon, on our weary labour bound,
But he for us some words of comfort found,
And still he begged us pardon him, as though
Himself he owned the cause of all our woe.

XXVI.

“And what most grieved him, more than all he bore

In his own person of injurious wrong,
Piercing his very bosom’s inmost core,
Was, if the tale was brought him that among
Us, his dear children, there had strife upsprung,
As sometimes did—for grief is quick and wild,—
Then left he not, till we were reconciled.”

XXVII.

—Beside the Prince might only one remain

In that unlighted vault the livelong night:
Its earlier watches seemed of restless pain,
Nothing he spake—but tossed from left to right,
Like one who vainly did some ease invite;
Till when it verged toward morning, he that kept
That anxious vigil deemed the sufferer slept:

XXVIII.

Or sometimes feared he was already dead,

So noiseless now that chamber’s silence deep;
Yet ventured not to speak or stir for dread
Yet ventured not to speak or stir, for dread
Lest he should chase away that sweetest sleep
Of morning, which comes over them that keep
Pained watches through the night;—till tardily
The morning broke, and he drew gently nigh.

XXIX.

When lo! with folded palms the Martyr lay,

His eyes unclosed—and stood in each a tear,
And round his mouth a sweeter smile did play
Than ever might on mortal lips appear:
No mortal joy could ever have come near
The joy that bred that smile—with waking eye
He seemed to mark some vision streaming by.

XXX.

Then feared to rouse him from that blessèd trance,

And back again with noiseless step retired
That good old man—nor nearer would advance,
Though of his weal he gladly had required.
He waited, and a long long hour expired,
And it was silence still—when to his bed
Him beckoning soft, the princely sufferer said—

XXXI.

“What I shall speak, now promise that to none

Of all my fellow captives shall be told,
That not till this poor body shall have gone
The way of all the earth, thou wilt unfold
My words, yea evermore in silence hold,
Unless hereafter should a time betide,
When by the telling God were glorified.
 y g g

XXXII.

“Two hours or more before the spring of day,

As I within me mused how poor and leer
This world, and as in pain I waking lay,
Thought upon all the happy souls, that here
Once suffered, but are now exempt from fear
And pain and wrong, there woke within my breast
A speechless longing for that heavenly rest.

XXXIII.

“Mine eyes were steadfastly towàrd the wall

Turned, when I saw a wondrous vision there;
I saw a vision bright, majestical,
One seated on a throne—and many fair
And dazzling shapes before him gathered were,
With palms in hand—such glory from his face
Was shed, as lightened all this dismal place.

XXXIV.

“This dismal vault, this dungeon of deep gloom,

This sunless dwelling of eternal night,
Which I have felt so long my living tomb,
Showed like the court of heaven—so clear, so bright,
So full of odours, harmonies and light—
And music filled the air—an heavenly strain,
That rose awhile, and then was hushed again.

XXXV.

“Then one came forward from that blessed throng,

 Then one came forward from that blessed throng,
And kneeled to him, and said—‘Compassion take
On this thy servant, who has suffered long
Such great and heavy troubles for thy sake,
We thank thee, Lord, that thou so soon wilt make
Thy servant’s many woes to end, that he
Into our choir admitted now will be.’

XXXVI.

“When thus I heard him speak, I marked him well,

And by his banner and his scales, I knew
It was the great Archangel Michaël:
And by his side there knelt another too,
Who in one hand a chalice held in view,
The other clasped a book, and there was writ,
‘In the beginning was the Word,’ in it.

XXXVII.

“But then my Lord, my Saviour turned to me,

And with sweet smile ineffable he said,
‘To-day thou comest hence and shalt be free!’—
With music, as it came, then vanishèd
The vision—but within me it has bred
Sweet comfort that remains, and now I know
To-day I leave the world, and end my woe.

XXXVIII.

“My Lord, my God, what wondrous grace is this

That thou hast not disdained to visit me,
And give me tidings of my coming bliss—
Who am I, sinful man, so graced to be?
Oh gladly will I bear whate’er by thee
May be appointed, ere my race be run,
Of pain or travail—Lord, thy will be done.”

XXXIX.

In calmest quiet waiting his release,

When he had finished thus his prayer, he lay:
“Lord, now thou lettest me depart in peace,”
Were the last words which he was heard to say,
Upon his left side turning, as the day
Slow sinking now with more than usual pride
Streamed through the prison bars, a glory deep and wide.

XL.

When the last flush had faded from the west,

When the last streak of golden light was gone,
They looked, but he had entered on his rest—
He too his haven of repose had won,
Leaving this truth to be gainsaid by none,
That what the scroll upon his shield did say,
That well his life had proved—Le bien me plaît.
ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS.

I.
High on the poop, with many a godlike peer,
With heroes and with kings, the flower of Greece,
That gathered at his word from far and near,
To snatch the guarded fleece,

II.

Great Jason stood; nor ever from the soil

The anchor’s brazen tooth unfastenèd,
Till, auspicating so his glorious toil,
From golden cup he shed

III.

Libations to the Gods—to highest Jove—

To Waves and prospering Winds—to Night and Day—
To all, by whom befriended, they might prove
A favourable way.

IV.

With him the twins—one mortal, one divine—

Of Leda, and the Strength of Hercules;
And Tiphys, steersman through the perilous brine,
And many more with these:—

V.

Great father, Peleus, of a greater son,

And Atalanta, martial queen, was here;
And that supreme Athenian, nobler none,
And Idmon, holy seer.
 VI.

Nor Orpheus pass unnamed, though from the rest

Apart, he leaned upon that lyre divine,
Which once in heaven his glory should attest,
Set there a sacred sign.

VII.

But when auspicious thunders rolled on high,

Unto its chords and to his chant sublime
The joyful heroes, toiling manfully,
With measured strokes kept time.

VIII.

Then when that keel divided first the waves,

Them Chiron cheered from Pelion’s piny crown,
And wondering Sea-nymphs rose from ocean caves,
And all the Gods looked down.

IX.

The bark divine, itself instinct with life,

Went forth, and baffled Ocean’s rudest shocks,
Escaping, though with pain and arduous strife,
The huge encountering rocks;

X.

And force and fraud o’ercome, and peril past,

Its hard-won trophy raised in open view,
Through prosperous floods was bringing home at last
It hi h h i
 Its high heroic crew;

XI.

Till now they cried, (Ææa left behind,

And the dead waters of the Cronian main,)
“No peril more upon our path we find,
Safe haven soon we gain.”

XII.

When, as they spake, sweet sounds upon the breeze

Came to them, melodies till now unknown,
And blended into one delight with these,
Sweet odours sweetly blown,—

XIII.

Sweet odours wafted from the flowery isle,

Sweet music breathèd by the Sirens three,
Who there lie wait, all passers to beguile,
Fair monsters of the sea—

XIV.

Fair monsters foul, that with their magic song

And beauty to the shipman wandering,
Worse peril than disastrous whirlpools strong,
Or fierce sea-robbers bring.

XV.

Sometimes upon the diamond rocks they leant,

Sometimes they sate upon the flowery lea
 Sometimes they sate upon the flowery lea
That sloped towàrd the wave, and ever sent
Shrill music o’er the sea.

XVI.

One piped, one sang, one struck the golden lyre;

And thus to forge and fling a threefold chain
Of linkèd harmony the three conspire,
O’er land and hoary main.

XVII.

The winds, suspended by the charmèd song,

Shed treacherous calm about that fatal isle;
The waves, as though the halcyon o’er its young
Were brooding, always smile;

XVIII.

And every one that listens, presently

Forgetteth home, and wife, and children dear,
All noble enterprise and purpose high,
And turns his pinnace here,—

XIX.

He turns his pinnace, warning taking none

From the plain doom of all who went before,
Whose bones lie bleaching in the wind and sun,
And whiten all the shore.

XX.
He cannot heed,—so sweet unto him seems
To reap the harvest of the promised joy;
The wave-worn man of such secure rest dreams,
So guiltless of annoy.

XXI.

The heroes and the kings, the wise, the strong,

That won the fleece with cunning and with might,
Their souls were taken in the net of song,
Entangled in delight;

XXII.

Till ever loathlier seemed all toil to be,

And that small space they yet must travel o’er,
Stretched an immeasurable breadth of sea
Their fainting hearts before.

XXIII.

“Let us turn hitherward our bark,” they cried,

“And, ’mid the blisses of this happy isle,
Past toil forgetting and to come, abide
In joyfulness awhile;

XXIV.

“And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again,

If other tasks we yet are bound unto,
Combing the hoary tresses of the main
With sharp swift keel anew.”
 XXV.

O heroes, that had once a nobler aim,

O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line,
What will ye do, unmindful of your fame,
And of your race divine?

XXVI.

But they, by these prevailing voices now

Lured, evermore draw nearer to the land,
Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,
That strewed that fatal strand;

XXVII.

Or seeing, feared not—warning taking none

From the plain doom of all who went before,
Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,
And whitened all the shore.

XXVIII.

And some impel through foaming billows now

The hissing keel, and some tumultuous stand
Upon the deck, or crowd about the prow,
Waiting to leap to land.

XXIX.

And them had thus this lodestar of delight

Drawn to their ruin wholly, but for one
Of their own selves, who struck his lyre with might,
Calliope’s great son.
 XXX.

He singing, (for mere words were now in vain,

That melody so led all souls at will,)
Singing he played, and matched that earth-born strain
With music sweeter still.

XXXI.

Of holier joy he sang, more true delight,

In other happier isles for them reserved,
Who, faithful here, from constancy, and right,
And truth have never swerved;

XXXII.

How evermore the tempered ocean gales

Breathe round those hidden islands of the blest,
Steeped in the glory spread when daylight fails
Far in the sacred West;

XXXIII.

How unto them, beyond our mortal night,

Shines evermore in strength the golden day;
And meadows with purpureal roses bright
Bloom round their feet alway;

XXXIV.

And plants of gold—some burn beneath the sea,

And some, for garlands apt, the land doth bear,
A dl k t i b thi t
And lacks not many an incense-breathing tree,
Enriching all that air.

XXXV.

Nor need is more, with sullen strength of hand

To vex the stubborn earth, or plough the main;
They dwell apart, a calm heroic band,
Not tasting toil or pain.

XXXVI.

Nor sang he only of unfading bowers,

Where they a tearless, painless age fulfil,
In fields Elysian spending blissful hours,
Remote from every ill;

XXXVII.

But of pure gladness found in temperance high,

In duty owned, and reverenced in awe,
Of man’s true freedom, that may only lie
In servitude to law;

XXXVIII.

And how ’twas given through virtue to aspire

To golden seats in ever-calm abodes;
Of mortal men, admitted to the quire
Of high immortal Gods.

XXXIX.

He sang—a mighty melody divine

He sang—a mighty melody divine,
That woke deep echoes in the heart of each—
Reminded whence they drew their royal line,
And to what heights might reach.

XL.

And all the while they listened, them the speed

Bore forward still of favouring wind and tide,
That, when their ears were open to give heed
To any sound beside,

XLI.

The feeble echoes of that other lay,

Which held awhile their senses thralled and bound,
Were in the distance fading quite away,
A dull, unheeded sound.
 ST. CHRYSOSTOM.

’Tis not by action only, not by deed,

Though that be just and holy, pure and wise,
That man may to his last perfection rise;
Of suffering as of doing he has need:
Thus prospers with due change the heavenly seed,
While stormy night succeeds to sunny day;
Thus the good metal, proven every way,
From the last dross that clung to it is freed.
And thus for thee, O glorious man, on whom
Love well deserved, and honour waited long,
In thy last years in place of timely ease
There did remain another loftier doom,
Pain, travail, exile, peril, scorn and wrong—
Glorious before, but glorified through these.
THE OIL OF MERCY.
Many beauteous spots the earth
Keepeth yet,—but brighter, fairer
Did that long-lost Eden show
Than the loveliest that remaineth:
So what marvel, when our Sire
Was from thence expelled, he waited
Lingering with a fond regret
Round those blessèd happy places
Once his home, while innocence
Was his bright sufficient raiment?
Long he lingered there, and saw
Up from dark abysmal spaces
Four strong rivers rushing ever;
Saw the mighty wall exalted
High as heaven, and on its heights
Glimpses of the fiery Angel.

Long he lingered near, with hope

Which had never quite abated,
That one day the righteous sentence,
Dooming him to stern disgraces,
Should be disannulled, and he
In his first bliss reinstated.

But when mortal pangs surprised him,

By an unseen foe assailèd,
Seth he called, his dearest son,
Called him to his side, and faintly
Him addressed—“My son, thou knowest
Of what sufferings partaker,
Of what weariness and toil,
Of what sickness, pain and danger
I have been, since that sad hour
That from Eden’s precincts drave me.
But thou dost not know that God,
When to exile forth I farèd
When to exile forth I farèd,
Houseless wanderer through the world,
Thus with gracious speech bespake me:
—‘Though thou mayst not here continue,
In these blessèd happy places,
As before from pain exempt,
Suffering, toil, and mortal ailment,
Think not thou shalt therefore be
Of my loving care forsaken:
Rather shall that tree of life,
In the middle garden planted,
Once a precious balm distil,
Which to thee applied, thine ailments
Shall be all removed, and thou
Made of endless life partaker.’—
With these words he cheered me then,
Words that have remained engraven
On my bosom’s tablets since.
Go then, dear my son, oh hasten
Unto Eden’s guarded gate,
Tell thine errand to the Angel;
And that fiery sentinel
To the tree will guide thee safely,
Where it stands, aloft, alone,
In the garden’s middle spaces:
Thence bring back that oil of mercy,
Ere my lamp of life be wasted.”

When his father’s feeble words

Seth had heard, at once he hastened,
Hoping to bring back that oil,
Ere the light had wholly faded
From his father’s eyes, the lamp
Of his life had wholly wasted.
O’er the plain besprent with flowers,
With ten thousand colours painted
In that spring-time of the year
In that spring time of the year,
By Thelassar on he hastened,
Made no pause, till Eden’s wall
Rose an ever verdant barrier,
High as heaven’s great roof, that shines
With its bright carbuncles paven.
There the son of Adam paused,
For above him hung the Angel
In the middle air suspense,
With his swift sword glancing naked.
Down upon his face he fell
By the sun-bright vision dazèd.
“Child of man”—these words he heard,
“Rise, and say what thing thou cravest?”

All his father’s need he told,

And how now his father waited,
In his mighty agony
For that medicine yearning greatly.
“But thou seekest” (this reply
Then he heard) “thou seekest vainly
For that oil of mercy yet,
Nor will tears nor prayers avail thee.
Go then quickly back, and bring
These my words to him, thy parent,
Parent of the race of men.
He and they in faith and patience
Must abide, long years must be
Ere the precious fruit be gathered,
Ere the oil of mercy flow
From the blessèd tree and sacred
In the Paradise of God:
Nor till then will be obtainèd
The strong medicine of life,
Healing every mortal ailment,
Nor thy sire till then be made
Of immortal life a sharer.
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