So when the men of Cyme heard the answer, They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant, But Aristodicus, loved of the city, Withstood their will,--and thus to them spake he.

"Your messengers have lied--they have made merry In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo; The G.o.d in Branch[)i]dae had never counselled That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.

"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing, Will seek the G.o.d, and bring you back his answer, _I_ would not yield the man who trusted Cyme-- What--is the G.o.d of baser stuff than I?"

So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens, A second time to Branch[)i]dae they journeyed, A second time beneath the purple shadows Pa.s.sed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.

Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cyme Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia-- And she demands him, but we dare not yield him, Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.

"Our arm is weak against the power of Persia, The foe is strong, and our defences slender; Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."

So the Cymean spake. Apollo answered: "Yield ye your suppliant--yield him to the Persians".

Then Aristodicus bethought him further, And in this fashion craftily he wrought.

All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies Of carven work made by man's love and labour, In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded, The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.

And all day long their floating wings made beauty About the temple and the whispering laurels, And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur, Rose in sweet chorus to the great G.o.d's ears.

Now round the temple went the men of Cyme, Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows, And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.

The sunlight died, and all the sky grew gray.

Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide, And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened, And, in the heart of every man beholding, The anger of the immortal G.o.ds made night.

Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple Came forth a voice more beautiful than music, More terrible than thunder and wild waters, And more to be desired than summer sun.

"O thou most impious of all impious mortals, Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple, And torn away the homes of those who trust me, Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"

Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered: "Lord, is it thus _thy_ suppliants are succoured, What time thy Oracle bids men of Cyme To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"

Then on the hush of awful expectation Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals, Broke the G.o.d's voice, unspeakably melodious With all the song and sorrow of the world:--

"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning Against the G.o.ds ye may the sooner perish-- And come no more to question at my temple Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"

AT THE PRIVATE VIEW.

Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say?

The crowd says it will make my name-- A name I'd gladly throw away For a certain unseen star's pure ray.

I want success I've missed--not fame.

You see the mother kneeling there, The child who cries for bread in vain.

The hard straw bed, the window bare, The rags, the rat, the broken chair, The misery and cold and pain.

But what you don't see--(never will!)-- Is what was there while yet I drew The lines--which are not drawn so ill, Put on the colours--worthy still Of praise from critics such as you.

I used to paint all day, to pour My soul out as I painted--see There, to the life, the rotten floor, The rags, the damp, the broken door, For those your world will honour me.

But, though if here my models were, You should not find a line drawn wrong, Yet there is food for my despair, But half my picture's finished fair; Words without music are not song.

Sometimes I almost caught the tune, Then changing lights across the sky, Turned gray morn to red afternoon, I had to drop my brush too soon, Lay the transfigured _palette_ by.

That woman did not kneel on there, When once my back was turned, I know, She used to leave the broken chair And show her face and its despair: Oh--if I could have seen her so!

About her neck child-arms clung close, Close to her heart the child-heart crept, My room could tell you--if it chose.

There was a picture, then--G.o.d knows!

And I--who might have painted--slept.

Then when birds bade the world prepare For dawn--ere yet the East grew wan, She stepped back to the canvas there, Wearing the look she will not wear When eyes like yours and mine look on.

And when the mother kneeled once more, While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint, The child's white face the one look bore, Which to my eyes it never wore, Which I would give my soul to paint.

Hung, as you see--upon the line-- But when I laid the varnish on And left my two--Fate laughed, malign, "Farewell to that last hope of thine, Thy chance of painting them is gone!"

A DIRGE IN GRAY.

Larranagas! Thank you, thank you!

Not a knife. I never use one-- I've the right thing on my watch-chain Which some fool or other gave me-- Takes the end off in a second-- Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.

See! The soft wreath upward curling, Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows; Blue as skies in mild October; Vague, elusive as delight is.

Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to When they're looked at by a dreamer!

Waves that moan--cold, gray, and curling, On a sh.o.r.e where gray rocks break them; Skies where gray and blue are blended As our life blends joy and sorrow.

Angel wings, and smoke of battles, Lines of beauty, curved perfection!

Half-shut eyes see many marvels; Gazed at through one's half-closed lashes Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny-- Beckoning hands and warning fingers-- But the gray cloud always somehow Ends by looking like a woman.

Like a woman tall and slender, Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight, Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.

Through my half-shut eyes I see her-- Through my half-dead life am conscious Of her pure, perpetual presence.

Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly Till they make a level landscape, Toneless, dull, and very rainy-- And an open grave--I saw it.

Through the rain I heard the falling Of the tears the heart sheds inly.

Oh, I saw it! I remember Leafless branches, dripping, dripping, Through a chill not born of Autumn.

To that grave tends all my dreaming-- Oh, I saw it, I remember ...

By that grave all dreaming ended!

THE WOMAN'S WORLD.