But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flame For all that she had heard of his great fame, I know not; rather with some hidden dread Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead, And her false dream seemed coming true at last, For the clear sky of love seemed overcast With clouds of G.o.d's great judgments, and the fear Of hate and final parting drawing near.

So now when he before her throne did stand Amidst the throng as saviour of the land, And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise, And there before all her own love must praise; Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said, "See, how she sorrows for the newly dead!

Amidst our joy she needs must think of him; Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim And she shall wed again."

So pa.s.sed the year, While Ogier set himself the land to clear Of broken remnants of the heathen men, And at the last, when May-time came again, Must he be crowned King of the twice-saved land, And at the altar take the fair Queen's hand And wed her for his own. And now by this Had he forgotten clean the woe and bliss Of his old life, and still was he made glad As other men; and hopes and fears he had As others, and bethought him not at all Of what strange days upon him yet should fall When he should live and these again be dead.

Now drew the time round when he should be wed, And in his palace on his bed he lay Upon the dawning of the very day: 'Twixt sleep and waking was he, and could hear E'en at that hour, through the bright morn and clear, The hammering of the folk who toiled to make Some well-wrought stages for the pageant's sake, Though hardly yet the sparrows had begun To twitter o'er the coming of the sun, Nor through the palace did a creature move.

There in the sweet entanglement of love Midst languid thoughts of greater bliss he lay, Remembering no more of that other day Than the hot noon remembereth of the night, Than summer thinketh of the winter white.

In that sweet hour he heard a voice that cried, "Ogier, Ogier!" then, opening his eyes wide, And rising on his elbow, gazed around, And strange to him and empty was the sound Of his own name; "Whom callest thou?" he said.

"For I, the man who lies upon this bed, Am Charles of France, and shall be King to-day, But in a year that now is past away The Ancient Knight they called me: who is this, Thou callest Ogier, then, what deeds are his?

And who art thou?" But at that word a sigh, As of one grieved, came from some place anigh His bed-side, and a soft voice spake again, "This Ogier once was great amongst great men; To Italy a helpless hostage led; He saved the King when the false Lombard fled, Bore forth the Oriflamme and gained the day; Charlot he brought back, whom men led away, And fought a day-long fight with Caraheu.

The ravager of Rome his right hand slew; Nor did he fear the might of Charlemaine, Who for a dreary year beset in vain His lonely castle; yet at last caught then, And shut in hold, needs must he come again To give an unhoped great deliverance Unto the burdened helpless land of France: Denmark he gained thereafter, and he wore The crown of England drawn from trouble sore; At Tyre then he reigned, and Babylon With mighty deeds he from the foemen won; And when scarce aught could give him greater fame, He left the world still thinking on his name.

"These things did Ogier, and these things didst thou, Nor will I call thee by a new name now Since I have spoken words of love to thee-- Ogier, Ogier, dost thou remember me, E'en if thou hast no thought of that past time Before thou earnest to our happy clime?"

As this was said, his mazed eyes saw indeed A lovely woman clad in dainty weed Beside his bed, and many a thought was stirred Within his heart by that last plaintive word, Though nought he said, but waited what should come.

"Love," said she, "I am here to bring thee home; Well hast thou done all that thou cam'st to do, And if thou bidest here, for something new Will folk begin to cry, and all thy fame Shall then avail thee but for greater blame; Thy love shall cease to love thee, and the earth Thou lovest now shall be of little worth While still thou keepest life, abhorring it.

Behold, in men's lives that so quickly flit Thus is it, how then shall it be with thee, Who some faint image of eternity Hast gained through me?--alas, thou heedest not!

On all these changing things thine heart is hot-- Take then this gift that I have brought from far, And then may'st thou remember what we are; The lover and the loved from long ago."

He trembled, and more memory seemed to grow Within his heart as he beheld her stand, Holding a glittering crown in her right hand: "Ogier," she said, "arise and do on thee The emblems of thy worldly sovereignity, For we must pa.s.s o'er many a sea this morn."

He rose, and in the glittering tunic worn By Charlemaine he clad himself, and took The ivory hand, that Charlemaine once shook Over the people's head in days of old; Then on his feet he set the shoes of gold, And o'er his shoulders threw the mantle fair, And set the gold crown on his golden hair: Then on the royal chair he sat him down, As though he deemed the elders of the town Should come to audience; and in all he seemed To do these things e'en as a man who dreamed.

And now adown the Seine the golden sun Shone out, as toward him drew that lovely one And took from off his head the royal crown, And, smiling, on the pillow laid it down And said, "Lie there, O crown of Charlemaine, Worn by a mighty man, and worn in vain, Because he died, and all the things he did Were changed before his face by earth was hid; A better crown I have for my love's head, Whereby he yet shall live, when all are dead His hand has helped." Then on his head she set The wondrous crown, and said, "Forget, forget!

Forget these weary things, for thou hast much Of happiness to think of."

At that touch He rose, a happy light gleamed in his eyes; And smitten by the rush of memories, He stammered out, "O love! how came we here?

What do we in this land of Death and Fear?

Have I not been from thee a weary while?

Let us return--I dreamed about the isle; I dreamed of other years of strife and pain, Of new years full of struggles long and vain."

She took him by the hand and said, "Come, love, I am not changed;" and therewith did they move Unto the door, and through the sleeping place Swiftly they went, and still was Ogier's face Turned on her beauty, and no thought was his Except the dear returning of his bliss.

But at the threshold of the palace-gate That opened to them, she awhile did wait, And turned her eyes unto the rippling Seine And said, "O love, behold it once again!"

He turned, and gazed upon the city grey Smit by the gold of that sweet morn of May; He heard faint noises as of wakening folk As on their heads his day of glory broke; He heard the changing rush of the swift stream Against the bridge-piers. All was grown a dream.

His work was over, his reward was come, Why should he loiter longer from his home?

A little while she watched him silently, Then beckoned him to follow with a sigh, And, raising up the raiment from her feet, Across the threshold stepped into the street; One moment on the twain the low sun shone, And then the place was void, and they were gone How I know not; but this I know indeed, That in whatso great trouble or sore need The land of France since that fair day has been, No more the sword of Ogier has she seen.

Such was the tale he told of Avallon, E'en such an one as in days past had won His youthful heart to think upon the quest; But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest, Not much to be desired now it seemed-- Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed Had found no words in this death-laden tongue We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung; Perchance the changing years that changed his heart E'en in the words of that old tale had part, Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair The foolish hope that once had glittered there-- Or think, that in some bay of that far home They then had sat, and watched the green waves come Up to their feet with many promises; Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees, In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred Long dead for ever.

Howsoe'er that be Among strange folk they now sat quietly, As though that tale with them had nought to do, As though its hopes and fears were something new.

But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band Had no tears left for that once longed-for land, The very wind must moan for their decay, And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey, Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field, That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield; And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves.

Yet, since a little life at least was left, They were not yet of every joy bereft, For long ago was past the agony, Midst which they found that they indeed must die; And now well-nigh as much their pain was past As though death's veil already had been cast Over their heads--so, midst some little mirth, They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth.

THE GOLDEN APPLES.

This tale tells of the voyage of a ship of Tyre, that, against the will of the shipmen, bore Hercules to an unknown land of the West, that he might accomplish a task laid on him by the Fates.

As many as the leaves fall from the tree, From the world's life the years are fallen away Since King Eurystheus sat in majesty In fair Mycenae; midmost of whose day It once befell that in a quiet bay A ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the sh.o.r.e, Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar.

Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stole Down from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that crowned, And ruffled lightly the long gleaming roll Of the peaceful sea, and bore along the sound Of shepherd-folk and sheep and questing hound, For in the first dip of the hillside there Lay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair.

Amid regrets for last night, when the moon, Risen on the soft dusk, shone on maidens' feet Brushing the gold-heart lilies to the tune Of pipes complaining, o'er the gra.s.s down-beat That mixed with dewy flowers its odour sweet, The shipmen laboured, till the sail unfurled Swung round the prow to meet another world.

But ere the anchor had come home, a shout Rang from the strand, as though the ship were hailed.

Whereat the master bade them stay, in doubt That they without some needful thing had sailed; When, lo! from where the cliff's steep grey sides failed Into a ragged stony slip, came twain Who seemed in haste the ready keel to gain.

Soon they drew nigh, and he who first came down Unto the surf was a man huge of limb, Grey-eyed, with crisp-curled hair 'twixt black and brown, Who had a lion's skin cast over him, So wrought with gold that the fell showed but dim Betwixt the threads, and in his hand he bore A mighty club with bands of steel done o'er.

Panting there followed him a grey old man, Bearing a long staff, clad in gown of blue, Feeble of aspect, hollow-cheeked and wan, Who when unto his fellow's side he drew, Said faintly: "Now, do that which thou shouldst do; This is the ship." Then in the other's eye A smile gleamed, and he spake out merrily:

"Masters, folk tell me that ye make for Tyre, And after that still nearer to the sun; And since Fate bids me look to die by fire, Fain am I, ere my worldly day be done, To know what from earth's hottest can be won; And this old man, my kinsman, would with me.

How say ye, will ye bear us o'er the sea?"

"What is thy name?" the master said: "And know That we are merchants, and for nought give nought; What wilt thou pay?--thou seem'st full rich, I trow."

The old man muttered, stooped adown and caught At something in the sand: "E'en so I thought,"

The younger said, "when I set out from home-- As to my name, perchance in days to come

"Thou shalt know that--but have heed, take this toy, And call me the Strong Man." And as he spake The master's deep-brown eyes 'gan gleam with joy, For from his arm a huge ring did he take, And cast it on the deck, where it did break A water-jar, and in the wet shards lay Golden, and gleaming like the end of day.

But the old man held out a withered hand, Wherein there shone two pearls most great and fair, And said, "If any nigher I might stand, Then might'st thou see the things I give thee here-- And for a name--a many names I bear, But call me Shepherd of the Sh.o.r.e this tide, And for more knowledge with a good will bide."

From one to the other turned the master's eyes; The Strong Man laughed as at some hidden jest, And wild doubts in the shipman's heart did rise; But thinking on the thing, he deemed it best To bid them come aboard, and take such rest As they might have of the untrusty sea, 'Mid men who trusty fellows still should be.

Then no more words the Strong Man made, but straight Caught up the elder in his arms, and so, Making no whit of all that added weight, Strode to the ship, right through the breakers low, And catching at the rope that they did throw Out toward his hand, swung up into the ship; Then did the master let the hawser slip.

The shapely prow cleft the wet mead and green, And wondering drew the shipmen round to gaze Upon those limbs, the mightiest ever seen; And many deemed it no light thing to face The splendour of his eyen, though they did blaze With no wrath now, no hate for them to dread, As seaward 'twixt the summer isles they sped.

Freshened the wind, but ever fair it blew Unto the south-east; but as failed the land, Unto the plunging prow the Strong Man drew, And silent, gazing with wide eyes did stand, As though his heart found rest; but 'mid the band Of shipmen in the stern the old man sat, Telling them tales that no man there forgat.

As one who had beheld, he told them there Of the sweet singer, whom, for his song's sake, The dolphins back from choking death did bear; How in the mid sea did the vine outbreak O'er that ill bark when Bacchus 'gan to wake; How anigh Cyprus, ruddy with the rose The cold sea grew as any June-loved close;

While on the flowery sh.o.r.e all things alive Grew faint with sense of birth of some delight, And the nymphs waited trembling there, to give Glad welcome to the glory of that sight: He paused then, ere he told how, wild and white, Rose ocean, breaking o'er a race accurst, A world once good, now come unto its worst.

And then he smiled, and said, "And yet ye won, Ye men, and tremble not on days like these, Nor think with what a mind Prometheus' son Beheld the last of the torn reeling trees From high Parna.s.sus: slipping through the seas Ye never think, ye men-folk, how ye seem From down below through the green waters' gleam."

Dusk was it now when these last words he said, And little of his visage might they see, But o'er their hearts stole vague and troublous dread, They knew not why; yet ever quietly They sailed that night; nor might a morning be Fairer than was the next morn; and they went Along their due course after their intent.

The fourth day, about sunrise, from the mast The watch cried out he saw Phoenician land; Whereat the Strong Man on the elder cast A look askance, and he straight took his stand Anigh the prow, and gazed beneath his hand Upon the low sun and the scarce-seen sh.o.r.e, Till cloud-flecks rose, and gathered and drew o'er.

The morn grown cold; then small rain 'gan to fall, And all the wind dropped dead, and hearts of men Sank, and their bark seemed helpless now and small; Then suddenly the wind 'gan moan again; Sails flapped, and ropes beat wild about; and then Down came the great east wind; and the ship ran Straining, heeled o'er, through seas all changed and wan.

Westward, scarce knowing night from day, they drave Through sea and sky grown one; the Strong Man wrought With mighty hands, and seemed a G.o.d to save; But on the prow, heeding all weather nought, The elder stood, nor any prop he sought, But swayed to the ship's wallowing, as on wings He there were set above the wrack of things.

And westward still they drave; and if they saw Land upon either side, as on they sped, 'Twas but as faces in a dream may draw Anigh, and fade, and leave nought in their stead; And in the shipmen's hearts grew heavy dread To sick despair; they deemed they should drive on Till the world's edge and empty s.p.a.ce were won.

But 'neath the Strong Man's eyes e'en as they might They toiled on still; and he sang to the wind, And spread his arms to meet the waters white, As o'er the deck they tumbled, making blind The brine-drenched shipmen; nor with eye unkind He gazed up at the lightning; nor would frown When o'er the wet waste Jove's bolt rattled down.

And they, who at the last had come to think Their guests were very G.o.ds, with all their fear Feared nought belike that their good ship would sink Amid the storm; but rather looked to hear The last moan of the wind that them should bear Into the windless stream of ocean grey, Where they should float till dead was every day.