"And mightily he cast himself on him; And Nereus cried out shrilly; and straightway That sleeping crowd, fair maid with half-hid limb, Strange man and green-haired beast, made no delay, But glided down into the billows grey, And, by the lovely sea embraced, were gone, While they two wrestled on the sea strand lone.

"Soon found the sea-G.o.d that his bodily might Was nought in dealing with Jove's dear one there; And soon he 'gan to use his magic sleight: Into a lithe leopard, and a hugging bear He turned him; then the smallest fowl of air The straining arms of Hercules must hold, And then a mud-born wriggling eel and cold.

"Then as the firm hands mastered this, forth brake A sudden rush of waters all around, Blinding and choking: then a thin green snake With golden eyes; then o'er the sh.e.l.l-strewn ground Forth stole a fly the least that may be found; Then earth and heaven seemed wrapped in one huge flame, But from the midst thereof a voice there came:

"'Kinsman and stout-heart, thou hast won the day, Nor to my grief: what wouldst thou have of me?'

And therewith to an old man small and grey Faded the roaring flame, who wearily Sat down upon the sand and said, 'Let be!

I know thy tale; worthy of help thou art; Come now, a short way hence will there depart

"'A ship of Tyre for the warm southern seas, Come we a-board; according to my will Her way shall be.' Then up rose Hercules, Merry of face, though hot and panting still; But the fair summer day his heart did fill With all delight; and so forth went the twain, And found those men desirous of all gain.

"Ah, for these gainful men--somewhat indeed Their sails are rent, their bark beat; kin and friend Are wearying for them; yet a friend in need They yet shall gain, if at their journey's end, Upon the last ness where the wild goats wend To lick the salt-washed stones, a house they raise Bedight with gold in kindly Nereus' praise."

Breathless they waited for these latest words, That like the soft wind of the gathering night Were grown to be: about the mast flew birds Making their moan, hovering long-winged and white; And now before their straining anxious sight The old man faded out into the air, And from his place flew forth a sea-mew fair.

Then to the Mighty Man, Alcmena's son, With yearning hearts they turned till he should speak, And he spake softly: "Nought ill have ye done In helping me to find what I did seek: The world made better by me knows if weak My hand and heart are: but now, light the fire Upon the prow and worship the grey sire."

So did they; and such gifts as there they had Gave unto Nereus; yea, and sooth to say, Amid the tumult of their hearts made glad, Had honoured Hercules in e'en such way; But he laughed out amid them, and said, "Nay, Not yet the end is come; nor have I yet Bowed down before vain longing and regret.

"It may be--who shall tell, when I go back There whence I came, and looking down behold The place that my once eager heart shall lack, And all my dead desires a-lying cold, But I may have the might then to enfold The hopes of brave men in my heart?--but long Life lies before first with its change and wrong."

So fair along the watery ways they sped In happy wise, nor failed of their return; Nor failed in ancient Tyre the ways to tread, Teaching their tale to whomsoever would learn, Nor failed at last the flesh of beasts to burn In Nereus' house, turned toward the bright day's end On the last ness, round which the wild goats wend.

L'ENVOI.

Here are we for the last time face to face, Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speed Upon thy perilous journey to that place For which I have done on thee pilgrim's weed, Striving to get thee all things for thy need-- --I love thee, whatso time or men may say Of the poor singer of an empty day.

Good reason why I love thee, e'en if thou Be mocked or clean forgot as time wears on; For ever as thy fashioning did grow, Kind word and praise because of thee I won From those without whom were my world all gone, My hope fallen dead, my singing cast away, And I set soothly in an empty day.

I love thee; yet this last time must it be, That thou must hold thy peace and I must speak, Lest if thou babble I begin to see Thy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart too weak, To find the land thou goest forth to seek-- --Though what harm if thou die upon the way, Thou idle singer of an empty day?

But though this land desired thou never reach, Yet folk who know it mayst thou meet or death; Therefore a word unto thee would I teach To answer these, who, noting thy weak breath, Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little faith, May make thy fond desire a sport and play, Mocking the singer of an empty day.

That land's name, say'st thou? and the road thereto?

Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou know'st it not; Surely no book of verse I ever knew But ever was the heart within him hot To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot-- --There, now we both laugh--as the whole world may, At us poor singers of an empty day.

Nay, let it pa.s.s, and hearken! Hast thou heard That therein I believe I have a friend, Of whom for love I may not be afeard?

It is to him indeed I bid thee wend; Yea, he perchance may meet thee ere thou end, Dying so far off from the hedge of bay, Thou idle singer of an empty day!

Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the road, And if it hap that midst of thy defeat, Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load, My Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, thou do meet, Then shalt thou win a s.p.a.ce of rest full sweet; Then be thou bold, and speak the words I say, The idle singer of an empty day!

"O Master, O thou great of heart and tongue, Thou well mayst ask me why I wander here, In raiment rent of stories oft besung!

But of thy gentleness draw thou anear, And then the heart of one who held thee dear Mayst thou behold! So near as that I lay Unto the singer of an empty day.

"For this he ever said, who sent me forth To seek a place amid thy company; That howsoever little was my worth, Yet was he worth e'en just so much as I; He said that rhyme hath little skill to lie: Nor feigned to cast his worser part away In idle singing for an empty day.

"I have beheld him tremble oft enough At things he could not choose but trust to me, Although he knew the world was wise and rough: And never did he fail to let me see His love,--his folly and faithlessness, may be; And still in turn I gave him voice to pray Such prayers as cling about an empty day.

"Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst read him through, For surely little is there left behind; No power great deeds unnameable to do; No knowledge for which words he may not find, No love of things as vague as autumn wind-- --Earth of the earth lies hidden by my clay, The idle singer of an empty day!

"Children we twain are, saith he, late made wise In love, but in all else most childish still, And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes, And what our ears with sweetest sounds may fill; Not fearing Love, lest these things he should kill; Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay, Making a strange tale of an empty day.

"Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life have we loved, through green leaf and through sere, Though still the less we knew of its intent: The Earth and Heaven through countless year on year, Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair, Hung round about a little room, where play Weeping and laughter of man's empty day.

"O Master, if thine heart could love us yet, Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done, Some place in loving hearts then should we get, For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand alone, But knew'st the joy and woe of many an one-- --By lovers dead, who live through thee we pray, Help thou us singers of an empty day!"

Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst gain Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die?

Nay, it shall not be.--Thou mayst toil in vain, And never draw the House of Fame anigh; Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry, Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay The ghosts that crowd about life's empty day.

Then let the others go! and if indeed In some old garden thou and I have wrought, And made fresh flowers spring up from h.o.a.rded seed, And fragrance of old days and deeds have brought Back to folk weary; all was not for nought.

--No little part it was for me to play-- The idle singer of an empty day.

FROM "LOVE IS ENOUGH."

INTERLUDES.

1.

Love is enough; though the World be a-waning And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds, pa.s.sed over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

2.

Love is enough: it grew up without heeding In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure, And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding, As the morning and evening pa.s.sed over its treasure.

And what do ye say then?--that Spring long departed Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers; --That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers; We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.

Nay, Spring was o'er happy and knew not the reason, And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended; But this is the harvest and the garnering season, And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.

It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding, Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure, Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure; There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding, But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure.

3.

Love is enough: draw near and behold me Ye who pa.s.s by the way to your rest and your laughter, And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after For the strong of the world have bought me and sold me And my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter.

--Pa.s.s by me, and hearken, and think of me not!

Cry out and come near; for my ears may not hearken, And my eyes are grown dim as the eyes of the dying.

Is this the grey rack o'er the sun's face a-flying?

Or is it your faces his brightness that darken?

Comes a wind from the sea, or is it your sighing?