"If she watches, go bid her sleep; Bid her sleep, for the road is steep: He can sleep who holdeth her cheap, Sleep and wake and sleep again.

Let him sow, one day he shall reap, Let him sow the grain.

"When there blows a sweet garden rose, Let it bloom and wither if no man knows: But if one knows when the sweet thing blows, Knows, and lets it open and drop, If but a nettle his garden grows He hath earned the crop."

Through his sleep the summons rang, Into his ears it sobbed and it sang.

Slow he woke with a drowsy pang, Shook himself without much debate, Turned where he saw green branches hang, Started though late.

For the black land was travelled o'er, He should see the grim land no more.

A flowering country stretched before His face when the lovely day came back: He hugged the phial of Life he bore, And resumed his track.

By willow courses he took his path, Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath, Marked the fields green to aftermath, Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran, Loitered awhile for a deep-stream bath, Yawned for a fellow-man.

Up on the hills not a soul in view, In the vale not many nor few; Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new.

It's O for a second maiden, at least, To bear the flagon, and taste it too, And flavor the feast.

Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve; Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve.

At length the water-bed took a curve, The deep river swept its bank-side bare; Waters streamed from the hill-reserve,-- Waters here, waters there.

High above, and deep below, Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow, Like hill-torrents after the snow,-- Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife, Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,-- He must swim for his life.

Which way?--which way?--his eyes grew dim With the dizzying whirl,--which way to swim?

The thunderous downshoot deafened him; Half he choked in the lashing spray: Life is sweet, and the grave is grim,-- Which way?--which way?

A flash of light, a shout from the strand: "This way,--this way; here lies the land!"

His phial clutched in one drowning hand; He catches,--misses,--catches a rope; His feet slip on the slipping sand: Is there life?--is there hope?

Just saved, without pulse or breath,-- Scarcely saved from the gulp of death; Laid where a willow shadoweth,-- Laid where a swelling turf is smooth.

(O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth For all thy sweet youth.)

Kind hands do and undo, Kind voices whisper and coo: "I will chafe his hands,"--"and I,"--"and you Raise his head, put his hair aside."

(If many laugh, one well may rue: Sleep on, thou Bride.)

So the Prince was tended with care: One wrung foul ooze from his cl.u.s.tered hair; Two chafed his hands, and did not spare; But one propped his head that drooped awry Till his eyes oped, and at unaware They met eye to eye.

O, a moon face in a shadowy place, And a light touch and a winsome grace, And a thrilling tender voice which says: "Safe from waters that seek the sea,-- Cold waters by rugged ways,-- Safe with me."

While overhead bird whistles to bird, And round about plays a gamesome herd: "Safe with us,"--some take up the word,-- "Safe with us, dear lord and friend: All the sweeter if long deferred Is rest in the end."

Had he stayed to weigh and to scan, He had been more or less than a man: He did what a young man can, Spoke of toil and an arduous way,-- Toil to-morrow, while golden ran The sands of to-day.

Slip past, slip fast, Uncounted hours from first to last, Many hours till the last is past, Many hours dwindling to one,-- One hour whose die is cast, One last hour gone.

Come, gone,--gone forever,-- Gone as an unreturning river,-- Gone as to death the merriest liver,-- Gone as the year at the dying fall,-- To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never,-- Gone once for all.

Came at length the starting-day, With last words, and last, last words to say, With bodiless cries from far away,-- Chiding wailing voices that rang Like a trumpet-call to the tug and fray; And thus they sang:

"Is there life?--the lamp burns low; Is there hope?--the coming is slow: The promise promised so long ago, The long promise, has not been kept.

Does she live?--does she die?--she slumbers so Who so oft has wept.

"Does she live?--does she die?--she languisheth As a lily drooping to death, As a drought-worn bird with failing breath, As a lovely vine without a stay, As a tree whereof the owner saith, 'Hew it down to-day.'"

Stung by that word the Prince was fain To start on his tedious road again.

He crossed the stream where a ford was plain, He clomb the opposite bank though steep, And swore to himself to strain and attain Ere he tasted sleep.

Huge before him a mountain frowned With foot of rock on the valley ground, And head with snows incessant crowned, And a cloud mantle about its strength, And a path which the wild goat hath not found In its breadth and length.

But he was strong to do and dare: If a host had withstood him there, He had braved a host with little care In his l.u.s.ty youth and his pride, Tough to grapple though weak to snare.

He comes, O Bride.

Up he went where the goat scarce clings, Up where the eagle folds her wings, Past the green line of living things, Where the sun cannot warm the cold,-- Up he went as a flame enrings Where there seems no hold.

Up a fissure barren and black, Till the eagles tired upon his track, And the clouds were left behind his back,-- Up till the utmost peak was past.

Then he gasped for breath and his strength fell slack; He paused at last.

Before his face a valley spread Where fatness laughed, wine, oil, and bread, Where all fruit-trees their sweetness shed, Where all birds made love to their kind, Where jewels twinkled, and gold lay red And not hard to find.

Midway down the mountain side (On its green slope the path was wide) Stood a house for a royal bride, Built all of changing opal stone, The royal palace, till now descried In his dreams alone.

Less bold than in days of yore, Doubting now though never before, Doubting he goes and lags the more: Is the time late? does the day grow dim?

Rose, will she open the crimson core Of her heart to him?

Above his head a tangle glows Of wine-red roses, blushes, snows, Closed buds and buds that unclose, Leaves, and moss, and p.r.i.c.kles too; His hand shook as he plucked a rose, And the rose dropped dew.

Take heart of grace! the portion of Life May go far to woo him a wife: If she frown, yet a lover's strife Lightly raised can be laid again: A hasty word is never the knife To cut love in twain.

Far away stretched the royal land, Fed by dew, by a spice-wind fanned: Light labor more, and his foot would stand On the threshold, all labor done; Easy pleasure laid at his hand, And the dear Bride won.

His slackening steps pause at the gate,-- Does she wake or sleep?--the time is late,-- Does she sleep now, or watch and wait?

She has watched, she has waited long, Watching athwart the golden grate With a patient song.

Fling the golden portals wide, The Bridegroom comes to his promised Bride; Draw the gold-stiff curtains aside, Let them look on each other's face, She in her meekness, he in his pride,-- Day wears apace.

Day is over, the day that wore.

What is this that comes through the door, The face covered, the feet before?

This that coming takes his breath; This Bride not seen, to be seen no more Save of Bridegroom Death?

Veiled figures carrying her Sweep by yet make no stir; There is a smell of spice and myrrh, A bride-chant burdened with one name; The bride-song rises steadier Than the torches' flame:

"Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late!

You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leaped, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies?

Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair.

Now these are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown.