Complete works of willia.., p.424
Complete Works of William Morris, page 424
Things stranger than these meadows shall we see,
And thou shalt wonder that thou ere didst keep
These kine, as Phœbus erst Admetus’ sheep!”
Then did she pour the whole tale out on him
Eager at first, but faltered to behold
How he fell trembling in his every limb;
Through the new fever that her heart did fold,
Again shame thrust its steely point and cold:
“Alas,” she thought, “when all the tale is done,
Why go we thus alone beneath the sun?”
He tried to speak, and the words came at last;
“If thou art glad, then surely I am glad —
— And yet, we thought our evil time had passed;
Surely the days grew not so wholly bad!
Ah me, a growing hope of late I had
Of quiet days and sweet — yet shame of me,
That I should dull the joy that gladdeth thee!
“Daughter, thy bidding I will surely do,
And go with thee; nathless bethink thee yet,
How yesterday shall seem full long ago,
When with to-morrow’s dew the grass is wet.
Child, I will pray thee never to forget
This face of mine, this heart that loves thee well;
Let distance though, and time that sweet tale tell!”
She cried: “Ah, wilt thou have me lonelier
Than the Gods made me? As day passes day
The life of fear and hope that happened here,
Most oft no doubt shall seem full far away;
Yet be thou nigh, to be a scarce-felt stay
To my mazed steps, a green close fresh and sweet,
On life’s hard way, to cool my weary feet.
“I will not take my bidding back; go thou,
And get thee ready swiftly to be gone.
The sails are flapping in the haven now,
And we depart before the clay is done.
O be thou glad, thou shalt not be alone!
Canst thou not see e’en now how this my face
I softened to thee by the happy days?”
He said no more, but eyed her lovingly,
Upon his worn old face a trembling smile;
Then turned him toward the house with one great sigh,
And she was left alone a little while,
Her restlessness with strange dreams to beguile,
And though bright things those dreams did nowise lack,
Yet oft oft-conquered cold fear would come back.
But midst her thoughts from out the house there came
Her father and her mother, and she gazed
Upon the twain with something more than shame,
As she beheld what timid eyes and mazed
The goodwife to her queenly beauty raised,
And how with patient mien her father went,
On all her motions lovingly intent.
Then to the market-place passed on the three,
And though her grey gown only covered her,
Her mother bore some shreds of bravery
And clad her father was in scarlet gear,
Worn now and wretched, that he once did bear
When long ago at his rich board he sat,
And all that land’s best cheer the glad guests gat.
And as they stood there now, the simple folk,
Grown used unto the wonder of the tale,
Warmed with new joy, and into shouts outbroke;
The goodwife flushed, but the old man turned pale,
And gazed round helpless, his limbs seemed to fail
As though age pressed him sore; while Rhodope
Grew softer-eyed and spake majestically;
“Fain am I, lords, that we depart straightway;
For if a dream this is, I long full sore
E’en in my dream to feel the wind-blown spray,
And hear the well-timed rolling of the oar,
And ere dark night behold the lessening shore
From your dreamed dromond’s deck — so pass we on,
If e’en so far as this my dream hath won.”
Then said they: “All is ready in due wise,
E’en as thou bad’st, the ship has been warped round
And rideth toward the sea, and sacrifice
Has there been done, and goodly gifts been found
For this land’s folk: but wilt thou not be crowned
And clad in fair array of gold, that we
May show thy beauty meetly to the sea?”
“Nay,” said she, “in this lowly guise of mine
Let the king first behold me standing there
The Gods’ gift, that his heart may more incline
Towards mine, if thus he note me strange and fair,
Grown up a queen, yet with no wondrous care
For what I should be. Make no more delay,
Low looks the sun upon the watery way.”
So seaward now with these all people moved
Rejoicing, though belike they scarce knew why,
And Rhodope ‘gan feel herself beloved;
And as the south wind breathed deliciously
O’er flowers and sweet things, and the sun did die
Amid soft golden haze, her loveliness
She ‘gan to feel, and all the world to bless.
In her slim hand her father’s hand she took,
Her red lips trembled, and her eyes were wet
With tears that fell not; but the old man shook
As one who sees death; then a hand she set
Upon his shoulder, and said, “Long years yet,
With loving eyes these eyes shalt thou behold
Among the glimmer of fair things and gold.”
But nought he answered, and they came full soon
To where the gangway ran from out the ship
On to the black pier; white yet was the moon,
And the sun’s rim nigh in the sea did dip,
And from the place where sky met ocean’s lip,
Ran a great road of gold across the sea,
Where played the unquiet waves impatiently.
Now was her foot upon the gangway plank;
Now over the green depths and oars blood-red
Fluttered her gown, and from the low green bank
Above the sea a cry came, as her head
Gleamed golden in the way that westward led,
And on the deck her feet were, but no more
She looked back then unto the peopled shore.
But with one hand held back as if to take
Her father’s hand, she went on toward the prow;
And there she stood, and watched the billows break,
Nor noted when men back the ropes did throw,
And scarce knew when the sea fell from the bow
And the ship moved, nor turned, till, cold and grey,
And darkling fast, the waste before her lay.
But at the last she turned on well-poised feet,
And gazed adown the twilight decks, and heard
The freshening wind about the cordage beat,
The master’s and rough helmsman’s answering word,
And all alone she felt now, and afeard,
In spite of all the folk who stood around,
Unto her lightest service straightly bound.
A terror seized her; down the deck she passed,
Her gown driven close against her, and her hair
Loosed by the driving wind; till at the mast
She stayed, and muttered: “Ah, he is not there!
And I, where am I? the dream seemed so fair
When it began; but now am I alone,
Waiting, I know not what, till life be done.”
Trembling she drew her hand across her brow
As one who wakes; and then, grown calm once more,
She went with steady feet unto the prow,
And ran the line of reverent faces o’er
With anxious eyes, and stayed at last before
The ancient grey-haired man, the chief of these,
And spoke amid the washing of the seas:
“Where is my father? I am fain to speak
Of many things with him, we two alone;
For mid these winds and waves my heart grows weak
With memory of the days for ever gone.”
The moon was bright, the swaying lanterns shone
On her pale face, and fluttering garment’s hem —
— Each stared on each, and silence was on them.
And midst that silence a new lonely pain,
Like sundering death, smote on her, till he spoke:
“O queen, what sayst thou? the old man was fain,
He told us, still to dwell among his folk;
He said, thou knew’st he might not bear the yoke
Of strange eyes watching him — what say I more,
Surely thou know’st he never left the shore?
“I deemed him wise and true: but give command
If so thou willest; certes no great thing
It is, in two hours space to make the land,
Though much the land-wind now is freshening.”
One slender hand to the rough shroud did cling,
As her limbs failed; she raised the other one,
And moved her lips to bid the thing be done:
Yet no words came, she stood upright again,
And dropped her hand and said, “I strive with change,
I strive with death the Gods’ toy, but in vain:
No otherwise than thus might all be strange.”
Therewith she turned, her unseeing eyes did range
Wide o’er the tumbling waste of waters grey,
As swift the black ship went upon her way.
DARK night upon the cold still eve did fall
Amidst the tale, and now the fair guest-hall
Was lit with nought but firelight, as they sat,
Silent, soft-hearted, and compassionate
Midst their own flickering shadows; yet too old
They were, to talk about the story told,
Too old, and knew too well what each man thought,
And feared in any pleasure to be caught,
That hid a snare of sadness at its end.
So slowly did the tale’s sweet sorrow blend
With their own quenched desires, and past regret,
And dear-loved follies they might scarce forget;
That in these latter days indeed, were grown
Nought but a tale, for others to bemoan,
Who had not learned with sorrow’s self to deal;
Who had no need an hour of bliss to steal,
With trembling hands, from the dark treasury
Of time long unregarded, long gone by,
Where cobwebbed o’er amid the dust it lay.
But these stole not, nor strove, from day to day
Enough of pleasure to their lot did fall
To stay them, that on death they should not call
With change or rest to end the weary tide;
Though careless now, his coming did they bide.
SCARCE aught was left of autumn-tide to die
When next they met; the north-east wind rushed by
The house anigh the woods, wherein they were,
And in the oaks and hollies might they hear
Its roar grow greater with the dying morn:
A hard grey day it was, yet scarce forlorn,
Since scarcely aught of tender or of sweet
Was left the year, its ruggedness to meet.
Bare was the country-side of work and folk:
There from the hill-side stead straight out the smoke,
Over the climbing row of corn-ricks, sailed;
And few folk stirred; a blue-clad horseman hailed
A shepherd from the white way, little heard
‘Twixt ridge and hollow by November seared;
The ferryman stared long adown the road
That led unto his tottering thatched abode,
Ere the dark speck into a goodwife turned;
The smouldering weed-heap by the garden burned;
Side-long the plough beside the field-gate lay,
With no one nigh to. scare the birds away,
That twittered mid the scanty wisps of straw.
So round the fire the ancient folk did draw,
And, mid the day-dreams, that hung round about,
Rather beheld the wild-wood dim with doubt,
And twilight of the cloudy leafless tide,
Than the scant-peopled fallow country-side,
Whose fields the woods hemmed in: the world grew old
Unto their eyes, and lacked house, field, and fold.
Then spake a wanderer; “Long the tale I tell
Though in few years the deeds thereof befell,
In a strange land and barren, far removed
From southlands and their bliss; yet folk beloved,
Yearning for love, striving ‘gainst change and hate,
Strong, uncomplaining, yet compassionate,
Have dwelt therein — a strange and awful land
Where folk, as in the hollow of God’s hand,
Beset with fearful things yet fearing nought,
Have lived their lives and wondrous deeds have wrought —
Wild deeds, as other men. Yet these at least,
If death from but a rough and homely feast
Drew them away, lived not so full of care, .
They and their sons, but that their lives did bear
The fruit of deeds recorded. Bear with me
If I shall seem to hold this history
Of a few freemen of the farthest north,
A handful, as a thing of too much worth;
Because this Iceland was my fathers’ home,
Nay, somewhat of the selfsame stock they come
As these I tell of: know withal that we
Have ever deemed this tale as true to be,
As though those very Dwellers in Laxdale,
Risen from the dead had told us their own tale;
Who for the rest while yet they dwelt on earth
Wearied no God with prayers for more of mirth
Than dying men have; nor were ill-content
Because no God beside their sorrow went
Turning to flowery sward the rock-strewn way,
Weakness to strength, or darkness into day.
Therefore, no marvels hath my tale to tell,
But deals with such things as men know too well;
All that I have herein your hearts to move,
Is but the seed and fruit of bitter love.”
THE LOVERS OF GUDRUN.
ARGUMENT.
This story shows how two friends loved a fair woman, and how he who loved her best had her to wife, though she loved him little or not at all; and how one of these two friends gave shame to and received death of the other, who in his turn came to his end by reason of that deed.
Of Herdholt and Bathstead.
HERDHOLT my tale names for the stead, where erst
Olaf the Peacock dwelt; nowise the worst
Among the great men of a noble day:
Upon a knoll amidst a vale it lay,
Nigh where Laxriver meets the western sea,
And in that day it nourished plenteously
Great wealth of sheep and cattle.
Ye shall know
That Olaf to a mighty house did go
To take to him a wife: Thorgerd he gat,
The daughter of the man, at Burg who sat,
After a great life, with eyes waxing dim,
Egil, the mighty son of Skallagrim.
Now of the sons the twain had, first we name
Kiartan alone, for eld’s sake and for fame,
Then Steinthor, Haldor, Helgi, and Hauskuld,
All of good promise, strong and lithe and bold,
Yet little against Kiartan’s glory weighed;
Besides these props the Peacock’s house that stayed,
Two maidens, Thurid, Thorbiorg there were;
And furthermore a youth was fostered there,
Whom Thorleik, Olaf’s brother, called his son:
Bodli his name was. Thus the tale is done
Of those who dwelt at Herdholt in those days.
Midst the grey slopes, Bathstead its roof did raise
Seven miles from Herdholt; Oswif, wise of men,
Who Thordis had to wife, abode there then
With his five sons, of whom let names go past
That are but names; but these were first and last,
Ospak and Thorolf: never, says my tale,
That Oswif’s wisdom was of much avail
In making these, though they were stout enow;
But in his house a daughter did there grow
To perfect womanhood, Gudrun by name,
Whose birth the wondering world no more might blame
Than her’s who erst called Tyndarus her sire,
What hearts soe’er, what roof-trees she might fire,
What hearts soe’er, what hearths she might leave cold,
Before the ending of the tale be told.
But where we take the story up, fifteen
The maiden’s years were; Kiartan now had seen
His eighteenth spring, and younger by a year
Was Bodli, son of Thorleik.
Now most fair
Seemed Olaf’s lot in life, and scarcely worse
Was Oswif’s, and what shadow of a curse
Might hang o’er either house, was thought of now
As men think of a cloud the mountain’s brow
Hides from their eyes an hour before the rain;
For so much love there was betwixt the twain,
Herdholt and Bathstead, that it well might last
Until the folk aforenamed were all passed
From out the world; but herein shall be shown
How the sky blackened, and the storm swept down.
The Prophecy of Guest the Wise.
UPON a day, amid the maids that spun
Within the bower at Bathstead, sat Gudrun,
Her father in the firth a-fishing was,
The while her mother through the meads did pass
About some homely work. So there she sat,
