MORN in the white wake of the morning star
Came furrowing all the orient into gold.
We rose, and each by other drest with care
Descended to the court that lay three parts
In shadow, but the Muses’ heads were touch’d
Above the darkness from their native East.
There while we stood beside the fount, and watch’d
Or seem’d to watch the dancing bubble, approach’d
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep,
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes
The circled Iris of a night of tears;
‘And fly,’ she cried, ‘O fly, while yet you may!
My mother knows:’ and when I ask’d her ‘how,’
‘My fault,’ she wept, ‘my fault! and yet not mine;
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me.
My mother, ’tis her wont from night to night
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side.
She says the Princess should have been the Head,
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms;
And so it was agreed when first they came;
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now,
And she the left, or not, or seldom used;
Hers more than half the students, all the love.
And so last night she fell to canvass you:
Her countrywomen! she did not envy her.
“Who ever saw such wild barbarians?
Girls?—more like men!” and at these words the snake,
My secret, seem’d to stir within my breast;
And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye
To fix and make me hotter, till she laugh’d:
“O marvellously modest maiden, you!
Men! girls, like men! why, if they had been men
You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus
For wholesale comment.” Pardon, I am shamed
That I must needs repeat for my excuse
What looks so little graceful: “men” (for still
My mother went revolving on the word)
“And so they are,—very like men indeed—
And with that woman closeted for hours!”
Then came these dreadful words out one by one,
“Why—these—are—men:” I shudder’d: “and you know it.”
“O ask me nothing,” I said: “And she knows too,
And she conceals it.” So my mother clutch’d
The truth at once, but with no word ftom me;
And now thus early risen she goes to inform
The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crush’d;
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly
But heal me with your pardon ere you go.’
‘What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush?’
Said Cyril: ‘Pale one, blush again: than wear
Those lilies, better blush our lives away.
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven,’
He added, ‘lest some classic Angel speak
In scorn of us, “They mounted, Ganymedes,
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.”
But I will melt this marble into wax
To yield us farther furlough:’ and he went.
Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought
He scarce would prosper. ‘Tell us,’ Florian ask’d,
‘How grew this feud betwixt the right and left.’
‘O long ago,’ she said, ‘betwixt these two
Division smoulders hidden; ’tis my mother,
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind
Pent in a crevice: much I bear with her:
I never knew my father, but she says
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool;
And still she rail’d against the state of things.
She had the care of Lady Ida’s youth,
And from the Queen’s decease she brought her up.
But when your sister came she won the heart
Of Ida: they were still together, grew
(For so they said themselves) inosculated;
Consonant chords that shiver to one note;
One mind in all things: yet my mother still
Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories,
And angled with them for her pupil’s love:
She calls her plagiarist; I know not what:
But I must go: I dare not tarry’ and light,
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled.
Then murmur’d Florian gazing after her:
‘An open-hearted maiden, true and pure.
If I could love, why this were she: how pretty
Her blushing was, and how she blush’d again,
As if to close with Cyril’s random wish:
Not like your Princess cramm’d with erring pride,
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow.’
‘The crane,’ I said, ‘may chatter of the crane,
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere.
My princess, O my princess! true she errs,
But in her own grand way: being herself
Three times more noble than threescore of men,
She sees herself in every woman else,
And so she wears her error like a crown
To blind the truth and me: for her, and her,
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix
The nectar; but—ah she—whene’er she moves
The Samian Herè rises and she speaks
A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun.’
So saying from the court we paced, and gain’d
The terrace ranged along the Northern front,
And leaning there on those balusters, high
Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gale
That blown about the foliage underneath,
And sated with the innumerable rose,
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came
Cyril, and yawning, ‘O hard task.’ he cried;
‘No fighting shadows here! I forced a way
Thro’ solid opposition crabb’d and gnarl’d.
Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump
A league of street in summer solstice down,
Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman.
I knock’d and, bidden, enter’d; found her there
At point to move, and settled in her eyes
The green malignant light of coming storm.
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oil’d,
As man’s could be; yet maiden-meek I pray’d
Concealment: she demanded who we were,
And why we came? I fabled nothing fair,
But, your example pilot, told her all.
Up went the hush’d amaze of hand and eye.
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance,
She answer’d sharply that I talk’d astray.
I urged the fierce inscription on the gate,
And our three lives. True—we had limed ourselves
With open eyes, and we must take the chance.
But such extremes, I told her, well might harm
The woman’s cause. “Not more than now,” she said,
“So puddled as it is with favouritism.”
I tried the mother’s heart. Shame might befall
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew:
Her answer was “Leave me to deal with that.”
I spoke of war to come and many deaths,
And she replied, her duty was to speak,
And duty duty, clear of consequences.
I grew discouraged, Sir; but since I knew
No rock so hard but that a little wave
May beat admission in a thousand years,
I recommenced: “Decide not ere you pause.
I find you here but in the second place,
Some say the third—the authentic foundress you.
I offer boldly: we will seat you highest:
Wink at our advent: help my prince to gain
His rightful bride, and here I promise you
Some palace in our land, where you shall reign
The head and heart of all our fair she-world,
And your great name flow on with broadening time
For ever.” Well, she balanced this a little,
And told me she would answer us to-day,
Meantime be mute: thus much, nor more I gain’d.’
He ceasing, came a message from the Head.
‘That afternoon the Princess rode to take
The dip of certain strata to the North.
Would we go with her? we should find the land
Worth seeing; and the river made a fall
Out yonder:’ then she pointed on to where
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale.
Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro’ all
Its range of duties to the appointed hour.
Then summon’d to the porch we went. She stood
Among her maidens, higher by the head,
Her back against a pillar, her foot on one
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he roll’d
And paw’d about her sandal. I drew near;
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came
Upon me, the weird vision of our house:
The Princess Ida seem’d a hollow show,
Her gay-furr’d cats a painted fantasy,
Her college and her maidens, empty masks,
And I myself the shadow of a dream,
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt
My heart beat thick with passion and with awe;
Then from my breast the involuntary sigh
Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so
Went forth in long retinue following up
The river as it narrow’d to the hills.
I rode beside her and to me she said:
‘O friend, we trust that you esteem’d us not
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn;
Unwillingly we spake.’ ‘No—not to her,’
I answer’d, ‘but to one of whom we spake
Your Highness might have seem’d the thing you say.’
‘Again?’ she cried, ‘are you ambassadresses
From him to me? we give you, being strange,
A licence: speak, and let the topic die.’
I stammer’d that I knew him—could have wish’d—
‘Our king expects—was there no precontract?
There is no truer-hearted—ah, you seem
All he prefigured, and he could not see
The bird of passage flying south but long’d
To follow: surely, if your Highness keep
Your purport, you will shock him ev’n to death,
Or baser courses, children of despair.’
‘Poor boy,’ she said, ‘can he not read—no books?
Quoit, tennis, ball—no games? nor deals in that
Which men delight in, martial exercise?
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl,
Methinks he seems no better than a girl;
As girls were once, as we ourselves have been:
We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with them:
We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it,
Being other—since we learnt our meaning here,
To lift the woman’s fall’n divinity
Upon an even pedestal with man.’
She paused, and added with a haughtier smile,
‘And as to precontracts, we move, my friend,
At no man’s beck, but know ourselves and thee.
O Vashti, noble Vashti! Summon’d out
She kept her state, and left the drunken king
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms.’
‘Alas, your Highness breathes full East,’ I said,
‘On that which leans to you. I know the Prince,
I prize his truth: and then how vast a work
To assail this grey preëminence of man!
You grant me licence; might I use it? think;
Ere half be done perchance your life may fail;
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan,
And takes and ruins all; and thus your pains
May only make that footprint upon sand
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice
Resmooth to nothing: might I dread that you,
With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss,
Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due,
Love, children, happiness?’
And she exclaim’d,
‘Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild!
What! tho’ your Prince’s love were like a God’s,
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice?
You are bold indeed: we are not talk’d to thus:
Yet will we say for children, would they grew
Like field-flowers everywhere! we like them well:
But children die; and let me tell you, girl,
Howe’er you babble, great deeds cannot die:
They with the sun and moon renew their light
For ever, blessing those that look on them.
Children—that men may pluck them from our hearts,
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves—
O—children—there is nothing upon earth
More miserable than she that has a son
And sees him err: nor would we work for fame;
Tho’ she perhaps might reap the applause of Great,
Who learns the one POU STO whence after-hands
May move the world, tho’ she herself effect
But little: wherefore up and act, nor shrink
For fear our solid aim be dissipated
By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been,
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race
Of giants living, each, a thousand years,
That we might see our own work out, and watch
The sandy footprint harden into stone.’
I answer’d nothing, doubtful in myself
If that strange Poet-princess with her grand
Imaginations might at all be won.
And she broke out interpreting my thoughts:
‘No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you;
We are used to that: for women, up till this
Cramp’d under worse than South-sea-isle taboo,
Dwarfs of the gynæceum, fail so far
In high desire, they know not, cannot guess
How much their welfare is a passion to us.
If we could give them surer, quicker proof—
Oh if our end were less achievable
By slow approaches, than by single act
Of immolation, any phase of death,
We were as prompt to spring against the pikes,
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it,
To compass our dear sisters’ liberties.’
She bow’d as if to veil a noble tear;
And up we came to where the river sloped
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks
A breadth of thunder. O’er it shook the woods,
And danced the colour, and, below, stuck out
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar’d
Before man was. She gazed awhile and said,
‘As these rude bones to us, are we to her
That will be.’ ‘Dare we dream of that,’ I ask’d,
‘Which wrought us, as the workman and his work,
That practice betters?’ ‘How,’ she cried, ‘you love
The metaphysics! read and earn our prize,
A golden broach: beneath an emerald plane
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died
Of hemlock; our device; wrought to the life;
She rapt upon her subject, he on her:
For there are schools for all.’ ‘And yet,’ I said,
‘Methinks, I have not found among them all
One anatomic.’ ‘Nay, we thought of that,’
She answer’d, ‘but it pleased us not: in truth
We shudder but to dream our maids should ape
Those monstrous males that carve the living hound,
And cram him with the fragments of the grave,
Or in the dark dissolving human heart,
And holy secrets of this microcosm,
Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest,
Encarnalize their spirits: yet we know
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs:
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty,
Nor willing men should come among us, learnt,
For many weary moons before we came,
This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself
Would tend upon you. To your question now,
Which touches on the workman and his work.
Let there be light and there was light: ’tis so;
For was, and is, and will be, are but is;
And all creation is one act at once,
The birth of light: but we that are not all,
As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that,
And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and make
One act a phantom of succession: thus
Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time;
But in the shadow will we work, and mould
The woman to the fuller day’
With kindled eyes: we rode a league beyond,
And, o’er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came
On flowery levels underneath the crag,
Full of all beauty. ‘O how sweet,’ I said
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask),
‘To linger here with one that loved us.’ ‘Yea,’
She answer’d, ‘or with fair philosophies
That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields
Are lovely, lovelier than the Elysian lawns,
Where paced the demigods of old, and saw
The soft white vapour streak the crowned towers
Built to the Sun:’ then, turning to her maids,
‘Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward;
Lay out the viands.’ At the word, they raised
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought
With fair Corinna’s triumph; here she stood,
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek,
The woman-conqueror; woman-conquer’d there
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns,
And all the men mourn’d at his side: but we
Set forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril kept
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I
With mine affianced. Many a little hand
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks,
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set
In the dark crag: and then we turn’d, we wound
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in,
Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff,
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun
Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all
The rosy heights came out above the lawns.