16
THE TALE OF ARCHAIS
To Cypris’ ear alone. She bowed her head
And bade her nymphs prepare a royal bed
Where he should rest awhile ; and, being
gone,
Cypris and Charicles were left alone.
An aureole of purple round her brow
Flames lovenomore ; but fierce defiance now
Knotted the veins, suffused them with rich
blood,
And wrath restrained from sight the torrid
flood
Of tears; her eyes were terrible; she spake:
“Rise for thy life, and flee. Arise, awake,
And hide thee in the temple; Zeus hath
spoken
To me-—me, Queen of Love—O sceptre
broken !—
O vainest of all realms ! that thou must die.
This only chance is left thee yet, to fly
Within that sanctity even he not dares
To touch with impious hand; thus un-
awares
Creep in among the colunnns to a gate
My hand shall show thee; it will open
straight
And thou must lie forgotten till his rage
Have lost its first excess—then may we wage
A more successful war against his power.”
But Charicles: “Shall I for one short hour
Fly from his tyranny? Am I such man
As should flee from him? Let the pale and
wan
Women have fear—in strength of justice, I
{lis vain fierce fury do this hour defy !”
There shot through Heaven an awful tongue
of fire,
Attended by its minister, the dire
Black thunder. In clear accents, cold and
chill,
There sounded: ‘‘ Boldest mortal, have thy
will!
I do reverse the doom of Archais
And lay it on thyself; nor ever this
Shall lift its curse from off thee, this I swear.”
And Cypris looked upon him and was ware
ITis form did change, and, writhing from her
clasp,
Fled hissing outward, a more hateful asp
Than India breeds to-day, so terrible
Was his despair, so venomous as hell
The sudden hate that filled him. So away,
Knowing not whither, did he flee, till day
Dropped her blue pinions, and the night
drew on,
And sable clouds banked out the weary sun.
PART III
Lonc days and nights succeeded in despair.
Each noon beheld his doom—too proud for
prayer,
And scorning Aphrodite’s help—he strayed
Through swamps and weary bogs, nor yet
betrayed
His anguished countenance to mortal men.
There was so keen an hour of sorrow, when
IIe had destroyed himself; but Heaven’s
hand,
Stretched out in vengeance, held him back.
The land,
Where rest is made eternal, slipped his
clutch ;
He wandered through the world and might
not touch
The sceptre of King Death. In vain he
sought
Those fierce embraces, nor availed him aught
To numb the aching of his breast. The
maid
He loved, now freed from doom, no longer
prayed
For anything but to discover him,
And her large eyes with weeping grew more
dim
Than are the mists of Autumn on the hills,
She sought him far and near; the rocks and
rills
Could tell her nought; the murmur of the
trees
Told her their pity and no more ; the breeze
That cooled its burning locks within the sea,
And dared not pass o’er the dank swamps
where he
Was hid, knew nothing; nor the soughing
waves,
Through all the desolation of those caves