The Epic of Hades Part 1

The Epic of Hades.

by Lewis Morris.

BOOK I.

TARTARUS.

THE EPIC OF HADES.

In February, when the dawn was slow, And winds lay still, I gazed upon the fields Which stretched before me, lifeless, and the stream Which laboured in the distance to the sea, Sullen and cold. No force of fancy took My thought to bloomy June, when all the land Lay deep in crested gra.s.s, and through the dew The landrail brushed, and the lush banks were set With strawberries, and the hot noise of bees Lulled the bright flowers. Rather I seemed to move Thro' that weird land, h.e.l.lenic fancy feigned, Beyond the fabled river and the bark Of Charon; and forthwith on every side Rose the thin throng of ghosts.

First thro' the gloom Of a dark grove I strayed--a sluggish wood, Where scarce the faint fires of the setting stars, Or some cold gleam of half-discovered dawn, Might pierce the darkling pines. A twilight drear Brooded o'er all the depths, and filled the dank And sunken hollows of the rocks with shapes Of terror,--beckoning hands and noiseless feet Flitting from shade to shade, wide eyes that stared With horror, and dumb mouths which seemed to cry, Yet cried not. An ineffable despair Hung over them and that dark world and took The gazer captive, and a mingled pang Of grief and anger, grown to fierce revolt And hatred of the Invisible Force which holds The issue of our lives and binds us fast Within the net of Fate; as the fisher takes The little quivering sea-things from the sea And flings them gasping on the beach to die Then spreads his net for more. And then again I knew myself and those, creatures who lie Safe in the strong grasp of Unchanging Law, Encompa.s.sed round by hands unseen, and chains Which do support the feeble life that else Were spent on barren s.p.a.ce; and thus I came To look with less of horror, more of thought, And bore to see the sight of pain that yet Should grow to healing, when the concrete stain Of life and act were purged, and the cleansed soul, Renewed by the slow wear and waste of time, Soared after aeons of days.

They seemed alone, Those prisoners, thro' all time. Each soul shut fast In its own jail of woe, apart, alone, For evermore alone; no thought of kin, Or kindly human glance, or fellows.h.i.+p Of suffering or of sin, made light the load Of solitary pain. Ay, though they walked Together, or were prisoned in one cell With the partners of their wrong, or with strange souls Which the same Furies tore, they knew them not, But suffered still alone; as in that shape Of h.e.l.l fools build on earth, where hopeless sin Rots slow in solitude, nor sees the face Of men, nor hears the sound of speech, nor feels The touch of human hand, but broods a ghost, Hating the bare blank cell--the other self, Which brought it thither--hating man and G.o.d, And all that is or has been.

A great fear And pity froze my blood, who seemed to see A half-remembered form.

An Eastern King It was who lay in pain. He wore a crown Upon his aching brow, and his white robe Was jewelled with fair gems of price, the signs Of pomp and honour and all luxury, Which might prevent desire. But as I looked There came a hunger in the gloating eyes, A quenchless thirst upon the parching lips, And such unsatisfied strainings in the hands Stretched idly forth on what I could not see, Some fatal food of fancy; that I knew The undying worm of sense, which frets and gnaws The unsatisfied stained soul.

Seeing me, he said: "What? And art thou too d.a.m.ned as I? Dost know This thirst as I, and see as I the cool Lymph drawn from thee and mock thy lips; and parch For ever in continual thirst; and mark The fair fruit offered to thy hunger fade Before thy longing eyes? I thought there was No other as I thro' all the weary lengths Of Time the G.o.ds have made, who pined so long And found fruition mock him.

Long ago, When I was young on earth, 'twas a sweet pain To ride all day in the long chase, and feel Toil and the summer fire my blood and parch My lips, while in my father's halls I knew The cool bath waited, with its marble floor; And juices from the ripe fruits pressed, and chilled With snows from far-off peaks; and troops of slaves; And music and the dance; and fair young forms.

And dalliance, and every joy of sense, That haunts the dreams of youth, which strength and ease Corrupt, and vacant hours. Ay, it was sweet For a while to plunge in these, as fair boys plunge Naked in summer streams, all veil of shame Laid by, only the young dear body bathed And sunk in its delight, while the firm earth, The soft green pastures gay with innocent flowers, Or sober harvest fields, show like a dream; And nought is left, but the young life which floats Upon the depths of death, to sink, maybe, And drown in pleasure, or rise at length grown wise And gain the abandoned sh.o.r.e.

Ah, but at last The swift desire waxed stronger and more strong, And feeding on itself, grows tyrannous; And the parched soul no longer finds delight In the cool stream of old; nay, this itself, Smitten by the fire of sense as by a flame, Holds not its coolness more; and fevered limbs, Seeking the fresh tides of their youth, may find No more refreshment, but a cauldron fired With the fires of nether h.e.l.l; and a black rage Usurps the soul, and drives it on to slake Its thirst with crime and blood.

Longing Desire!

Unsatisfied, sick, impotent Desire!

Oh, I have known it ages long. I knew Its pain on earth ere yet my life had grown To its full stature, thro' the weary years Of manhood, nay, in age itself; I knew The quenchless weary thirst, unsatisfied By all the charms of sense, by wealth and power And homage; always craving, never quenched-- The undying curse of the soul! The ministers And agents of my will drave far and wide Through all the land for me, seeking to find Fresh pleasures for me, who had spent my sum Of pleasure, and had power, not even in thought, Nor faculty to enjoy. They tore apart The sacred claustral doors of home for me, Defiled the inviolate hearth for me, laid waste The flower of humble lives, in hope to heal The sickly fancies of the king, till rose A cry of pain from all the land; and I Grew happier for it, since I held the power To quench desire in blood.

But even thus The old pain faded not, but swift again Revived; and thro' the sensual dull lengths Of my seraglios I stalked, and marked The glitter of the gems, the precious webs Plundered from every clime by cruel wars That strewed the sands with corpses; lovely eyes That looked no look of love, and fired no more Thoughts of the flesh; rich meats, and fruits, and wines Grown flat and savourless; and loathed them all, And only cared for power; content to shed Rivers of innocent blood, if only thus I might appease my thirst. Until I grew A monster gloating over blood and pain.

Ah, weary, weary days, when every sense Was satisfied, and nothing left to slake The parched unhappy soul, except to watch The writhing limbs and mark the slow blood drip, Drop after drop, as the life ebbed with it; In a new thrill of l.u.s.t, till blood itself Palled on me, and I knew the fiend I was, Yet cared not--I who was, brief years ago, Only a careless boy lapt round with ease, Stretched by the soft and stealing tide of sense Which now grew red; nor ever dreamed at all What Furies lurked beneath it, but had shrunk In indolent horror from the sight of tears And misery, and felt my inmost soul Sicken with the thought of blood. There comes a time When the insatiate brute within the man, Weary with wallowing in the mire, leaps forth Devouring, and the cloven satyr-hoof Grows to the rending claw, and the lewd leer To the horrible fanged snarl, and the soul sinks And leaves the man a devil, all his sin Grown savourless, and yet he longs to sin And longs in vain for ever.

Yet, methinks, It was not for the G.o.ds to leave me thus.

I stinted not their wors.h.i.+p, building shrines To all of them; the G.o.ddess of Love I served With hecatombs, letting the fragrant fumes Of incense and the costly steam ascend From victims year by year; nay, my own son Pelops, my best beloved, I gave to them Offering, as he must offer who would gain The great G.o.ds' grace, my dearest.

I had gained Through long and weary orgies that strange sense Of nothingness and wasted days which blights The exhausted life, bearing upon its front Counterfeit knowledge, when the bitter ash Of Evil, which the sick soul loathes, appears Like the pure fruit of Wisdom. I had grown As wizards seem, who mingle sensual rites And forms impure with murderous spells and dark Enchantments; till the simple people held My very weakness wisdom, and believed That in my blood-stained palace-halls, withdrawn, I kept the inner mysteries of Zeus And knew the secret of all Being; who was A sick and impotent wretch, so sick, so tired, That even bloodshed palled.

For my stained soul, Knowing its sin, hastened to purge itself With every rite and charm which the dark lore Of priestcraft offered to it. Spells obscene, The blood of innocent babes, sorceries foul Muttered at midnight--these could occupy My weary days; till all my people shrank To see me, and the mother clasped her child Who heard the monster pa.s.s.

They would not hear.

They listened not--the cold ungrateful G.o.ds-- For all my supplications; nay, the more I sought them were they hidden.

At the last A dark voice whispered nightly: 'Thou, poor wretch, That art so sick and impotent, thyself The source of all thy misery, the great G.o.ds Ask a more precious gift and excellent Than alien victims which thou prizest not And givest without a pang. But shouldst thou take Thy costliest and fairest offering, 'Twere otherwise. The life which thou hast given Thou mayst recall. Go, offer at the shrine Thy best beloved Pelops, and appease Zeus and the averted G.o.ds, and know again The youth and joy of yore.'

Night after night, While all the halls were still, and the cold stars Were fading into dawn, I lay awake Distraught with warring thoughts, my throbbing brain Filled with that dreadful voice. I had not shrunk From blood, but this, the strong son of my youth-- How should I dare this thing? And all day long I would steal from sight of him and men, and fight Against the dreadful thought, until the voice Seared all my burning brain, and clamoured, 'Kill!

Zeus bids thee, and be happy.' Then I rose At midnight, when the halls were still, and raised The arras, and stole soft to where my son Lay sleeping. For one moment on his face And stalwart limbs I gazed, and marked the rise And fall of his young breast, and the soft plume Which drooped upon his brow, and felt a thrill Of yearning; but the cold voice urging me Burned me like fire. Three times I gazed and turned Irresolute, till last it thundered at me, 'Strike, fool! thou art in h.e.l.l; strike, fool! and lose The burden of thy chains.' Then with slow step I crept as creeps the tiger on the deer, Raised high my arm, shut close my eyes, and plunged My dagger in his heart.

And then, with a flash, The veil fell downward from my life and left Myself to me--the daily sum of sense-- The long continual trouble of desire-- The stain of blood blotting the stain of l.u.s.t-- The weary foulness of my days, which wrecked My heart and brain, and left me at the last A madman and accursed; and I knew, Far higher than the sensual slope which held The G.o.ds whom erst I wors.h.i.+pped, a white peak Of Purity, and a stern voice pealing doom-- Not the mad voice of old--which pierced so deep Within my life, that with the reeking blade Wet with the heart's blood of my child I smote My guilty heart in twain.

Ah! fool, to dream That the long stain of time might fade and merge In one poor chrism of blood. They taught of yore, My priests who flattered me--nor knew at all The greater G.o.d I know, who sits afar Beyond those earthly shapes, pa.s.sionless, pure, And awful as the Dawn--that the G.o.ds cared For costly victims, drinking in the steam Of sacrifice when the choice hecatombs Were offered for my wrong. Ah no! there is No recompense in these, nor any charm To cleanse the stain of sin, but the long wear Of suffering, when the soul which seized too much Of pleasure here, grows righteous by the pain That doth redress its ill. For what is Right But equipoise of Nature, alternating The Too Much and Too Little? Not on earth The salutary silent forces work Their final victory, but year on year Pa.s.ses, and age on age, and leaves the debt Unsatisfied, while the o'erburdened soul Unloads itself in pain.

Therefore it is I suffer as I suffered ere swift death Set me not free, no otherwise; and yet There comes a healing purpose in my pain I never knew on earth; nor ever here The once-loved evil grows, only the tale Of penalties grown greater hourly dwarfs The accomplished sum of wrong. And yet desire Pursues me still--sick, impotent desire, Fiercer than that of earth.

We are ourselves Our heaven and h.e.l.l, the joy, the penalty, The yearning, the fruition. Earth is h.e.l.l Or heaven, and yet not only earth; but still, After the swift soul leaves the gates of death, The pain grows deeper and less mixed, the joy Purer and less alloyed, and we are d.a.m.ned Or blest, as we have lived."

He ceased, with a wail Like some complaining wind among the pines Or pent among the fretful ocean caves, A sick, sad sound.

Then as I looked, I saw His eyes glare horribly, his dry parched lips Open, his weary hands stretch idly forth As if to clutch the air--infinite pain And mockery of hope. "Seest thou them now?"

He said. "I thirst, I parch, I famish, yet They still elude me, fair and tempting fruit And cooling waters. Now they come again.

See, they are in my grasp, they are at my lips, Now I shall quench me. Nay, again they fly And mock me. Seest thou them, or am I shut From hope for ever, hungering, thirsting still, A madman and in h.e.l.l?"

And as I pa.s.sed In horror, his large eyes and straining hands Froze all my soul with pity.

Then it was A woman whom I saw: a dark pale Queen, With pa.s.sion in her eyes, and fear and pain Holding her steadfast gaze, like one who sees Some dreadful deed of wrong worked out and knows Himself the cause, yet now is powerless To stay the wrong he would.

Seeing me gaze In pity on her woe, she turned and spake With a low wailing voice-- "Thou well mayst gaze With horror on me, sir, for I am lost; I have shed the innocent blood, long years ago, Nay, centuries of pain. I have shed the blood Of him I loved, and found for recompense But self-inflicted death and age-long woe, Which purges not my sin. And yet not I It was who did it, but the G.o.ds, who took A woman's loveless heart and tortured it With love as with a fire. It was not I Who slew my love, but Fate. Fate 'twas which brought My love and me together, Fate which barred The path of blameless love, yet set Love's flame To burn and smoulder in a hopeless heart, Where no relief might come.

The King was old, And I a girl. 'Tis an old tale which runs Thro' the sad ages, and 'twas mine. He had spent His sum of love long since, and I--I knew not A breath of Love as yet. Ah, it is strange To lose the sense of maidenhood, drink deep Of life to the very dregs, and yet not know A flutter of Love's wing. Love takes no thought For pomp, or palace, or respect of men; Nor always in the stately marriage bed, Closed round by silken curtains, laid on down, Nestles a rosy form; but 'mid wild flowers Or desert tents, or in the hind's low cot, Beneath the aspect of the unconscious stars, Dwells all night and is blest.

My love, my life!

He was the old man's son, a fair white soul-- Not like the others, whom the fire of youth Burns like a flame and hurries unrestrained Thro' riotous days and nights, but virginal And pure as any maid. No wandering glance He deigned for all the maidens young and fair Who sought their Prince's eye. But evermore, Upon the high lawns wandering alone, He dwelt unwed; weaving to Artemis, Fairest of all Olympian maids, a wreath From the unpolluted meads, where never herd Drives his white flock, nor ever scythe has come, But the bee sails upon unfettered wing Over the spring-like lawns, and Purity Waters them with soft dews;[1] and yet he showed Of all his peers most manly--heart and soul A very man, tender and true, and strong And pitiful, and in his limbs and mien Fair as Apollo's self.

It was at first In Troezen that I saw him, when he came To greet his sire. Amid the crowd of youths He showed a Prince indeed; yet knew I not Whom 'twas I saw, nor that I held the place Which was his mother's, only from the throng Love, with a barbed dart aiming, pierced my heart Ere yet I knew what ailed me. Every glance Fired me; the youthful grace, the tall straight limbs, The swelling sinewy arms, the large dark eyes Tender yet full of pa.s.sion, the thick locks Tossed from his brow, the lip and cheek which bore The down of early manhood, seemed to feed My heart with short-lived joy.

For when he stood Forth from the throng and knelt before his sire, Then raised his eyes to mine, I felt the curse Of Aphrodite burn me, as it burned My mother before me, and I dared not meet His innocent, frank young eyes.

Said I then young?

Ay, but not young as mine. For I had known The secret things of life, which age the soul In a moment, writing on its front their mark 'Too early ripe;' and he was innocent, My spouse in fitted years, within whose arms I had defied the world.

I turned away Like some white bird that leaves the flock, which sails High in mid air above the haunts of men, Feeling some little dart within her breast, Not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks Down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt Unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool, And pines until the end.

Even from that day I strove to gain his love. Nay, 'twas not I, But the cruel G.o.ds who drove me. Day by day We were together; for in days of old Women were free, not pent in gilded jails As afterwards, but free to walk alone, For good or evil, free. I hardly took Thought for my spouse, the King. For I had found My love at last: what matter if it were A guilty love? Yet love is love indeed, Stronger than heaven or h.e.l.l. Day after day I set myself to tempt him from his proud And innocent way, for I had spurned aside Care for the G.o.ds or men--all but my love.

What need to tell the tale? Was it a sigh, A blush, a momentary glance, which brought a.s.surance of my triumph? It is long Since I have lived, I cannot tell; I know Only the penalty of death and h.e.l.l Which followed on my sin. I knew he loved.

It was not wonderful, seeing that we dwelt A boy and girl together. I was fair, And Eros fired my eyes and lent my voice His own soft tremulous tones. But when our souls Trembled upon the verge, and fancy feigned His arms around me as we fled alone To some free land of exile, lo! a scroll: 'Dearest, it may not be; I fear the G.o.ds; We dare not do this wrong. I go from hence And see thy face no more. Farewell! Forget The love we may not own; go, seek for both Forgiveness from the G.o.ds.'

When I read the words, The cruel words, methought my heart stood still, And when the ebbing life returned I seemed To have lost all thought of Love. Only Revenge Dwelt with me still, the fiercer that I knew My long-prized hope, which came so near success, s.n.a.t.c.hed from me and for ever.

When I rose From my deep swoon, I bade a messenger Go, seek the King for me. He came and sate Beside my couch, and all the doors were closed, And all withdrawn. Then with the liar's art, And hypocrite tears, and feigned reluctancy, And all the subtle wiles a woman draws From the armoury of hate, I did instil The poison to his soul. Cunning devices, Feigned sorrow, mention of his son, regrets, And half confessions--these, with hateful skill Confused together, drove the old man's soul To frenzy; and I watched him, with a sneer, Turn to a dotard thirsting for the life Of his own child. But how to do the deed, Yet shed no blood, nor know the people's hate, Who loved the Prince, I knew not.

Till one day The old man, looking out upon the sea, Besought the dread Poseidon to avenge The treachery of his son. Even as we stood Gazing upon the breathless blue, a cloud Rose from the deep, a little fleecy cloud, Which sudden grew and grew, and turned the blue To purple; and a swift wind rose and sang Higher and higher, and the wine-dark sea Grew ruffled, and within the circling bay The tiny ripples, stealing up the sand, Plunged loud with manes of foam, until they swelled To misty surges thundering on the sh.o.r.e.

Then at the old man's elbow as I stood, A deep dark thought, sent by the powers of ill, Answering, as now I know, my own black hate And not my poor dupe's anger, fired my soul And bade me speak. 'The G.o.d has heard thy prayer,'

I whispered; 'See the surge which wakes and swells To fury; well I know what things shall be.

It is Poseidon's voice sounds in the storm And sends thy vengeance. Young Hippolytus Loves, as thou knowest, on the yellow sand, Hard by the rippled margin of the wave, To urge his flying steeds. Bid him go forth-- He will obey--and see what recompense The G.o.d will send his wrong.'

In the old man's eyes A watery gleam of malice played awhile-- I hated him for it--and he bade his son Drive forth his chariot on the sand, and yoke His three young fiery steeds.

And still the storm Blew fiercer and more fierce, and the white crests Plunged on the strand, and the high promontories Resounded counter-stricken, and a mist Of foam, blown landward, hid the sounding sh.o.r.e.

Then saw I him come forth and bid them yoke His untamed colts. I had not seen his face Since that last day, but, seeing him, I felt The old love spring anew, yet mixed with hate-- A storm of warring pa.s.sions. Tho' I knew What end should come, yet would I speak no word That might avert it. The old man looked forth; I think he had well-nigh forgotten all The wrong he fancied and the doom he prayed, All but the father's pride in the strong son, Who was so young and bold. I saw a smile Upon the dotard's face, when now the steeds Were harnessed and the chariot, on the sand Along the circling margin of the bay, Flew, swift as light. A sudden gleam of sun Flashed on the silver harness as it went, Burned on the brazen axles of the wheels, And on the golden fillets of the Prince Doubled the gold. Sometimes a larger wave Would dash in mist around him, and in fear The rearing coursers plunged, and then again The strong young arm constrained them, and they flashed To where the wave-worn foreland ends the bay.

And then he turned his chariot, a bright speck Now seen, now hidden, but always, tho' the surge Broke round it, safe; emerging like a star From the white clouds of foam. And as I watched, Speaking no word, and breathing scarce a breath, I saw the firm limbs strongly set apart Upon the chariot, and the reins held high, And the proud head bent forward, with long locks Streaming behind, as nearer and more near The swift team rushed--until, with a half joy, It seemed as if my love might yet elude The slow sure anger of the G.o.d, dull wrath Swayed by a woman's lie.

But on the verge, As I cast my eyes, a vast and purple wall Swelled swiftly towards the land; the lesser waves Sank as it came, and to its toppling crest The spume-flecked waters, from the strand drawn back, Left dry the yellow sh.o.r.e. Onward it came, Hoa.r.s.e, capped with breaking foam, lurid, immense, Rearing its dreadful height. The chariot sped Nearer and nearer. I could see my love With the light of victory in his eyes, the smile Of daring on his lips: so near he came To where the marble palace-wall confined The narrow strip of beach--his brave young eyes Fixed steadfast on the goal, in the pride of life, Without a thought of death. I strove to cry, But terror choked my breath. Then, like a bull Upon the windy level of the plain Las.h.i.+ng himself to rage, the furious wave, Poising itself a moment, tossing high Its wind-vexed crest, dashed downward on the strand With a stamp, with a rush, with a roar.

And when I looked, The sh.o.r.e, the fields, the plain, were one white sea Of churning, seething foam--chariot and steeds Gone, and my darling on the wave's white crest Tossed high, whirled down, beaten, and bruised, and flung, Dying upon the marble.

My great love Sprang up redoubled, and cast out my hate And spurned all thought of fear; and down the stair I hurried, and upon the bleeding form I threw myself, and raised his head, and clasped His body to mine, and kissed him on the lips, And in his dying ear confessed my wrong, And saw the horror in his dying eyes And knew that I was d.a.m.ned. And when he breathed His last pure breath, I rose and slowly spake-- Turned to a Fury now by love and pain-- To the old man who knelt, while all the throng Could hear my secret: 'See, thou fool, I am The murderess of thy son, and thou my dupe, Thou and thy G.o.ds. See, he was innocent; I murdered him for love. I scorn ye all, Thee and thy G.o.ds together, who are deceived By a woman's lying tongue! Oh, doting fool, To hate thy own! And ye, false powers, which punish The innocent, and let the guilty soul Escape unscathed, I hate ye all--I curse, I loathe you!'

Then I stooped and kissed my love, And left them in amaze; and up the stair Swept slowly to my chamber, and therein, Hating my life and cursing men and G.o.ds, I did myself to death.

But even here, I find my punishment. Oh, dreadful doom Of souls like mine! To see their evil done Always before their eyes, the one dread scene Of horror. See, the dark wave on the verge Towers horrible, and he---- Oh, Love, my Love!

Safety is near! quick! quicker! urge them on!

Thou wilt 'scape it yet!--Nay, nay, it bursts on him!

I have shed the innocent blood! Oh, dreadful gaze Within his glazing eyes! Hide them, ye G.o.ds!

Hide them! I cannot bear them. Quick! a dagger!

I will lose their glare in death. Nay, die I cannot; I must endure and live--Death brings not peace To the lost souls in h.e.l.l."

And her eyes stared, Rounded with horror, and she stooped and gazed So eagerly, and pressed her fevered hands Upon her trembling forehead with such pain As drives the gazer mad.

Then as I pa.s.sed, I marked against the hardly dawning sky A toilsome figure standing, bent and strained, Before a rocky ma.s.s, which with great pain And agony of labour it would thrust Up a steep hill. But when upon the crest It poised a moment, then I held my breath With dread, for, lo! the poor feet seemed to clutch The hillside as in fear, and the poor hands With hopeless fingers pressed into the stone In agony, and the limbs stiffened, and a cry Like some strong swimmer's, whom the mightier stream Sweeps downward, and he sees his children's eyes Upon the bank; broke from him; and at last, After long struggles of despair, the limbs Relaxed, and as I closed my fearful eyes, Seeing the inevitable doom--a crash, A horrible thunderous noise, as down the steep The shameless fragment leapt. From crag to crag It bounded ever swifter, striking fire And wrapt in smoke, as to the lowest depths Of the vale it tore, and seemed to take with it The miserable form whose painful gaze I caught, as with the great rock whirled and dashed Downward, and marking every crag with gore And long gray hairs, it plunged, yet living still, To the black hollow; and then a silence came More dreadful than the noise, and a low groan Was all that I could hear.

When to the foot Of the dark steep I hurried, half in hope To find the victim dead--not recognizing The undying life of h.e.l.l--I seemed to see An aged man, bruised, bleeding, with gray hairs, And eyes from which the cunning leer of greed Was scarcely yet gone out.