Classic Poem

That night, when storms were spent and tranquil heaven,
Clear-eyed with stars and fragrant with fresh air,
Slept after thunder, came a sound of song,
And a keen voice that through the forest cried
On Ithocles, and still on Ithocles,
Persistent, till the woods and caverns rang.
He in his lair close-lying and tear-tired
Heard, knew the cry, and trembled. Nearer still
And nearer vibrated the single sound.
Yet, though much called for, Ithocles abode
Prone, deeming that the gods had heard his prayer,
And spake not. Till at the cave-door there stayed
The feet of him who one month since had trodden
Toward that path beneath another moon,
Then Ithocles, thick-throated, ‘Who calls me?’
Cried, knowing well the voice of him who called.
‘It is Lysander.’ ‘If indeed it be he,
Let him forgive; strike deep; I ask no more.
Thy coming, youth, long looked for, sets me free;
For now the storm of love and life is o'er,
And I go conquering and conquered down
To darkness and inevitable doom—
Conquered by Kupris who hath had her will,
But having slain within my soul the sin
That made a desert of her garden-ground.
Live happy in the light of holier Love:
Forget the man who willed thee that great wrong.’
‘Nay, not so, Ithocles, if this hold good!
For I have left my kith and kin for thee,
And, pricked by sharp stings of importunate love,
Am come to cure thy hurt and heal thy soul.’
‘Can this be true? for I do lie as one
Who long hath ta'en a dark and doleful dream:
Waking he shudders, and dim shadowy shapes
Still threaten and weigh down his labouring soul.’
‘Rise, Ithocles, and we will speak of Love;
Fierce-eyed, fire-footed, yet most mild of gods
And musical and holy and serene.
Dear to his spirit are deep-chested sighs,
Pitiful pleadings of woe-wearied men,
And the anguish of unutterable things:
But dearer far when heart with heart is wedded,
Body with body, strength with strength; when passion,
Not raging like wild fire in lustful veins,
But centered in the head and heart, doth steady
Twin wills and wishes to a lofty end.
I come to save thee, Ithocles, or die:
Better is death than shame or loveless life.
I love thee as I love this land we tread,
This dear land of our fathers and our gods;
I love thee as I love the light of heaven
Or the sweet life that nourisheth my soul;
Nay, better than all these I love thee, friend;
And wouldst thou have me die, dishonoured die,
In the fair blossom of my April days,
Disconsolate and disinherited,
With all my hopes and happiness undone?’
‘What will men say, Lysander, if we love?’
‘Let men say what they will. Let us be pure
And faithful to each other to the end.
Life is above and round us, and her dome
Is studded thick with stars of noble deeds,
Each one of which with undivided will
And married purpose we may make our own.
Nay, rise: stand with me at the cavern door:
The storms are over and the skies are clear,
Trembling with dew and moonlight and still stars.
Heaven hears us and the palpitating air,
The woods that murmur, and the streams that leap
Regenerate with tempest-scattered tears;
Be these our temple and our witnesses,
Our idol, altar, oracle, and priest,
Our hymeneal chaunt and holy rite:—
What better need we? and before we die,
All Crete shall bless the marriage of tonight.’