Classic Poem

BOOK I — TARTARUS.

" I N the old man's eyes
A watery gleam of malice played awhile —
I hate him for it — and he bade his son,
Yoking his three young fiery colts, drive forth
His chariot on the sand.
And still the storm
Blew fiercer and more fierce, and the white crests
Plunged on the strand, and the loud promontories
Thundered back repercussive, and a mist
Of foam, torn landward, hid the sounding shore.

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 passions. 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 god, 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 shore. Onward it came,
Hoarse, 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
Lashing himself to rage, the furious wave,
Poising itself a moment, tossing high
Its bristling crest dashed downward on the strand
With a stamp, with a rush, with a roar.
And when I looked,
The shore, the fields, the plain, were one white sea
Of churning, seething foam — chariot and steeds
Gone, and my darling on the wild mad surge
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 damned. 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 gods. See, he was innocent;
I murdered him for love. I scorn ye all,
Thee and thy gods 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 gods,
I did myself to death.
But even here,
I find my punishment. Oh, terrible doom
Of souls like mine! To see their evil done
Always before their eyes, the one dread scene
Of horror. See, the wild 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 gods!
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 Hell "
And her eyes stared,
Rounded with horror, and she stooped and peered
So eagerly, and pressed her fevered hands
Upon her trembling forehead with such pain
As drives the gazer mad.

Then as I passed,
I marked against the hardly dawning sky
A toilsome figure standing, bent and strained,
Before a rocky mass, 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, as he sees his children's eyes
Upon the bank, broke from him; and at last,
After long wrestlings with 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, flashing fire
And wreathed with smoke, as to the lowest depths
Of the vale it tore, and seemed to take with it
The miserable form whose hopeless eyes
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 Hell — 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.
A crafty voice
It was that answered me, the voice of guile
Part purified by pain:
" There comes not death
To those who live in Hell, nor hardly pause
Of suffering longer than may serve to make
The pain renewed, more piercing. "