The Princess; a medley/Canto 5

V.Now scarce three paces measured from the moundWe stumbled on a stationary voiceAnd 'Stand, who goes?' 'Two from the palace' I.'The second two: they wait,' he said, 'pass on;His Highness wakes:' and one, that clash'd in armsBy glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, ledThreading the soldier-city, until we heardThe drowsy folds of our great ensign shakeFrom blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tentWhispers of war.

Entering, the sudden lightDazed me half-blind: I stood and seem'd to hear,As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakesA lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies, Each hissing in his neighbour's ear; and thenA strangled titter, out of which outbrakeOn all sides, clamouring etiquette to death Unmeasured mirth; while now the two old kings Began to wag their baldness up and down,The fresh young captains flash'd their glittering teeth, The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew,And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded Squire.

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears, Panted from weary sides 'You are free, O King! We did but keep you surety for our son,If this be he,—or a draggled mawkin, thou,That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge:' For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers, More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath,And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel:'But hence' he said 'indue yourselves like men.Your Cyril told us all'

As boys that slink From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye,Away we stole, and transient in a triceFrom what was left of faded woman-sloughTo sheathing splendours and the golden scale Of harness, issued in the sun that nowLeapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, And hit the northern hills. Here Cyril met us A little shy at first, but by and byWe twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away Thro' the dark land, and later in the night Had come on Psyche weeping: 'then we fell Into your father's hand, and there she lies,But will not speak, nor stir.'

He show'd a tent A stone-shot off: we entered in, and there Among piled arms and rough accoutrements,Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak, Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot, And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal,All her fair length upon the ground she lay:And at her head a follower of the camp,A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood,Sat watching like a watcher by the dead.

Then Florian knelt, and 'Come' he whisper'd to her'Lift up your head, sweet sister: lie not thus.What have you done but right? you could not slay Me, nor your prince: look up: be comforted: Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, When fall'n in darker ways.' And likewise I: 'Be comforted: have I not lost her too, In whose least act abides the nameless charm That none has else for me.' She heard, she moved, She moan'd, a folded voice; and up she sat, And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth, As those that mourn half-shrouded over death In deathless marble. 'Her' she said 'my friend— Parted from her—betray'd her cause and mine—Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not your faith? O base and bad! what comfort? none for me!'To whom remorseful Cyril 'Yet I prayTake comfort: live, dear lady, for your child'At which she lifted up her voice and cried.

'Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child, My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more! For now will cruel Ida keep her back;And either she will die from want of care,Or sicken with ill usage, when they sayThe child is hers—for every little fault,The child is hers; and they will beat my girl Remembering her mother: O my flower!Or they will take her, they will make her hard,And she will pass me by in after-lifeWith some cold reverence worse than were she dead. Ill mother that I was to leave her there,To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, The horror of the shame among them all:But I will go and sit beside the doors,And make a wild petition night and day,Until they hate to hear me like a windWailing for ever, till they open to me,And lay my little blossom at my feet,My babe, my sweet Aglaïa, my one child:And I will take her up and go my way,And satisfy my soul with kissing her:Ah! what might that man not deserve of me, Who gave me back my child?' 'Be comforted'Said Cyril 'you shall have it:' but againShe veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so Like tender things that being caught feign death,Spoke not, nor stirr'd.

By this a murmur ran Thro' all the camp and inward raced the scouts With rumour of Prince Arac hard at hand.We left her by the woman, and without Found the gray kings at parle: and 'Look to it' cried My father 'that our compact is performed:You have spoilt this girl; she laughs at you and man: She shall not legislate for Nature, king,But yields, or war.'

Then Gama turn'd to me: 'We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time With our strange child: and yet they say that still You love her. Give us, then, your mind at large:How say you, war or not?

'Not war, if possible, O king,' I said, 'lest from the abuse of war, The desecrated shrine, the trampled year, The smouldering homestead, and the household flower Torn from the lintel—all the common wrong—A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her Three times a monster: now she lightens scornAt the enemy of her plan, but then would hate (And every voice she talk'd with ratify it,And every face she look'd on justify it) The general foe. More soluble is this knot, Like almost all the rest if men were wise, By gentleness than war. I want her love.What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd Your cities into shards with catapults, And dusted down your domes with mangonels; She would not love;—or brought her chain'd, a slave, The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, Not ever would she love; but brooding turn The book of scorn, till all my little chance Wore caught within the record of her wrongs, And crush'd to death: and rather, Sire, than this I would the old God of war himself were dead, Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice, Not to be molten out.'And roughly spake My father, 'Tut, you know them not, the girls: They prize hard knocks and to be won by force, Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to them As he that does the thing they dare not do, Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in Among the women, snares them by the score Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' dash'd with death He reddens what he kisses: thus I won Your mother, a good mother, a good wife, Worth winning; but this firebrand—gentleness To such as her! if Cyril spake her true, To catch a dragon in a cherry net, To trip a tigress with a gossamer, Were wisdom to it.''Yea but Sire,' I cried, Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier? No: What dares not Ida do that she should prize The soldier? I beheld her, when she roseThe yesternight, and storming in extremes Stood for her cause, and flung defiance downGagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the death, No, not the soldier's: yet I hold her, king,True woman; but you clash them all in one, That have as many differences as we.The violet varies from the lily as farAs oak from elm: one loves the soldier, oneThe silken priest of peace, one this, one that, And some unworthily; their sinless faith,A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, Glorifying clown and satyr; whence they need More breadth of culture: is not Ida right?They worth it? truer to the law within?Severer in the logic of a life?Twice as magnetic to sweet influencesOf Earth and Heaven? and she of whom you speak, My mother, looks as whole as some serene Creation minted in the golden moodsOf sovereign artists; not a thought, a touch,But pure as lines of green that streak the white Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves; I say,Not like strong bursts of sample among men, But all one piece: and take them all-in-all, Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, As truthful, much that Ida claims as rightHad ne'er been mooted, but as easily theirs As dues of Nature. To our point: not war:Lest I lose all.'

'Nay, nay, you spake but sense'Said Gama, 'We remember love ourselves In our sweet youth: we did not rate him then This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows.You talk almost like Ida: she can talk; And there is something in it as you say:But you talk kindlier: we esteem you for it.—He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, I would he had our daughter: for the rest Our own detention, why the causes weigh'd,Fatherly fears—you used us courteously— We would do much to gratify your Prince—We pardon it; and for your ingress hereUpon the skirt and fringe of our fair land,You did but come as goblins in the night,Nor in the furrow broke the plowman's head,Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milking-maid, Nor robbed the farmer of his bowl of cream:But let your Prince (our royal word upon it,He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines,And speak with Arac: Arac's word is thriceAs ours with Ida: something may be done—T know not what—and ours shall see us friends. You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will, Follow us: who knows? we four may build some planFoursquare to opposition.'

Here he reach'd White hands of farewell to my sire, who growl'd An answer which, half-muffled in his beard,Let so much out as gave us leave to go.

Then rode we with the old king across the lawns Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring In every bole, a song on every spray Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke Desire in me to infuse my tale of love In the old king's ears, who promised help, and oozed All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode; And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews Gather'd by night and peace, with each light air On our mail'd heads; but other thoughts than Peace Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares, And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers With clamour: for among them rose a cry As if to greet the king; they made a halt; The horses yell'd; they clash'd their arms; the drum Beat; merrily-blowing shrill'd the martial Fife; And in the blast and bray of the Jong horn And serpent-throated bugle, undulated The banner: anon to meet us lightly prancedThree captains out; nor ever had I seen Such thews of men: the midmost and the highest Was Arac: all about his motion clungThe shadow of his sister, as the beamOf the East, that play'd upon them, made them glance Like those three stars of the airy Giant's zone,That glitter burnished by the frosty dark;And as the fiery Sirius alters hue,And bickers into red and emerald, shoneTheir morions, wash'd with morning, as they came.

And I that prated peace, when first I heard War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force Whose home is in the sinews of a man Stir in me as to strike: then took the king His three broad sons; with now a wandering hand And now a pointed finger, told them all:A common light of smiles at our disguise Broke from their lips, and Arac turning said;

'Our land invaded, life and soul! himself Your captive, yet my father wills not war:But, Prince, the question of your troth remains; And there's a downright honest meaning in her: She ask'd but space and fairplay for her scheme; She prest and prest it on me; life! I feltThat she was half-right talking of her wrongs; And I'll stand by her. Waive your claim, or elseDecide it here: why not? we are three to three.'

I lagg'd in answer loth to strike her kin, And cleave the rift of difference deeper yet; Till one of those two brothers, half aside And fingering at the hair about his lip,To prick us on to combat 'Three to three?But such a three to three were three to one.'A boast that clench'd his purpose like a blow! For fiery-short was Cyril's counter-scoff,And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon the sense Where idle boys are cowards to their shame,And tipt with sportive malice to and fro Like pointed arrows leapt the taunts and hit.

Then spake the third 'But three to three? no more? No more, and in our noble sister's cause?More, more, for honour: every captain waits Hungry for honour, angry for his king.More, more, some fifty on a side, that each May breathe himself, and quick! by overthrowOf these or those, the question settled die.'

'Yea' answered I 'for this wild wreath of air, This flake of rainbow flying on the highest Foam of men's deeds—this honour, if ye will.It needs must be for honour if at all: Since, what decision? if we fail, we fail, And if we win, we fail: she would not keep Her compact.' 'We will send to her' Arac said, 'A score of worthy reasons why she should Bide by this issue: let our missive thro',And you shall have her answer by the word.'

'Boys! shriek'd the old king, but vainlier than a hen To her false daughters in the pool; for none Regarded; neither seem'd there more to say:Back rode we to my father's camp, and foundHe thrice had sent a herald to the gates,To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim,Or by denial flush her babbling wellsWith her own people's life: three times he went:The first, he blew and blew, but none appear'd:He hatter'd at the doors; none came: the next,An awful voice within had warn'd him thence:The third, and those eight daughters of the plough Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught his hair,And so belabour'd him on rib and cheekThey made him wild: not less one glance he caughtThro' the open doors of Ida station'd thereUnshaken, clinging to her purpose, firmTho' compass'd by two armies and the noiseOf arms; and standing like a stately PineSet in a cataract on an island-crag, When storm is on the heights, and right and left Suck'd from the dark heart of the long hills roll The torrents, dash'd to the vale: and yet her willBred will in me to overcome it or fall.

But when I told the king that I was pledged To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash'd His iron palms together with a cry;Himself would tilt it out among the lads:But overborne by all his bearded lordsWith reasons drawn from age and state, perforce He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur: And many a bold knight started up in heat,And sware to combat for my claim till death.

All on this side the palace ran the field Flat to the garden-wall; and likewise here, Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, A column'd entry shone and marble stairs,And great bronze valves, emboss'd with Tomyris And what she did to Cyrus after fight,But now fast barr'd: so here upon the flatAll that long morn the lists were hammer'd up, And all that morn the heralds to and fro,With message and defiance went and came; Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand,But shaken here and there, and rolling wordsOration-like. I kiss'd it and I read.

'You have known, O brother, all the pangs we felt, What heats of moral anger when we heard Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's feet;Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge; Of living hearts that crack within the fire Where smoulder their dead despots; and of those,—Mothers,—that, all prophetic pity, fling Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops The vulture, beak and talon, at the heartMade for all noble motion: and I saw That it was little better in better timesWith smoother men: the old leaven leaven'd all: Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights,No woman named: therefore I set my faceAgainst all men and lived but for mine own.Far off from men we built a fold for them:We stored it full of rich memorial:We fenced it round with gallant institutes,And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey,And prosper'd; till a set of saucy boysBrake on us at our books, and marr'd our peace, Mask'd like our maids, blustering we know not whatOf insolence and love, some pretext heldOf old affiance, invalid, since our willSeal'd not the bond—the striplings!—for their sport!—We have tamed our leopards: shall we not tame these? Or you? or we? for since you think we are touch'dIn honour—nay, we would not aught of false—Is not our cause pure? and whereas we knowYour prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood You draw from, fight; we abide what end soe'er, You failing: but we know you will not. Still You must not slay him; he risk'd his life for ours, His mother lives: yet whatsoe'er you do,Fight and fight well; strike and strike home. O dear Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, youThe sole men to be mingled with our cause,The sole men we shall prize in the after time, Your very armour hallow'd, and your statues Rear'd, sung to, when this gad-fly brush'd aside, We plant a solid foot into the Time,And mould a generation strong to moveWith claim on claim from right to right, till she The woman-phantom, she that seem'd no more Than the man's shadow in a glass, her name Yoked in his mouth with children's, know herself, And knowledge liberate her, nor only here,But ever following those two crowned twins, Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery grainOf Freedom broadcast over all that orbs Between the Northern and the Southern morn.'

Then came a postscript dash'd across the rest. 'See that there be no traitors in your camp: We seem a nest of traitors—none to trust Since our arms fail'd—this Egypt-plague of men! Almost our maids were better at their homes, Than thus man-girdled here: indeed we think Our chiefest comfort is the little child Of one unworthy mother; which she left: She shall not have it back: the child shall grow To prize the authentic mother of her mind.We took it for an hour this morning to us, In our own bed: the tender orphan hands Felt at our heart, and seem'd to charm from thenceThe wrath we nursed against the world: farewell.'

I ceased; he said: 'Stubborn, but she may sit Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms And breed up warriors! See now, tho' yourself Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughsThat swallow common sense, the spindling king, This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance.When the man wants weight the woman takes it up, And topples down the scales; but this is fixtAs are the roots of earth and base of all.Man for the field and woman for the hearth;Man for the sword and for the needle she:Man with the head and woman with the heart: Man to command and woman to obey;All else confusion, Look to it: the gray mareIs ill to live with, when her whinny shrillsFrom tile to scullery, and her small goodman Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of HellMix with his hearth: but take and break her, you! She's yet a colt. Well groom'd and strongly curb'd She might not rank with those detestableThat to the hireling leave their babe, and brawl Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the street.They say she's comely; there's the fairer chance: I like her none the less for rating at her! Besides, the woman wed is not as we,But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, The bearing and the training of a childIs woman's wisdom.'

Thus the hard old king: I took my leave: it was the point of noon: The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there To fifty, till the terrible trumpet blared At the barrier—yet a moment, and once more The trumpet, and again; at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front, until they closed In the middle with the crash of shivering points, And thunder. On his haunches rose the steed, And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. Part sat like rocks: part reel'd but kept their seats: Part roll'd on the earth and rose again and drew: Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down From those two bulks at Arac's side, and down From Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail,The large blows rain'd, as here and everywhereHe rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists,And all the plain, brand, mace, and shaft, and shield Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil bang'dWith hammers; till I thought, can this be heFrom Gama's dwarfish loins? if this be so,The mother makes us most—and thinking thusI glanced to the left, and saw the palace-frontAlive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes,And highest among the statues, statuelike,Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a Jael,With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us,A single band of gold about her hair, Like a Saint's glory up in heaven: but sheNo saint—inexorable—no tenderness— Too hard, too cruel; yet she sees me fight,Yea, let her see me die. With that I draveAmong the thickest, and bore down a Prince,And Cyril, one; but that large-moulded manMade at me thro' the press, and staggering back With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came As comes a pillar of electric cloud,Flaying off the roofs and sucking up the drains,And shadowing down the champain till it strikesOn a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits, And twists the grain with such a roar that the Earth Reels and the herdsmen cry, for everythingGave way before him: only Florian, heThat loved me closer than his own right eye,Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down:And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince,With Psyche's colour round his helmet, tough,Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms;But tougher, suppler, stronger, he that smoteAnd threw him: last I spurred; I felt my veins Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand,And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung,Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanced;I did but shear a feather, and life and loveFlow’d from me; darkness closed me; and I fell.