Collected Works (Vol. II)

II2 THE ARGONAUTS Just by the Maenad-haunted hill Songs rise into the air, and thrill, Like clustered birds at evening When love outlingers rain and spring. Faint faces of strange dancers spill Their dewy scent ; and sweet and chill The wind comes faintly whispering On wanton wing. Between the islands sheer and steep Our craft treads noiseless o’er the deep, Turned to the gold heart of the west, The sun’s last sigh of love expressed Ere the lake glimmer, borrow sleep From clouds and tinge their edges; weep That night brings love not to his breast, But only rest. We move toward the golden track Shed in the water: we look back Eastward, where rose is set to warn Promise and prophecy of dawn Reflected, lest the ocean lack In any space serene or slack Some colour, blushing o’er the fawn Dim-lighted lawn. At grave harmonious intervals. The grand voice of some seaman calls, Just as the picture fades, aware How it was fair. JASON. A thousand victories bring us to the shore Whence we set out: look forth ! The people come Moving with lights about the anchorage ‘To greet the heroes of the Golden Fleece. My Queen ! Medea! Welcome unto Greece | EXPLICIT ACTUS QUARTUS. ARGONAUTAE. ACTUS QUINTUS. ARES. Jason, Mrvea, PELIAs, ACASTUS, AL- CKSTIS and her Sisters, MADNESS. And under all the shadowy shapes Of steep and silent bays and capes The water takes its darkest hue ; Catches no laughter from the blue ; No purple ray or gold escapes, But dim green shadow comes and drapes Its lustre: thus the night burns through Tall groves of yew. ScENE: Zhe Palace at Jolchus. MADNESS. Black Ares hath called Me forth from the deep ! Blind and appalled, Shall the palace high-walled Shake as I leap Over the granite, The marble over, One step to span it, One flight to hover, Like a moon round a planet, A dream round a lover ! Thither, ah thither! Hollow vales Trembling with early nightingales ! Languish, O sea of sleep ! Young moon! Dream on above in maiden swoon ! None daring to invoke the gales To shake our sea, and swell our sails. Not song, but silence, were a boon— Save for this tune. 1 The legend is grotesque, and the poet's power is strained—-perhaps overstrained—to be faithful without being ridiculous. Only the tragic necessity of avenging the indignity done to Ares compelled this conclusion of the drama, ind the somewhat fantastic and unreal machinery of the catastrophe. .. Round capes grown darker as night falls, We see at last the splendid walls That ridge the bay ; the town lies there Lighted (the temple’s hour for prayer)