Collected Works (Vol. I)

16 THE TALE OF ARCHAIS To Cypris’ ear alone. She bowed her head And bade her nymphs prepare a royal bed Where he should rest awhile ; and, being gone, Cypris and Charicles were left alone. An aureole of purple round her brow Flames lovenomore ; but fierce defiance now Knotted the veins, suffused them with rich blood, And wrath restrained from sight the torrid flood Of tears; her eyes were terrible; she spake: “Rise for thy life, and flee. Arise, awake, And hide thee in the temple; Zeus hath spoken To me-—me, Queen of Love—O sceptre broken !— O vainest of all realms ! that thou must die. This only chance is left thee yet, to fly Within that sanctity even he not dares To touch with impious hand; thus un- awares Creep in among the colunnns to a gate My hand shall show thee; it will open straight And thou must lie forgotten till his rage Have lost its first excess—then may we wage A more successful war against his power.” But Charicles: “Shall I for one short hour Fly from his tyranny? Am I such man As should flee from him? Let the pale and wan Women have fear—in strength of justice, I {lis vain fierce fury do this hour defy !” There shot through Heaven an awful tongue of fire, Attended by its minister, the dire Black thunder. In clear accents, cold and chill, There sounded: ‘‘ Boldest mortal, have thy will! I do reverse the doom of Archais And lay it on thyself; nor ever this Shall lift its curse from off thee, this I swear.” And Cypris looked upon him and was ware ITis form did change, and, writhing from her clasp, Fled hissing outward, a more hateful asp Than India breeds to-day, so terrible Was his despair, so venomous as hell The sudden hate that filled him. So away, Knowing not whither, did he flee, till day Dropped her blue pinions, and the night drew on, And sable clouds banked out the weary sun. PART III Lonc days and nights succeeded in despair. Each noon beheld his doom—too proud for prayer, And scorning Aphrodite’s help—he strayed Through swamps and weary bogs, nor yet betrayed His anguished countenance to mortal men. There was so keen an hour of sorrow, when IIe had destroyed himself; but Heaven’s hand, Stretched out in vengeance, held him back. The land, Where rest is made eternal, slipped his clutch ; He wandered through the world and might not touch The sceptre of King Death. In vain he sought Those fierce embraces, nor availed him aught To numb the aching of his breast. The maid He loved, now freed from doom, no longer prayed For anything but to discover him, And her large eyes with weeping grew more dim Than are the mists of Autumn on the hills, She sought him far and near; the rocks and rills Could tell her nought; the murmur of the trees Told her their pity and no more ; the breeze That cooled its burning locks within the sea, And dared not pass o’er the dank swamps where he Was hid, knew nothing; nor the soughing waves, Through all the desolation of those caves