Lays and Legends (Second Series)

I would not yield the man who trusted Cymé —
What – is the god of baser stuff than I?"

So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,
A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,
A second time beneath the purple shadows
Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.

Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé
Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia —
And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,
Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.

"Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,
The foe is strong, and our defences slender;
Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render
Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."

So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:
"Yield ye your suppliant – yield him to the Persians".
Then Aristodicus bethought him further,
And in this fashion craftily he wrought.

All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies
Of carven work made by man's love and labour,
In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,
The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.

And all day long their floating wings made beauty
About the temple and the whispering laurels,
And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur,
Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.

Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,
Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,
And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.
The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.

Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,
And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,
And, in the heart of every man beholding,
The anger of the immortal gods made night.

Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple
Came forth a voice more beautiful than music,
More terrible than thunder and wild waters,
And more to be desired than summer sun.

"O thou most impious of all impious mortals,
Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,
And torn away the homes of those who trust me,
Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"

Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:
"Lord, is it thus thy suppliants are succoured,
What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé
To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"

Then on the hush of awful expectation
Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals,
Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodious
With all the song and sorrow of the world: —

"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning
Against the gods ye may the sooner perish —
And come no more to question at my temple
Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"

AT THE PRIVATE VIEW

Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say?
The crowd says it will make my name —
A name I'd gladly throw away
For a certain unseen star's pure ray.
I want success I've missed – not fame.

You see the mother kneeling there,
The child who cries for bread in vain.
The hard straw bed, the window bare,
The rags, the rat, the broken chair,
The misery and cold and pain.

But what you don't see – (never will!) —
Is what was there while yet I drew
The lines – which are not drawn so ill,
Put on the colours – worthy still
Of praise from critics such as you.

I used to paint all day, to pour
My soul out as I painted – see
There, to the life, the rotten floor,
The rags, the damp, the broken door,
For those your world will honour me.

But, though if here my models were,
You should not find a line drawn wrong,
Yet there is food for my despair,
But half my picture's finished fair;
Words without music are not song.