Atalanta in Calydon | Page 9

of wit, Scared with vain dreams and fluttering like spent
fire, I come to judge between you, but a king Full of past days and wise
from years endured. Nor thee I praise, who art fain to undo things done;
Nor thee, who art swift to esteem them overmuch. For what the hours
have given is given, and this Changeless; howbeit these change, and in
good time Devise new things and good, not one thing still. Us have
they sent now at our need for help Among men armed a woman,
foreign born, Virgin, not like the natural flower of things That grows
and bears and brings forth fruit and dies, Unlovable, no light for a
husband's house, Espoused; a glory among unwedded girls, And chosen
of gods who reverence maidenhood. These too we honour in honouring
her; but thou, Abstain thy feet from following, and thine eyes From
amorous touch; nor set toward hers thine heart, Son, lest hate bear no
deadlier fruit than love.
ALTHAEA.
O king, thou art wise, but wisdom halts, and just, But the gods love not
justice more than fate, And smite the righteous and the violent mouth,
And mix with insolent blood the reverent man's, And bruise the holier
as the lying lips. Enough; for wise words fail me, and my heart Takes
fire and trembles flamewise, O my son, O child, for thine head's sake;
mine eyes wax thick, Turning toward thee, so goodly a weaponed man,
So glorious; and for love of thine own eyes They are darkened, and
tears burn them, fierce as fire, And my lips pause and my soul sinks
with love. But by thine hand, by thy sweet life and eyes, By thy great
heart and these clasped knees, O son, I pray thee that thou slay me not
with thee. For there was never a mother woman-born Loved her sons

better; and never a queen of men More perfect in her heart toward
whom she loved. For what lies light on many and they forget, Small
things and transitory as a wind o' the sea, I forget never; I have seen
thee all thine years A man in arms, strong and a joy to men Seeing
thine head glitter and thine hand burn its way Through a heavy and iron
furrow of sundering spears; But always also a flower of three suns old,
The small one thing that lying drew down my life To lie with thee and
feed thee; a child and weak, Mine, a delight to no man, sweet to me.
Who then sought to thee? who gat help? who knew If thou wert goodly?
nay, no man at all. Or what sea saw thee, or sounded with thine oar,
Child? or what strange land shone with war through thee? But fair for
me thou wert, O little life, Fruitless, the fruit of mine own flesh, and
blind, More than much gold, ungrown, a foolish flower. For silver nor
bright snow nor feather of foam Was whiter, and no gold yellower than
thine hair, O child, my child; and now thou art lordlier grown, Not
lovelier, nor a new thing in mine eyes, I charge thee by thy soul and
this my breast, Fear thou the gods and me and thine own heart, Lest all
these turn against thee; for who knows What wind upon what wave of
altering time Shall speak a storm and blow calamity? And there is
nothing stabile in the world But the gods break it; yet not less, fair son,
If but one thing be stronger, if one endure, Surely the bitter and the
rooted love That burns between us, going from me to thee, Shall more
endure than all things. What dost thou, Following strange loves? why
wilt thou kill mine heart? Lo, I talk wild and windy words, and fall
From my clear wits, and seem of mine own self Dethroned, dispraised,
disseated; and my mind, That was my crown, breaks, and mine heart is
gone, And I am naked of my soul, and stand Ashamed, as a mean
woman; take thou thought: Live if thou wilt, and if thou wilt not, look,
The gods have given thee life to lose or keep, Thou shalt not die as men
die, but thine end Fallen upon thee shall break me unaware.
MELEAGER.
Queen, my whole heart is molten with thy tears, And my limbs yearn
with pity of thee, and love Compels with grief mine eyes and labouring
breath: For what thou art I know thee, and this thy breast And thy fair
eyes I worship, and am bound Toward thee in spirit and love thee in all

my soul. For there is nothing terribler to men Than the sweet face of
mothers, and the might But what shall be