Atalanta in Calydon | Page 4

of their ways?
ALTHAEA.
What if they give us poisonous drinks for wine?
CHORUS.
They have their will; much talking mends it not.
ALTHAEA.
And gall for milk, and cursing for a prayer?
CHORUS.
Have they not given life, and the end of life?
ALTHAEA.
Lo, where they heal, they help not; thus they do, They mock us with a little piteousness, And we say prayers, and weep; but at the last, Sparing awhile, they smite and spare no whit.
CHORUS.
Small praise man gets dispraising the high gods: What have they done that thou dishonourest them?
ALTHAEA.
First Artemis for all this harried land I praise not; and for wasting of the boar That mars with tooth and tusk and fiery feet Green pasturage and the grace of standing corn And meadow and marsh with springs and unblown leaves, Flocks and swift herds and all that bite sweet grass, I praise her not, what things are these to praise?
CHORUS.
But when the king did sacrifice, and gave Each god fair dues of wheat and blood and wine, Her not with bloodshed nor burnt-offering Revered he, nor with salt or cloven cake; Wherefore being wroth she plagued the land, but now Takes off from us fate and her heavy things. Which deed of these twain were not good to praise? For a just deed looks always either way With blameless eyes, and mercy is no fault.
ALTHAEA.
Yea, but a curse she hath sent above all these To hurt us where she healed us; and hath lit Fire where the old fire went out, and where the wind Slackened, hath blown on us with deadlier air.
CHORUS.
What storm is this that tightens all our sail?
ALTHAEA.
Love, a thwart sea-wind full of rain and foam.
CHORUS.
Whence blown, and born under what stormier star?
ALTHAEA.
Southward across Euenus from the sea.
CHORUS.
Thy speech turns toward Arcadia like blown wind.
ALTHAEA.
Sharp as the north sets when the snows are out.
CHORUS.
Nay, for this maiden hath no touch of love.
ALTHAEA.
I would she had sought in some cold gulf of sea Love, or in dens where strange beasts lurk, or fire, Or snows on the extreme hills, or iron land Where no spring is; I would she had sought therein And found, or ever love had found her here.
CHORUS.
She is holier than all holy days or things, The sprinkled water or fume of perfect fire; Chaste, dedicated to pure prayers, and filled With higher thoughts than heaven; a maiden clean, Pure iron, fashioned for a sword, and man She loves not; what should one such do with love?
ALTHAEA.
Look you, I speak not as one light of wit, But as a queen speaks, being heart-vexed; for oft I hear my brothers wrangling in mid hall, And am not moved; and my son chiding them, And these things nowise move me, but I know Foolish and wise men must be to the end, And feed myself with patience; but this most, This moves me, that for wise men as for fools Love is one thing, an evil thing, and turns Choice words and wisdom into fire and air. And in the end shall no joy come, but grief, Sharp words and soul's division and fresh tears Flower-wise upon the old root of tears brought forth, Fruit-wise upon the old flower of tears sprung up, Pitiful sighs, and much regrafted pain. These things are in my presage, and myself Am part of them and know not; but in dreams The gods are heavy on me, and all the fates Shed fire across my eyelids mixed with night, And burn me blind, and disilluminate My sense of seeing, and my perspicuous soul Darken with vision; seeing I see not, hear And hearing am not holpen, but mine eyes Stain many tender broideries in the bed Drawn up about my face that I may weep And the king wake not; and my brows and lips Tremble and sob in sleeping, like swift flames That tremble, or water when it sobs with heat Kindled from under; and my tears fill my breast And speck the fair dyed pillows round the king With barren showers and salter than the sea, Such dreams divide me dreaming; for long since I dreamed that out of this my womb had sprung Fire and a firebrand; this was ere my son, Meleager, a goodly flower in fields of fight, Felt the light touch him coming forth, and waited Childlike; but yet he was not; and in time I bare him, and my heart was great; for yet So royally was never strong man born, Nor queen so nobly bore as noble a thing As this my son was: such a birth God sent And such a grace to bear it. Then came in Three weaving women, and span each a thread, Saying This for strength and That for luck, and one Saying Till the brand upon the hearth burn down, So