AS IT BEFELL
PHIRAL strode homeward in the early dusk,
A sickle on his arm. Between the trees
Along the wooded path lay yellow streaks
Of sunset. A little streamlet from a spring
Loitered among the cress and widened there
Where herds returning stopped to drink.
Onward
He passed and hardly knew he saw at glance
A moth of dingy wing lie sprawling flat
Upon an ox-track pool. Smiling he went,
Thinking of her he loved: "O tender heart,
And gentle hand—and gentle hand? I think
I see her now. She would have lifted out
The little moth with pitying words."
He turned,
And stooping found the half-unheeded pool
And set the creature on a hazel twig,
And singing crossed the meadow-land below.
A sickle on his arm. Between the trees
Along the wooded path lay yellow streaks
Of sunset. A little streamlet from a spring
Loitered among the cress and widened there
Where herds returning stopped to drink.
Onward
He passed and hardly knew he saw at glance
A moth of dingy wing lie sprawling flat
Upon an ox-track pool. Smiling he went,
Thinking of her he loved: "O tender heart,
And gentle hand—and gentle hand? I think
I see her now. She would have lifted out
The little moth with pitying words."
He turned,
And stooping found the half-unheeded pool
And set the creature on a hazel twig,
And singing crossed the meadow-land below.
Years, but scarcely years, went by, and she
Of tender heart and gentle hands was now
Fond wife to him and mother to his child.
And life and all went healthily and well.
Of tender heart and gentle hands was now
Fond wife to him and mother to his child.
And life and all went healthily and well.
Now in that land the king was sick and lay
Slow languishing. "Give me," at length, he cried,—
As sick men use, wanting they know not what,—
"Give me to eat of roasted apples, fruit
Of that high garden-tree I love."
"Yea, lord,
What chanced has no man told? A blight of worms
Fell on the orchards here in all thy realm,
In blossom-time. But four days' journey brings
From Valore's hills the fruit thou cravest so.
Royal word and gift discovering out
Of all thy youth the swiftest, him shall send."
Slow languishing. "Give me," at length, he cried,—
As sick men use, wanting they know not what,—
"Give me to eat of roasted apples, fruit
Of that high garden-tree I love."
"Yea, lord,
What chanced has no man told? A blight of worms
Fell on the orchards here in all thy realm,
In blossom-time. But four days' journey brings
From Valore's hills the fruit thou cravest so.
Royal word and gift discovering out
Of all thy youth the swiftest, him shall send."
And Phiral was the swiftest; him they found
And sped in double haste to serve the king.
And Phiral's wife took counsel of herself,
Thinking how their one little child would miss
His father's face and weep uncomforted.
"hy should it be so long? Four days and nights
Will make my darling ill, and all for what?
One tree bears apples all as good as those
Upon another; all's the merest thought,
If you but will. Too far is Valore's land.
Turn thou aside and take thy way to Lorm
And get thee in at Barvan's gate, that soon
Thou mayst return; the better for the king,
For thee, and me, and little Svane. O haste!"
Nor Phiral nor his wife looked far before:
Blind love unmixed with forethought led him; her,
The thing that centered in the moment's need,
Hers or her child's.
Phiral took the hill road,
Then turned aside and came to Barvan's gate,
Beside an inland lake, weary at dawn of day;
But all unresting till his errand's end,
Right forth he set with what he came to seek,
Wrapped in a silken scrip, embroidered thick
With mystic dragons and a golden crest.
Now Barvan nursed hate against the king, sought
A road to slay him by bare treachery;
For he had failed in arms in open field
Thrice, yea, four times failed, in even battle-line;
But guileful still in low subjection lived.
Apples he gave, ruddy, and gold, and ripe,
And in their heart a subtle powder, sweet
And deadly.
Then when Phiral, from the crest
Of Lorm's last highland, saw the waning day
Glittering on the king's blue towers afar,
He fell a-thirst, seemed to himself all one
As dead, but resting chewed dry wayside leaves,
Took courage, and fared on across the plain
Through miles of trampled dust. Far spent, at last,
From thirst and weariness, and weakness, heart
Gave way and down he sank upon a knoll
Panting, "Why should one die with food in scrip?"
He took and ate of Barvan's gift, and rose
With thought of home and wife and little Svane;
He rose and ran, and as the sun went down,
Fell at the city's gate, crying, "The king!
Save him!" with a great bitter cry and died.
And seeing the king's crest upon the scrip,
Though hardly they could take the silken bag
From out his grasp, men bore it quickly on
To the king's palace, to the ailing king,
And he died, slain by that subtlety,—slain
By that chance along with Phiral. Nor court
Nor people knew.
Then reigned another prince,
And years went by, and Phiral's son was grown
A mighty man at arms; the king took joy
Of him and set him over all his hosts,
Made him friend, close comrade of his repose,
Counselor to his throne through evil days.
And sped in double haste to serve the king.
And Phiral's wife took counsel of herself,
Thinking how their one little child would miss
His father's face and weep uncomforted.
"hy should it be so long? Four days and nights
Will make my darling ill, and all for what?
One tree bears apples all as good as those
Upon another; all's the merest thought,
If you but will. Too far is Valore's land.
Turn thou aside and take thy way to Lorm
And get thee in at Barvan's gate, that soon
Thou mayst return; the better for the king,
For thee, and me, and little Svane. O haste!"
Nor Phiral nor his wife looked far before:
Blind love unmixed with forethought led him; her,
The thing that centered in the moment's need,
Hers or her child's.
Phiral took the hill road,
Then turned aside and came to Barvan's gate,
Beside an inland lake, weary at dawn of day;
But all unresting till his errand's end,
Right forth he set with what he came to seek,
Wrapped in a silken scrip, embroidered thick
With mystic dragons and a golden crest.
Now Barvan nursed hate against the king, sought
A road to slay him by bare treachery;
For he had failed in arms in open field
Thrice, yea, four times failed, in even battle-line;
But guileful still in low subjection lived.
Apples he gave, ruddy, and gold, and ripe,
And in their heart a subtle powder, sweet
And deadly.
Then when Phiral, from the crest
Of Lorm's last highland, saw the waning day
Glittering on the king's blue towers afar,
He fell a-thirst, seemed to himself all one
As dead, but resting chewed dry wayside leaves,
Took courage, and fared on across the plain
Through miles of trampled dust. Far spent, at last,
From thirst and weariness, and weakness, heart
Gave way and down he sank upon a knoll
Panting, "Why should one die with food in scrip?"
He took and ate of Barvan's gift, and rose
With thought of home and wife and little Svane;
He rose and ran, and as the sun went down,
Fell at the city's gate, crying, "The king!
Save him!" with a great bitter cry and died.
And seeing the king's crest upon the scrip,
Though hardly they could take the silken bag
From out his grasp, men bore it quickly on
To the king's palace, to the ailing king,
And he died, slain by that subtlety,—slain
By that chance along with Phiral. Nor court
Nor people knew.
Then reigned another prince,
And years went by, and Phiral's son was grown
A mighty man at arms; the king took joy
Of him and set him over all his hosts,
Made him friend, close comrade of his repose,
Counselor to his throne through evil days.
It chanced there was a knave in prince's garb
About the king,—keeper of his own thoughts,
Silent and cold-eyed, observant of ear,
Stealthy of spirit, one that plotted much
In crass day-dreams his own aggrandizement.
But ever Svane kept to the simple ways
That never hinder men from living long and well,
And dwelt untrammeled in his own first home
Where still his mother, mistress of his heart,
Lived and loved for him—how else?—in the round
Of her small world, each day as it arose.
About the king,—keeper of his own thoughts,
Silent and cold-eyed, observant of ear,
Stealthy of spirit, one that plotted much
In crass day-dreams his own aggrandizement.
But ever Svane kept to the simple ways
That never hinder men from living long and well,
And dwelt untrammeled in his own first home
Where still his mother, mistress of his heart,
Lived and loved for him—how else?—in the round
Of her small world, each day as it arose.
And Svane wrought the king's will with sword and word,
And all the people were at peace to till
Their lands and tend their flocks, or make their mart
Among themselves, by land and sea. But Doure,
The knave-prince, grumbled in his palace hall,
Until his wife, a princess wise and gentle, said,
"Patience, my lord; the king will give you place yet
To do the thing you would. His armies lie
Expectant in their tents." But Doure's one thought
Was "Svane, Svane! Ay, 'tis ever Svane," and sulked
And crept away to think,
A young moon's arc
Hung low among the yellow stars,—between
The purple and the gray that meet the blue,
Banding, all three, the early evening sky,—
And lighted Svane forth and back, among
His garden plots and arbored paths and glades
Of scented shrubs, and crossed his troubled thought
With brief cessation.
"Time to tell the king?
Ay, now, for Doure is even now—But if
The king knew, yea, to-night, Doure's head would fall,
And that poor princess and the child, his son:
My mother pleads for them: that Doure
May fail, that I may ward his treason, save
Him alive, and never tell the king all;
And take the traitor in my hands and hold
His waywardness in check and make him serve
His duty to the king,—and keep the three alive.
'The wife,' my mother weeps, 'the little child!'
Yet when had not the innocent to suffer
If those they love are guilty? Doure must die!"
And all the people were at peace to till
Their lands and tend their flocks, or make their mart
Among themselves, by land and sea. But Doure,
The knave-prince, grumbled in his palace hall,
Until his wife, a princess wise and gentle, said,
"Patience, my lord; the king will give you place yet
To do the thing you would. His armies lie
Expectant in their tents." But Doure's one thought
Was "Svane, Svane! Ay, 'tis ever Svane," and sulked
And crept away to think,
A young moon's arc
Hung low among the yellow stars,—between
The purple and the gray that meet the blue,
Banding, all three, the early evening sky,—
And lighted Svane forth and back, among
His garden plots and arbored paths and glades
Of scented shrubs, and crossed his troubled thought
With brief cessation.
"Time to tell the king?
Ay, now, for Doure is even now—But if
The king knew, yea, to-night, Doure's head would fall,
And that poor princess and the child, his son:
My mother pleads for them: that Doure
May fail, that I may ward his treason, save
Him alive, and never tell the king all;
And take the traitor in my hands and hold
His waywardness in check and make him serve
His duty to the king,—and keep the three alive.
'The wife,' my mother weeps, 'the little child!'
Yet when had not the innocent to suffer
If those they love are guilty? Doure must die!"
But Svane's mother, all awake, rose and met
Her son, took him full-armored as he stood,
And set him by her bed and made him see
And feel her way: less haste might save the two
That else would die with Doure. So Svane's mind turned,
Saw not what might befall between and failed
Of natural tenor. So he slept, all be,
In armor, by his door, and not at peace.
Her son, took him full-armored as he stood,
And set him by her bed and made him see
And feel her way: less haste might save the two
That else would die with Doure. So Svane's mind turned,
Saw not what might befall between and failed
Of natural tenor. So he slept, all be,
In armor, by his door, and not at peace.
Now whether Doure's envy, his traitor mind
At work betimes, despite his craven heart,
Drove honest sleep away, the tale tells not,
But something led him forth to walk at deep
Of night between the dawn and that dim hour
When palest stars withdraw and leave the brightest
Waning, a cold wind blows, and sleep is heaviest.
Slinking by Svane's garden, even to his door,
There he found the sleeping warrior,—there
Wounded him to death and left him bare words
Enough to warn the king. And so Svane died;
All was ended for Phiral and his line.
Whether, then, as some think it ought to seem,
By reason of the people's wrath, Doure came
To death, or fled beyond the western plain
To Barvan's high-walled city, certain word
Has no man had. But the knave prince's child
In later years fell heir to Barvan's crown,
And Lorm's empire,—scrolls say not how,—
Except as son of that wise princess, wife
To Doure, whose record ends where it begins
That she was wise and gentle all her days.
At work betimes, despite his craven heart,
Drove honest sleep away, the tale tells not,
But something led him forth to walk at deep
Of night between the dawn and that dim hour
When palest stars withdraw and leave the brightest
Waning, a cold wind blows, and sleep is heaviest.
Slinking by Svane's garden, even to his door,
There he found the sleeping warrior,—there
Wounded him to death and left him bare words
Enough to warn the king. And so Svane died;
All was ended for Phiral and his line.
Whether, then, as some think it ought to seem,
By reason of the people's wrath, Doure came
To death, or fled beyond the western plain
To Barvan's high-walled city, certain word
Has no man had. But the knave prince's child
In later years fell heir to Barvan's crown,
And Lorm's empire,—scrolls say not how,—
Except as son of that wise princess, wife
To Doure, whose record ends where it begins
That she was wise and gentle all her days.
NEPHRAN AND THE LAW
THUS Nephran made discourse unto himself,
Walking at eve beneath the sycamores:
Walking at eve beneath the sycamores:
"Alarion says that Nature—God—fails not
To punish evil-doing. Ay, a priest,
Alarion speaks as a priest should speak, I grant.
Were I a priest, this thing upon my tongue
Should be and help to get my bread as well.
But I am young and strong and free—my own,
I am—and no man hinders. Would I, think,
Endure that freedom should be hedged about
For harping like to this? So, look at me!
A score of times have I done thus,—and thus,—
That he denominates wrong,—and look at me!
Who is so strong? Who goes so far and never
Tires? Or who sleeps as I? And I will think
Alarion is a fool, or Nature is, or—"
To punish evil-doing. Ay, a priest,
Alarion speaks as a priest should speak, I grant.
Were I a priest, this thing upon my tongue
Should be and help to get my bread as well.
But I am young and strong and free—my own,
I am—and no man hinders. Would I, think,
Endure that freedom should be hedged about
For harping like to this? So, look at me!
A score of times have I done thus,—and thus,—
That he denominates wrong,—and look at me!
Who is so strong? Who goes so far and never
Tires? Or who sleeps as I? And I will think
Alarion is a fool, or Nature is, or—"
·······
Nephran bows low above his only child,
The last of seven; agonizing seeks
To save the feeble flame of life alive;
He chafes the little hand, the poor lame feet;
He lifts the helpless head, and holds the cup
To lips that smile, but, drinking not, try,
To please the face that hangs above,
As the blue eyes widely open, glistening,
Seem to say. . . .
The last of seven; agonizing seeks
To save the feeble flame of life alive;
He chafes the little hand, the poor lame feet;
He lifts the helpless head, and holds the cup
To lips that smile, but, drinking not, try,
To please the face that hangs above,
As the blue eyes widely open, glistening,
Seem to say. . . .