Chione

Scarcely a breath about the rocky stair     Moved, but the growing tide from verge to verge,     Heaving salt fragrance on the midnight air,     Climbed with a murmurous and fitful surge.     A hoary mist rose up and slowly sheathed     The dripping walls and portal granite-stepped,     And sank into the inner court, and crept     From column unto column thickly wreathed.     In that dead hour of darkness before dawn,     When hearts beat fainter, and the hands of death     Are strengthened, - with lips white and drawn     And feverish lids and scarcely moving breath,     The hapless mother, tender Chione,     Beside the earth-cold figure of her child,     After long bursts of weeping sharp and wild     Lay broken, silent in her agony.     At first in waking horror racked and bound     She lay, and then a gradual stupor grew     About her soul and wrapped her round and round     Like death, and then she sprang to life anew     Out of a darkness clammy as the tomb;     And, touched by memory or some spirit hand,     She seemed to keep a pathway down a land     Of monstrous shadow and Cimmerian gloom.     A waste of cloudy and perpetual night -     And yet there seemed a teeming presence there     Of life that gathered onward in thick flight,     Unseen, but multitudinous. Aware     Of something also on her path she was     That drew her heart forth with a tender cry.     She hurried with drooped ear and eager eye,     And called on the foul shapes to let her pass.     For down the sloping darkness far ahead     She saw a little figure slight and small,     With yearning arms and shadowy curls outspread,     Running at frightened speed; and it would fall     And rise, sobbing; and through the ghostly sleet     The cry came: 'Mother! Mother!' and she wist     The tender eyes were blinded by the mist,     And the rough stones were bruising the small feet.     And when she lifted a keen cry and clave     Forthright the gathering horror of the place,     Mad with her love and pity, a dark wave     Of clapping shadows swept about her face,     And beat her back, and when she gained her breath,     Athwart an awful vale a grizzled steam     Was rising from a mute and murky stream,     As cold and cavernous as the eye of death.     And near the ripple stood the little shade,     And many hovering ghosts drew near him, some     That seemed to peer out of the mist and fade     With eyes of soft and shadowing pity, dumb;     But others closed him round with eager sighs     And sweet insistence, striving to caress     And comfort him; but grieving none the less,     He reached her heartstrings with his tender cries.     And silently across the horrid flow,     The shapeless bark and pallid chalklike arms     Of him that oared it, dumbly to and fro,     Went gliding, and the struggling ghosts in swarms     Leaped in and passed, but myriads more behind     Crowded the dismal beaches. One might hear     A tumult of entreaty thin and clear     Rise like the whistle of a winter wind.     And still the little figure stood beside     The hideous stream, and toward the whispering prow     Held forth his tender tremulous hands, and cried,     Now to the awful ferryman, and now     To her that battled with the shades in vain.     Sometimes impending over all her sight     The spongy dark and the phantasmal flight     Of things half-shapen passed and hid the plain.     And sometimes in a gust a sort of wind     Drove by, and where its power was hurled,     She saw across the twilight, jarred and thinned,     Those gloomy meadows of the under world,     Where never sunlight was, nor grass, nor trees,     And the dim pathways from the Stygian shore,     Sombre and swart and barren, wandered o'er     By countless melancholy companies.     And farther still upon the utmost rim     Of the drear waste, whereto the roadways led,     She saw in piling outline, huge and dim,     The walled and towerd dwellings of the dead     And the grim house of Hades. Then she broke     Once more fierce-footed through the noisome press;     But ere she reached the goal of her distress,     Her pierced heart seemed to shatter, and she woke.     It seemed as she had been entombed for years,     And came again to living with a start.     There was an awful echoing in her ears     And a great deadness pressing at her heart.     She shuddered and with terror seemed to freeze,     Lip-shrunken and wide-eyed a moment's space,     And then she touched the little lifeless face,     And kissed it, and rose up upon her knees.     And round her still the silence seemed to teem     With the foul shadows of her dream beguiled -     No dream, she thought; it could not be a dream,     But her child called for her; her child, her child! -     She clasped her quivering fingers white and spare,     And knelt low down, and bending her fair head     Unto the lower gods who rule the dead,     Touched them with tender homage and this prayer:     O gloomy masters of the dark demesne,     Hades, and thou whom the dread deity     Bore once from earthly Enna for his queen,     Beloved of Demeter, pale Persephone,     Grant me one boon;     'Tis not for life I pray,     Not life, but quiet death; and that soon, soon!     Loose from my soul this heavy weight of clay,     This net of useless woe.     O mournful mother, sad Persephone,     Be mindful, let me go!     How shall he journey to the dismal beach,     Or win the ear of Charon, without one     To keep him and stand by him, sure of speech?     He is so little, and has just begun     To use his feet     And speak a few small words,     And all his daily usage has been sweet     As the soft nesting ways of tender birds.     How shall he fare at all     Across that grim inhospitable land,     If I too be not by to hold his hand,     And help him if he fall?     And then before the gloomy judges set,     How shall he answer? Oh, I cannot bear     To see his tender cheeks with weeping wet,     Or hear the sobbing cry of his despair!     I could not rest,     Nor live with patient mind,     Though knowing what is fated must be best;     But surely thou art more than mortal kind,     And thou canst feel my woe,     All-pitying, all-observant, all-divine;     He is so little, mother Proserpine,     He needs me, let me go!     Thus far she prayed, and then she lost her way,     And left the half of all her heart unsaid,     And a great languor seized her, and she lay,     Soft fallen, by the little silent head.     Her numbd lips had passed beyond control,     Her mind could neither plan nor reason more,     She saw dark waters and an unknown shore,     And the grey shadows crept about her soul.     Again through darkness on an evil land     She seemed to enter but without distress.     A little spirit led her by the hand,     And her wide heart was warm with tenderness.     Her lips, still moving, conscious of one care,     Murmured a moment in soft mother-tones,     And so fell silent. From their sombre thrones     Already the grim gods had heard her prayer.