A Story Of Doom.

BOOK I.     Niloiya said to Noah, "What aileth thee,     My master, unto whom is my desire,     The father of my sons?" He answered her,     "Mother of many children, I have heard     The Voice again." "Ah, me!" she saith, "ah, me!     What spake it?" and with that Niloiya sighed.     This when the Master-builder heard, his heart     Was sad in him, the while he sat at home     And rested after toil. The steady rap     O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale     Did seem to mock him; but her distaff down     Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went,     Parted the purple covering seemly hung     Before it, and let in the crimson light     Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth, -     Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark     Was a-preparing; where the dew distilled     All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees,     Upon the gliding river; where the palm,     The almug, and the gophir shot their heads     Into the crimson brede that dyed the world:     And lo! he marked - unwieldy, dark, and huge - The     ship, his glory and his grief, - too vast     For that still river's floating, - building far     From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells     Of shepherd kings.          Niloiya spake again:     "What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man?"     He, laboring with his thought that troubled him,     Spoke on behalf of God: "Behold," said he,     "A little handful of unlovely dust     He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when     He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm,     And with His breath awoke a living soul.     "Shall not the Fashioner command His work?     And who am I, that, if He whisper, 'Rise,     Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply,     'Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons, - I     love not scorning: I beseech Thee, God,     Have me excused.'"             She answered him, "Tell on."     And he continuing, reasoned with his soul:     "What though I, - like some goodly lama sunk     In meadow grass, eating her way at ease,     Unseen of them that pass, and asking not     A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers     That nod above her head, - should lay me down,     And willingly forget this high behest,     There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore,     Though I went forth to cry against the doom,     Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down:     It hangeth balanced over us; she crieth,     And it shall fall. O! as for me, my life     Is bitter, looking onward, for I know     That in the fulness of the time shall dawn     That day: my preaching shall not bring forth fruit,     Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float     Upon the abhorrd sea, that mankind hate,     With thee and thine."             She answered: "God forbid!     For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep     They dread, and at the last will surely turn     To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive.     And chide the waters back to their abyss,     To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed.     Sir, I am much afraid: I would not hear     Of riding on the waters: look you, sir,     Better it were to die with you by hand     Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me!     Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet,     Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea."     He saith again: "I pray thee, woman, peace,     For thou wilt enter, when that day appears,     The fateful ship."             "My lord," quoth she, "I will.     But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure     The Master calleth; for the time is long     That thou hast warned the world: thou art but here     Three days; the song of welcoming but now     Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad;     And wilt thou go again? Husband, I say,     Be sure who 't is that calleth; O, be sure,     Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night,     Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss,     Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love,     And watchful of thee till the moon went down.     "She never loved me since I went with thee     To sacrifice among the hills: she smelt     The holy smoke, and could no more divine     Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up;     It had a snake with a red comb of fire     Twisted about its waist, - the doggish head     Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me.     'This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost;     'Shall there be husbands for her found below,     When she comes down to us? O, fool! O, fool!     She must not let her man go forth, to leave     Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn,     A harvest for himself.' With that they passed."     He said, "My crystal drop of perfectness,     I pity thee; it was an evil ghost:     Thou wilt not heed the counsel?" "I will not,"     Quoth she; "I am loyal to the Highest. Him     I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best.     Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?"         "God add," said he, "unto thy much yet more,     As I do think thou art." "And think you, sir,"     Niloiya saith, "that I have reached the prime?"     He answering, "Nay, not yet." "I would 't were so,"     She plaineth, "for the daughters mock at me:     Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore     She pineth for the master. Look you, sir,     They reach but to the knee. But thou art come,     And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all     My supper that I set, and afterward     Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way;     Else shall I be despised as Adam was,     Who compassed not the learning of his sons,     But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head     And ponder, following of great Isha's feet,     When she would walk with her fair brow upraised,     Scorning the children that she bare to him."     "Ay," quoth the Master; "but they did amiss     When they despised their father: knowest thou that?"     "Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith,     "Than any that came after. Furthermore,     He had not heart nor courage for to rule:     He let the mastery fall from his slack hand.     Had not our glorious mother still borne up     His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart,     And listened, when the fit came over him     To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk     Into the slave of slaves."         "Nay, thou must think     How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman,     And looked in hope among the tribes for one     To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once     Waking, he found at his left side, and knew     The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus     Added, "And therefore was his loss the more;     For though the creatures he had singled out     His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword     And followed after him, - shall bleat of lamb     Console one for the foregone talk of God?     Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog,     Fawning upon him, make his heart forget     At such a time, and such a time, to have heard     What he shall hear no more?             "O, as for him,     It was for this that he full oft would stop,     And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed,     Sad muttering, Woman! we reproach thee not;     Though thou didst eat mine immortality;     Earth, be not sorry; I was free to choose.     Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn.     Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up     From his contentment with the lower things?     Was she not somewhat that he could not rule     Beyond the action, that he could not have     By the mere holding, and that still aspired     And drew him after her? So, when deceived     She fell by great desire to rise, he fell     By loss of upward drawing, when she took     An evil tongue to be her counsellor:     'Death is not as the death of lower things,     Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven,     A change to being as gods,' - he from her hand,     Upon reflection, took of death that hour,     And ate it (not the death that she had dared);     He ate it knowing. Then divisions came.     She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way,     Too venturesome, among the farther stars,     And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes     To find the path to heaven; in bitter wise     Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he,     Once having felt her upward drawing, longed,     And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored,     Albeit she drew no more."             "Sir, ye speak well,"     Niloiya saith, "but yet the mother sits     Higher than Adam. He did understand     Discourse of birds and all four-footed things,     But she had knowledge of the many tribes     Of angels and their tongues; their playful ways     And greetings when they met. Was she not wise?     They say she knew much that she never told,     And had a voice that called to her as thou."     "Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, "who am I     That I should answer? As for me, poor man,     Here is my trouble: 'if there be a Voice,'     At first I cried, 'let me behold the mouth     That uttereth it,' Thereon it held its peace.     But afterward, I, journeying up the hills,     Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen     Across some clear abyss; and I did stop,     And ask of all my company, 'What cheer?     If there be spirits abroad that call to us,     Sirs, hold your peace and hear,' So they gave heed,     And one man said, 'It is the small ground-doves     That peck upon the stony hillocks': one,     'It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp     That cheweth in his dream': and one, 'My lord,     It is the ghost of him that yesternight     We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife     To thy great father, when he peaceably     Did send to take her,' Then I answered, 'Pass,'     And they went on; and I did lay mine ear     Close to the earth; but there came up therefrom     No sound, nor any speech; I waited long.     And in the saying, 'I will mount my beast     And on,' I was as one that in a trance     Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw     Great waters and a ship; and somewhat spake,     'Lo, this shall be; let him that heareth it,     And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind,     For I will drown the world,'"             Niloiya saith,     "Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon?"     The master, he replieth, "Ay, at first,     That same was all; but many days went by,     While I did reason with my heart and hope     For more, and struggle to remain, and think.     'Let me be certain'; and so think again,     'The counsel is but dark; would I had more!     When I have more to guide me, I will go,'     And afterward, when reasoned on too much,     It seemed remoter, then I only said,     'O, would I had the same again'; and still     I had it not.         "Then at the last I cried,     'If the unseen be silent, I will speak     And certify my meaning to myself.     Say that He spoke, then He will make that good     Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best     To go, and do His bidding. All the earth     Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry     When the doom falls, "Thou God art hard on us;     We knew not Thou wert angry. O! we are lost,     Only for lack of being warned."          "'But say     That He spoke not, and merely it befell     That I being weary had a dream. Why, so     He could not suffer damage; when the time     Was past, and that I threatened had not come,     Men would cry out on me, haply me kill,     For troubling their content. They would not swear,     "God, that did send this man, is proved untrue,"     But rather, "Let him die; he lied to us;     God never sent him." Only Thou, great King,     Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave     The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again,     I go in gladness; if Thou wilt not speak,     Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less     Shall go, because I have believed, what time     I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands     With memory of believing,' Then I washed,     And did array me in the sacred gown,     And take a lamb."          "Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed,     "I following, and I knew not anything     Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms,     We, moving up among the silent hills,     Paused in a grove to rest; and many slaves     Came near to make obeisance, and to bring     Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire.     Then in their hearing thou didst say to me,     'Behold, I know thy good fidelity,     And theirs that are about us; they would guard     The mountain passes, if it were my will     Awhile to leave thee'; and the pygmies laughed     For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things;     And put their heads down, as their manner is,     To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept;     Sir, I could weep now; ye did ill to go     If that was all your bidding; I had thought     God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go."     Then said the son of Lamech, "Afterward,     When I had left thee, He whom I had served     Met with me in the visions of the night,     To comfort me for that I had withdrawn     From thy dear company. He sware to me     That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch     The bordering of mine outmost field. I say,     When I obeyed, He made His matters plain.     With whom could I have left thee, but with them,     Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves?"     She said, "I love not pygmies; they are naught."     And he, "Who made them pygmies?" Then she pushed     Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes,     And answered, wondering, "Sir, my mothers did,     Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit     Beside him on the settle, answering, "Ay."     And they went on to talk as writ below,     If any one shall read:         "Thy mother did,     And they that went before her. Thinkest thou     That they did well?"          "They had been overcome;     And when the angered conquerors drave them out,     Behoved them find some other way to rule, -     They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye     Been cunning in dominion, among beasts     To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake     Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice?     What harm if coveting a race of men     That could but serve, they sought among their thralls,     Such as were low of stature, men and maids;     Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind?     Did they not spend much gear to gather out     Such as I tell of, and for matching them     One with another for a thousand years?     What harm, then, if there came of it a race,     Inferior in their wits, and in their size,     And well content to serve?"             "'What harm?' thou sayest.     My wife doth ask, 'What harm? '"          "Your pardon, sir.     I do remember that there came one day,     Two of the grave old angels that God made,     When first He invented life (right old they were,     And plain, and venerable); and they said,     Rebuking of my mother as with hers     She sat, 'Ye do not well, you wives of men,     To match your wit against the Maker's will,     And for your benefit to lower the stamp     Of His fair image, which He set at first     Upon man's goodly frame; ye do not well     To treat his likeness even as ye treat     The bird and beast that perish.'"          "Said they aught     To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair?"         "How know I? 'T was a slave that told it me.     My mother was full old when I was born,     And that was in her youth. What think you, sir?     Did not the giants likewise ill?"             "To that     I have no answer ready. If a man,     When each one is against his fellow, rule,     Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved,     Because, for size and strength, he standeth first,     He will thereof be glad; and if he say,     'I will to wife choose me a stately maid,     And leave a goodly offspring'; 'sooth, I think,     He sinneth not; for good to him and his     He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault     Was, that for ill to others, they did plot     To make them weak and small."         "But yet they steal     Or take in war the strongest maids, and such     As are of highest stature; ay, and oft     They fight among themselves for that same cause.     And they are proud against the King of heaven:     They hope in course of ages they shall come     To be as strong as He."          The Master said,     "I will not hear thee talk thereof; my heart     Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife,     I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee,     And bid that they prepare the sleeping place.     O would that I might rest! I fain would rest,     And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world     My never-heeded tale!"          With that she called.     The moon was up, and some few stars were out,     While heavy at the heart he walked abroad     To meditate before his sleep. And yet     Niloiya pondered, "Shall my master go?     And will my master go? What 'vaileth it,     That he doth spend himself, over the waste     A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk,     That mock his warning? O, what 'vaileth it,     That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark,     Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me,     Laugh? O my heart! I would the Voice were stilled.     Is not he happy? Who, of all the earth,     Obeyed like to me? Have not I learned     From his dear mouth to utter seemly words,     And lay the powers my mother gave me by?     Have I made offerings to the dragon? Nay,     And I am faithful, when he leaveth me     Lonely betwixt the peakd mountain tops     In this long valley, where no stranger foot     Can come without my will. He shall not go.     Not yet, not yet! But three days - only three -     Beside me, and a muttering on the third,     'I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull,     Mind and remembrance! Mother, ye did ill;     'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use.     Why, O dark mother! opened ye the way?"     Yet when he entered, and did lay aside     His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe     Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun     Went down; forgetful of her mother's craft,     She lovely and submiss did mourn to him:     "Thou wilt not go, - I pray thee, do not go,     Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said,     "I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed:     To-morrow it is given me by the Voice     Upon a four days' journey to proceed,     And follow down the river, till its waves     Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells.     "'There,' quoth the Unrevealed, 'we shall meet,     And I will counsel thee; and thou shalt turn     And rest thee with the mother, and with them     She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears,     Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves,     And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car     With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands;     Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck     Thy locks with gold; and while the hollow vale     I thread beside yon river, go thou forth     Atween the mountains to my father's house,     And let thy slaves make all obeisance due,     And take and lay an offering at his feet.     Then light, and cry to him, 'Great king, the son     Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent     To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.'"     "Sir," quoth the woman, "I will do this thing,     So thou keep faith with me, and yet return.     But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide,     Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee,     And drive thee on?"             He saith, "It will keep faith.     Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought,     And lovingly it answered. I shall rest,     And dwell with thee till after my three sons     Come from the chase." She said, "I let them forth     In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few.     The giant elephants be cunning folk;     They lie in ambush, and will draw men on     To follow, - then will turn and tread them down."     "Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he,     "To drive them down upon the growing corn     Of them that were their foes; for now, behold,     They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay     Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound     The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash;     Or wallowing in the waters foul them; nay,     Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood     Their cities; or, assailed and falling, shake     The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men,     Over the hairy terror piling stones     Or earth, prevail to cover it."         She said,     "Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft     I would my sons were home; but now so well     Methinks it is with me, that I am fain     To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell     With me till after they return, and thou     Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, - ah, me!     I must sit joyless in my place; bereft,     As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves,     And dark as nights that have no moon."         She spake:     The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply     Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks     As she lay sobbing; and the quietness     Of night began to comfort her, the fall     Of far-off waters, and the wingd wind     That went among the trees. The patient hand,     Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her,     Until she said, "What wilt thou? Nay, I know.     I therefore answer what thou utterest not.     Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own will     Consentest to depart. What more? Ay, this:     I do avow that He which calleth thee,     Hath right to call; and I do swear, the Voice     Shall have no let of me, to do Its will."     BOOK II     Now ere the sunrise, while the morning star     Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed     The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad     Because the Voice was favorable. Now     Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth     The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate     In peace together; then Niloiya forth     Behind the milk-white steers went on her way;     And the great Master-builder, down the course     Of the long river, on his errand sped,     And as he went, he thought:             [They do not well     Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth     With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight     From town to town, will scorn at them that worm     Under the covert of God's eldest trees     (Such as He planted with His hand, and fed     With dew before rain fell, till they stood close     And awful; drank the light up as it dropt,     And kept the dusk of ages at their roots);     They do not well who mock at such, and cry,     "We peaceably, without or fault or fear,     Proceed, and miss not of our end; but these     Are slow and fearful: with uncertain pace,     And ever reasoning of the way, they oft,     After all reasoning, choose the worser course,     And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth     Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal     Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work     Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs,     Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn     Of those who work for a world (no wages paid     By a Master hid in light), and sent alone     To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes     Are full of damaging pity, that forbears     To tell the harmless laborer, "Thou art mad."]     And as he went, he thought: "They counsel me,     Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk,     'Consider; call thy soberer thought to aid;     Why to but one man should a message come?     And why, if but to one, to thee? Art thou     Above us, greater, wiser? Had He sent,     He had willed that we should heed. Then since He knoweth     That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed,     He did not send.' My answer, 'Great and wise,     If He had sent with thunder, and a voice     Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard; but so     Ye had been robbed of choice, and, like the beasts,     Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves,'     They tell me, 'God is great above thy thought:     He meddles not: and this small world is ours,     These many hundred years we govern it;     Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.'     Then I, 'It may be He is gone to knead     More clay. But look, my masters; one of you     Going to warfare, layeth up his gown,     His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more     Upon it, till young trees have waxen great;     At last, when he returneth, he will seek     His own. And God, shall He not do the like?     And having set new worlds a-rolling, come     And say, "I will betake Me to the earth     That I did make": and having found it vile,     Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise,     And not the Master?' Then they answer, 'Fool!     A man shall cast a stone into the air     For pastime, or for lack of heed, - but He!     Will He come fingering of His ended work,     Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch     One day the rolling wonder from its ring,     And hold it quivering, as a wanton child     Might take a nestling from its downy bed,     And having satisfied a careless wish,     Go thrust it back into its place again?'     To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine,     I am assured that I do speak aright:     'Sirs, the significance of this your doubt     Lies in the reason of it; ye do grudge     That these your lands should have another Lord;     Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain     Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked     For countenance and favor when He came,     Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care,     With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove     That He would never come, and would your wrath     Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot     That as a flatterer you would look on him, -     Full of sweet words thy mouth is: if He come, -     We think not that He will, - but if He come,     Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night,     Because we look for praise.'"         Now, as he went,     The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint;     But while he sat below an almug-tree,     A slave approached with greeting. "Master, hail!"     He answered, "Hail! what wilt thou?" Then she said,     "The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh."     "I know it," quoth he; and she said again,     "The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent     To fetch thee"; then he rose and followed her.     So first they walked beneath a lofty roof     Of living bough and tendril, woven on high     To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung     With gold and purple fruitage, and the white     Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath,     Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks     Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up.     Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool     The noonday air, as men with heed and pains     Had taught them, marshalling and taming them     To bear the wind in, on their moving wings.     So long time as a nimble slave would spend     In milking of her cow, they walked at ease;     Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks,     Brought whole, and set together, made. Therein     Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons     Had finished it, and up to Eden gate     Had journeyed for to fetch him. "Here," they said     "Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here     Forget the garden wholly."             So he came     Under the doorplace, and the women sat,     Each with her finger on her lips; but he,     Having been called, went on, until he reached     The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work     Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont     To set the Elder. All with sleekest skins,     That striped and spotted creatures of the wood     Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon     The Elder was not; by the steps thereof,     Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard     Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance.     Upon the settle many doves were perched,     That set the air a going with their wings:     These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood     To wait the burden; and the Elder spake:     "Will He forget me? Would He might forget!     Old, old! The hope of old Methuselah     Is all in His forgetfulness." With that,     A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept     Anear him, saying, "Taste"; and when his lips     Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried,     "Behold, I prophesy."             Then straight they fled     That were about him, and did stand apart     And stop their ears. For he, from time to time,     Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy,     And spake against himself, against his day     And time, in words that all men did abhor.     Therefore, he warning them what time the fit     Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not     So while they fled, he cried: "I saw the God     Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand.     Lo, lo! He dipped it in the unquiet sea,     And in its curved palm behold the ark,     As in a vast calm lake, came floating on.     Ay, then, His other hand - the cursing hand -     He took and spread between us and the sun.     And all was black; the day was blotted out,     And horrible staggering took the frighted earth.     I heard the water hiss, and then methinks     The crack as of her splitting. Did she take     Their palaces that are my brothers dear,     And huddle them with all their ancientry     Under into her breast? If it was black,     How could this old man see? There was a noise     I' the dark, and He drew back His hand again.     I looked, - It was a dream, - let no man say     It was aught else. There, so - the fit goes by.     Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide? -     Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah,     Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs.     What! art Thou envious? - are the sons of men     Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will?     Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground,     Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown,     And goeth not forth to war; his wrinkled hands     He claspeth round his knees: old, very old.     Would he could steal from Thee one secret more -     The secret of Thy youth! O, envious God!     We die. The words of old Methuselah     And his prophecy are ended."         Then the wives,     Beholding how he trembled, and the maids     And children, came anear, saying, "Who art thou     That standest gazing on the Elder? Lo,     Thou dost not well: withdraw; for it was thou     Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought     The fit of prophecy." And he did turn     To look upon them, and their majesty     And glorious beauty took away his words;     And being pure among the vile, he cast     In his thought a veil of snow-white purity     Over the beauteous throng. "Thou dost not well,"     They said. He answered: "Blossoms o' the world,     Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade,     Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth,     And the white lily reareth up her head,     And purples cluster, and the saffron flower     Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out,     And every cedar bough, made delicate     With climbing roses, drops in white and red, -     Saw I (good angels keep you in their care)     So beautiful a crowd."             With that, they stamped,     Gnashed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat     Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him,     Yet shaking with the burden, "Who art thou?"     He answered, "I, the man whom thou didst send     To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear     To tell my name; thou lovest it not, great sire, -     No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake,     Touching their beauty." "Wherefore didst thou spite,"     Quoth he, "the daughters?" and it seemed he lost     Count of that prophecy, for very age,     And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh.     "Wicked old man," quoth he, "this wise old man     I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man,     What shall be done to thee? for thou didst burn     Their babes, and strew the ashes all about,     To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay,     Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled.     Cowards! I heard them winnow their great wings:     They went to tell Him; but they came no more.     The women hate to hear of them, so sore     They grudged their little ones; and yet no way     There was but that. I took it; I did well."     With that he fell to weeping. "Son," said he,     "Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men,     For it is hard to lose the majesty     And pride and power of manhood: but to-day,     Stand forth into the light, that I may look     Upon thy strength, and think, EVEN THUS DID I,     IN THE GLORY OF MY YOUTH, MORE LIKE TO GOD     THAN LIKE HIS SOLDIERS, FACE THE VASSAL WORLD."     Then Noah stood forward in his majesty,     Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal     He wont to cut his way, when tangled in     The matted hayes. And down the opened roof     Fell slanting beams upon his stately head,     And streamed along his gown, and made to shine     The jewelled sandals on his feet.             And, lo,     The Elder cried aloud: "I prophesy.     Behold, my son is as a fruitful field     When all the lands are waste. The archers drew, -     They drew the bow against him; they were fain     To slay: but he shall live, - my son shall live,     And I shall live by him in the other days.     Behold the prophet of the Most High God:     Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time     She lieth under. Hear him; he shall save     A seed alive, and sow the earth with man.     O, earth! earth! earth! a floating shell of wood     Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords     Will this old man be in it? Sir, and you     My daughters, hear him! Lo, this white old man     He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be:     Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue     Ring with abhorred words?) The prophecy     Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw,     They both are ended."             Then said Noah: "The life     Of this my lord is low for very age:     Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue,     Father-of Lamech, dost thou anger Him?     Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said:     "Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones     Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love     The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set     To draw my car? and were they not possessed?     Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well.     What did the Enemy, but on a day     When I behind my talking team went forth,     They sweetly lying, so that all men praised     Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes, -     What did the Enemy but send His slaves,     Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads     And break them? Nay, I could not stir abroad     But havoc came; they never crept or flew     Beyond the shelter that I builded here.     But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads     Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds     Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive     That hath been warred on thus? I will not. Nay,     I swear it, - I, the man Methuselah."     The Master-shipwright, he replied, "'Tis true,     Great loss was that; but they that stood thy friends,     The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues,     And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir,     If He was angered?" But the Elder cried,     "They all are dead, - the toward beasts I loved;     My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead;     Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness:     And I will keep my wrath for evermore     Against the Enemy that slew them. Go,     Thou coward servant of a tyrant King,     Go down the desert of the bones, and ask,     'My King, what bones are these? Methuselah,     The white old man that sitteth on the ground,     Sendeth a message, "Bid them that they live,     And let my lizards run up every path     They wont to take when out of silver pipes,     The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof,     I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat     Hath ever formed; and while they laid their heads     Submiss upon my threshold, poured away     Music that welled by heartsful out, and made     The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts     To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips     To laugh of men asleep.          Return to me     The great wise lizards; ay, and them that flew     My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke     Again that multitude; and here I swear     That they shall draw my car and me thereon     Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know     My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou     Shalt yet have honor. O mine Enemy,     By me. The speech of old Methuselah."'"     Then Noah made answer, "By the living God,     That is no enemy to men, great sire,     I will not take thy message; hear thou Him.     'Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold,     The earth that I made green cries out to Me,     Red with the costly blood of beauteous man.     I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith); they sacrifice     To evil demons of My blameless flocks,     That I did fashion with My hand. Behold,     How goodly was the world! I gave it thee     Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done?     I will cry out to the waters, Cover it,     And hide it from its Father. Lo, Mine eyes     Turn from it shamed.'"             With that the old man laughed     Full softly. "Ay," quoth he, "a goodly world,     And we have done with it as we did list.     Why did He give it us? Nay, look you, son:     Five score they were that died in yonder waste;     And if He crieth, 'Repent, be reconciled,'     I answer, 'Nay, my lizards'; and again,     If He will trouble me in this mine age,     'Why hast Thou slain my lizards?' Now my speech     Is cut away from all my other words,     Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it,     The man of many days, Methuselah."     Then answered Noah, "My Master, hear it not;     But yet have patience"; and he turned himself,     And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth,     And in the light of evening made his way     Into the waste to meet the Voice of God.     BOOK III.     Above the head of great Methuselah     There lay two demons in the opened roof     Invisible, and gathered up his words;     For when the Elder prophesied, it came     About, that hidden things were shown to them,     And burdens that he spake against his time.     (But never heard them, such as dwelt with him;     Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease     In all delight; and perfect in their youth,     And strong, disport them in the perfect world.)     Now these were fettered that they could not fly,     For a certain disobedience they had wrought     Against the ruler of their host; but not     The less they loved their cause; and when the feet     O' the Master-builder were no longer heard,     They, slipping to the sward, right painfully     Did follow, for the one to the other said,     "Behoves our master know of this; and us,     Should he be favorable, he may loose     From these our bonds."         And thus it came to pass,     That while at dead of night the old dragon lay     Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch     Pacing before it saw in middle air     A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came,     And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst     And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom,     Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls.     Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth     Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath.     The dragon had been wroth with some that served,     And chased them from him; and his oracles,     That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men     Might only pray to him through that fell web     That hung before him. Then did whisper low     Some of the little spirits that bat-like clung     And clustered round the opening. "Lo," they said,     While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls,     "These are like moons eclipsed; but let them lie     Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires,     Until our lord give leave to draw the web,     And quicken reverence by his presence dread,     For he will know and call to them by name,     And they will change. At present he is sick,     And wills that none disturb him." So they lay,     And there was silence, for the forest tribes     Came never near that cave. Wiser than men,     They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night     Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms     That stalked among the trees, and in the dark     Those whiffs of flame that wandered up the sky     And made the moonlight sickly.             Now, the cave     Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools     Into the living rock, for there had worked     All cunning men, to cut on it with signs     And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind.     The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough     Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled;     And lilies of the field did seem to blow     And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat,     Who from his harp delivered music, sweet     As any in the spheres. Yea, more;     Earth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared,     Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs;     And farther back, within the rock hewn out,     Angelic figures stood, that impious hands     Had fashioned; many golden lamps they held     By golden chains depending, and their eyes     All tended in a reverend quietude     Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay.     The floor was beaten gold; the curly lengths     Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight     With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems,     Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes     Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald,     That changed their lustre when he breathed.          His head     Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck,     And half-shut fans of his admired wings,     That in their scaly splendor put to shame     Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch     And shivered; for the dragon suffered pain:     He suffered and he feared. It was his doom,     The tempter, that he never should depart     From the bright creature that in Paradise     He for his evil purpose erst possessed,     Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might     And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free.     But with its nature wed, as souls of men     Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread     Of death and dying, and the coward heart     Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end     Sank him that habited within it to dread     Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst     Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh     Daunted his immaterial. He was sick     And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent     Their chief musicians for to comfort him,     Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god     That gave them knowledge, at so great a price     And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine,     And glorious broidered work, and woven gold,     And all things wisely made, they at his feet     Laid daily; for they said, "This mighty one,     All the world wonders after him. He lieth     Sick in his dwelling; he hath long foregone     (To do us good) dominion, and a throne,     And his brave warfare with the Enemy,     So much he pitieth us that were denied     The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now     Shall he be certified of gratitude,     And smell the sacrifice that most he loves."     The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth     A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings     The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned     And moaned with lamentable voice, "I thirst,     Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste,     From inner chambers, lovely ministrants,     Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes,     And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool     His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh     In jewelled basins sparkling; and he lapped,     And was appeased, and said, "I will not hide     Longer, my much desired face from men.     Draw back the web of separation." Then     With cries of gratulation ran they forth,     And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low,     Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy.     Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss,     Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes     Consider them full subtly, "What be these?"     Enquiring: and the little spirits said,     "As we for thy protection (having heard     That wrathful sons of darkness walk, to-night,     Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here,     We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies,     And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud,     And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down     A rain of sparks and these two angry moons."     Then said the dragon, "Let my guard, and you,     Attendant hosts, recede"; and they went back,     And formed about the cave a widening ring,     Then halting, stood afar; and from the cave     The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue,     "If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon,     Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more."     Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth     Started black angels, trampling hard to free     Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell.     And he said, "Tartis and Deleisonon,     Your lord I am: draw nigh." "Thou art our lord,"     They answered, and with fettered limbs full low     They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore,     "O fiery flying serpent, after whom     The nations go, let thy dominion last,"     They said, "forever." And the serpent said,     "It shall: unfold your errand." They replied,     One speaking for a space, and afterward     His fellow taking up the word with fear     And panting, "We were set to watch the mouth     Of great Methuselah. There came to him     The son of Lamech two days since. My lord,     They prophesied, the Elder prophesied,     Unwitting, of the flood of waters, - ay,     A vision was before him, and the lands     Lay under water drowned: he saw the ark, -     It floated in the Enemy's right hand."     Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled     Into the wilderness to meet His voice     That reigneth; and we, diligent to hear     Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid     To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff,     And wished for morning.             "When the dawn was red,     We sought the man, we marked him; and he prayed, -     Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and he said - "     "Nay," quoth the serpent, "spare me, what devout     He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful;     But if of what shall hap he aught let fall,     Speak that." They answered, "He did pray as one     That looketh to outlive mankind, - and more,     We are certified by all his scattered words,     That HE will take from men their length of days,     And cut them off like grass in its first flower:     From henceforth this shall be."             That when he heard,     The dragon made to the night his moan.             "And more,"     They said, "that He above would have men know     That He doth love them, whoso will repent,     To that man he is favorable, yea,     Will be his loving Lord."             The dragon cried,     "The last is worse than all. O, man, thy heart     Is stout against His wrath. But will He love?     I heard it rumored in the heavens of old,     (And doth He love?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand     Against the love of God. Dominion fails;     I see it float from me, that long have worn     Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God!     I cry against thee; thou art worse than all."     They answered, "Be not moved, admired chief     And trusted of mankind"; and they went on,     And fed him with the prophecies that fell     From the Master-shipwright in his prayer.             But prone     He lay, for he was sick: at every word     Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow,     It fell upon his head and daunted him,     Until they ended, saying, "Prince, behold,     Thy servants have revealed the whole."             Thereon     He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks.     Then said he, "Tartis and Deleisonon,     Receive your wages." So their fetters fell;     And they retiring, lauded him, and cried,     "King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen."     And he, - being left alone, - he said: "A light!     I see a light, - a star among the trees, -     An angel." And it drew toward the cave,     But with its sacred feet touched not the grass,     Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes,     But hung a span's length from that ground pollute,     At the opening of the cave.         And when he looked,     The dragon cried, "Thou newly-fashioned thing,     Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not.     Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes     Thou countest all too clean to open on?"     But still it hovered, and the quietness     Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids;     And not as one that answereth, it let fall     The music from its mouth, but like to one     That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed.     "A message: 'I have heard thee, while remote     I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.'     A message: 'I have left thee to thy ways,     And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate     I have made to serve the ends of My great love.     Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day     One thing thou art forbidden; now thou knowest     The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven,     When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear     To let that hidden thing be whispered forth:     For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was,     That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn,     And not believe it, adding so fresh weight     Of condemnation to the doomed world.     Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak;     Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue,     A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown,     Unknowable, unbearable to thought,     But sweeter in the hearing than all harps     Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears     Are opened, know it, and discern and fear,     Forbearing speech of it for evermore.'"     So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy,     As one released, went up: and it was dawn,     And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist     Came the red sun and looked into the cave.     But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him,     From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends, -     Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed.     A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place     In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed,     And hid them in recesses of the cave,     Because they could not look upon the sun,     Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them, -     All in the dark, in his great rage he spake:     "Up," quoth the dragon; "it is time to work,     Or we are all undone." And he did hiss,     And there came shudderings over land and trees,     A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out     A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave,     And rolled up blank before it like a veil, -     curtain to conceal its habiters.     Then did those spirits move upon the floor,     Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow.     One had a helm for covering of the scars     That seamed what rested of a goodly face;     He wore his vizor up, and all his words     Were hollower than an echo from the hills:     He was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend     Came after, holding down his dastard head,     Like one ashamed: now this for craft was great;     The dragon honored him. A third sat down     Among them, covering with his wasted hand     Somewhat that pained his breast.             And when the fit     Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind,     Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage,     And told them of his matters: "Look to this,     If ye be loyal"; adding, "Give your thoughts,     And let me have your counsel in this need."     One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave     Was full of sighs, "The words of Make the Prince,     Of him once delegate in Betelgeux:     Whereas of late the manner is to change,     We know not where 't will end; and now my words     Go thus: give way, be peaceable, lie still     And strive not, else the world that we have won     He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught.     "For while I stood in mine obedience yet,     Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold,     A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up     Astray, and suddenly the Master came,     And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose,     He took and broke it, flung it here and there,     And called a blast to drive the powder forth;     And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies     Farther than 'tis from hence to this young sun.     Spirits that passed upon their work that day,     Cried out, 'How dusty 'tis.' Behoves us, then,     That we depart, as leaving unto Him     This goodly world and goodly race of man.     Not all are doomed; hereafter it may be     That we find place on it again. But if,     Too zealous to preserve it, and the men     Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come     And choosing rather to undo His work     Than strive with it for aye, make so an end."     He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed     In impotent rage, "Depart! and how depart!     Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn?     Or I, most miserable, hold my life     Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide     The buffetings of yonder shoreless sea?     O death, thou terrible doom: O death, thou dread     Of all that breathe."             A spirit rose and spake;     "Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear;     For this admired country we have marred.     Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days     When yet I can recall what love was like),     Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole,     And clogged with strong conditions: 'O, repent,     Man, and I turn,' He, therefore, powerful now,     And more so, master, that ye bide in clay,     Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die."     The dragon said, "I tremble, I am sick."     He said with pain of heart, "How am I fallen!     For I keep silence; yea, I have withdrawn     From haunting of His gates, and shouting up     Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out     From this small world, this little one, that I     Have been content to take unto myself,     I here being loved and worshipped? He knoweth     How much I have foregone; and must He stoop     To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep,     Of purpose to pursue me from my place?     And since I gave men knowledge, must He take     Their length of days whereby they perfect it?     So shall He scatter all that I have stored,     And get them by degrading them. I know     That in the end it is appointed me     To fade. I will not fade before the time."     A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed     And subtle, and his face he turned aside:     "Whereas," said he, "we strive against both power     And love, behoves us that we strive aright.     Now some of old my comrades, yesterday     I met, as they did journey to appear     In the Presence; and I said, 'My master lieth     Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree     There stands against it) he would also come     And make obeisance with the sons of God.'     They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord,     'Tis certain that ye have admittance yet;     And what doth hinder? Nothing but this breath.     Were it not well to make an end, and die,     And gain admittance to the King of kings?     What if thy slaves by thy consent should take     And bear thee on their wings above the earth,     And suddenly let fall, - how soon 't were o'er!     We should have fear and sinking at the heart;     But in a little moment we should see,     Rising majestic from a ruined heap,     The stately spirit that we served of yore."     The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes     Upon the spirit, and hissed; and sick with shame,     It bowed itself together, and went back     With hidden face. "This counsel is not good,"     The other twain made answer; "look, my lord,     Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in ours     'Tis evil also; speak, for we perceive     That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit,     Ready to fly to our right greedy ears,     That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus     (Forever may the serpent kind be charmed,     With soft sweet words, and music deftly played),     Replied, "Whereas I surely rule the world,     Behoves that ye prepare for me a path,     And that I, putting of my pains aside,     Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts     O' the giants; for He loveth them, and looks     Full oft complacent on their glorious strength.     He willeth that they yield, that He may spare;     But, by the blackness of my loathed den,     I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield;     Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise,     And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick,     Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard     Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware.     I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm,     I am ready for to comfort them; yea, more,     To counsel, and I will that they drive forth     The women, the abhorrd of my soul;     Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass,     Lest the curse fall, and that she bruise my head.     Friends, if it be their mind to send for me     An army, and triumphant draw me on     In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts,     I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then     Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him sore,     That loves them, O, by much too well to wet     Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength     Under the fateful brine. Then afterward,     While He doth reason vainly with them, I     Will offer Him a pact: 'Great King, a pact,     And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall,     For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave     To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name     Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.'"     "Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, "do this thing,     And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet."     Then he made answer, "By a messenger     Have I this day been warned. There is a deed     I may not tell of, lest the people add     Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults.     Why this? Who careth when about to slay,     And slay indeed, how well they have deserved     Death, whom he slayeth? Therefore yet is hid     A meaning of some mercy that will rob     The nether world. Now look to it, - 'Twere vain     Albeit this deluge He would send indeed,     That we expect the harvest; He would yet     Be the Master-reaper; for I heard it said,     Them that be young and know Him not, and them     That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives,     Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep     Joyous behind the curtains, every one     With maidens nourished in the house, and babes     And children at her knees, - (then what remain!)     He claimeth and will gather for His own.     Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work,     Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall.     There is no evil like to love. I heard     Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh     To ruin his two children beautiful,     And shall my deed confound me in the end,     Through awful imitation? Love of God,     I cry against thee; thou art worst of all."     BOOK IV.     Now while these evil ones took counsel strange,     The son of Lamech journeyed home; and, lo!     A company came down, and struck the track     As he did enter it. There rode in front     Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind     Were following slaves with tent gear; others led     Strong horses, others bare the instruments     O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged,     Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved     The desert sands above that grassy vale.     And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein,     And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes;     He in his regal grandeur walked alone,     And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien     Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them,     "Fair sirs, whose are ye?" They made answer cold,     "The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear,     Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son."     And he, replying, "I am he." They said,     "We know it, sir. We have remembered you     Through many seasons. Pray you let us not;     We fain would greet our mother." And they made     Obeisance and passed on; then all their train,     Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace,     And, while the silent father stood, went by,     He gazing after, as a man that dreams;     For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn,     That seemed to say, "Father, we own you not.     We love you not, for you have left us long, -     So long, we care not that you come again."     And while the sullen camels moved, he spake     To him that led the last, "There are but two     Of these my sons; but where doth Japhet ride?     For I would see him." And the leader said,     "Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up     Along the track. Afore the noonday meal     The young men, even our masters, bathed; (there grows     A clump of cedars by the bend of yon     Clear river) - there did Japhet, after meat,     Being right weary, lay him down and sleep.     There, with a company of slaves and some     Few camels, ye shall find him."         And the man     The father of these three, did let him pass,     And struggle and give battle to his heart,     Standing as motionless as pillar set     To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste;     But all his strength went from him, and he strove     Vainly to trample out and trample down     The misery of his love unsatisfied, -     Unutterable love flung in his face.     Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried     Against his lot, "I have lost my own, and won     None other; no, not one! Alas, my sons!     That I have looked to for my solacing,     In the bitterness to come. My children dear!"     And when from his own lips he heard those words,     With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept.     And none came nigh to comfort him. His face     Was on the ground; but, having wept, he rose     Full hastily, and urged his way to find     The river; and in hollow of his hand     Raised up the water to his brow: "This son,     This other son of mine," he said, "shall see     No tears upon my face." And he looked on,     Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves     Sitting apart from some one fast asleep,     Where they had spread out webs of broidery work     Under a cedar-tree; and he came on,     And when they made obeisance he declared     His name, and said, "I will beside my son     Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay     A-dreaming, and his father drew to him.     He said, "This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused,     Right angry with himself, because the youth,     Albeit of stately growth, so languidly     Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth,     That was full sweet and pure; and as he looked,     He half forgot his trouble in his pride.     "And is this mine?" said he, "my son! mine own!     (God, thou art good!) O, if this turn away,     That pang shall be past bearing. I must think     That all the sweetness of his goodly face     Is copied from his soul. How beautiful     Are children to their fathers! Son, my heart     Is greatly glad because of thee; my life     Shall lack of no completeness in the days     To come. If I forget the joy of youth,     In thee shall I be comforted; ay, see     My youth, a dearer than my own again."     And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content,     Murmured a little, turned himself and woke.     He woke, and opened on his father's face     The darkness of his eyes; but not a word     The Master-shipwright said, - his lips were sealed;     He was not ready, for he feared to see     This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke,     Full of the calm that cometh after sleep:     "Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir,     What is your name?" and even with his words     His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said,     "Why art thou sad? What have I done to thee?"     And Japhet answered, "O, methought I fled     In the wilderness before a maddened beast,     And you came up and slew it; and I thought     You were my father; but I fear me, sir,     My thoughts were vain." With that his father said,     "Whatever of blessing Thou reserv'st for me,     God! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here:     Bless him with both Thy hands"; and laid his own     On Japhet's head.             Then Japhet looked on him,     Made quiet by content, and answered low,     With faltering laughter, glad and reverent: "Sir,     You are my father?" "Ay," quoth he, "I am!     Kiss me, my son; and let me hear my name,     My much desird name, from your dear lips."     Then after, rested, they betook them home:     And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought,     "I did not will to love this sire of mine;     But now I feel as if I had always known     And loved him well; truly, I see not why,     But I would rather serve him than go free     With my two brethren." And he said to him,     "Father!" - who answered, "I am here, my son."     And Japhet said, "I pray you, sir, attend     To this my answer: let me go with you,     For, now I think on it, I do not love     The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet     The arrows and the bow; but rather you,     For all you do and say, and you yourself,     Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes.     I pray you, sir, when you go forth again,     That I may also go." And he replied,     "I will tell thy speech unto the Highest; He     Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee     Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear     To this thy father, that the drenched world,     When risen clean washed from water, shall receive     From thee her lordliest governors, from thee     Daughters of noblest soul."         So Japhet said,     "Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight     I will go ask a wife, that this may be.     I pray you, therefore, as the manner is     Of fathers, give me land that I may reap     Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise     The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said,     "Dost thou forget? or dost thou not believe,     My son?" He answered, "I did ne'er believe,     My father, ere to-day; but now, methinks,     Whatever thou believest I believe,     For thy belovd sake. If this then be     As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear     The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe     The latest of her grapes; yet hear me, sir,     None of the daughters shall be given to me     If I be landless." Then his father said,     "Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son"     And so he did. "Behold thy heritage!"     Quoth the world's prince and master, "far away     Upon the side o' the north, where green the field     Lies every season through, and where the dews     Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign;     I part it to them, for the earth is mine;     The Highest gave it me: I make it theirs.     Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold     The cedars where thou sleepedst! There are vines;     And up the rise is growing wheat. I give     (For all, alas! is mine), - I give thee both     For dowry, and my blessing."          And he said,     "Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High     Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well."     BOOK V.     And when two days were over, Japhet said,     "Mother, so please you, get a wife for me."     The mother answered, "Dost thou mock me, son?     'Tis not the manner of our kin to wed     So young. Thou knowest it; art thou not ashamed?     Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed,     And made for answer: "This, my father, saith     The doom is nigh; now therefore find a maid,     Or else shall I be wifeless all my days.     And as for me, I care not; but the lands     Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine.     And lo! my brethren are betrothed; their maids     Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine?     Didst thou not diligently search for these     Among the noblest born of all the earth,     And bring them up? My sisters, dwell they not     With women that bespake them for their sons?     Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me,     Fair as the day, and gentle to my will     As thou art to my father's." When she heard,     Niloiya sighed, and answered, "It is well."     And Japhet went out from her presence.             Then     Quoth the great Master: "Wherefore sought ye not,     Woman, these many days, nor tired at all,     Till ye had found, a maiden for my son?     In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said:     "Let not my lord be angry. All my soul     Is sad: my lord hath walked afar so long,     That some despise thee; yea, our servants fail     Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood.     And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away     To thy great father, and our lands lie waste, -     None till them: therefore think the women scorn     To give me, - whatsoever gems I send,     And goodly raiment, - (yea, I seek afar,     And sue with all desire and humbleness     Through every master's house, but no one gives) -     A daughter for my son." With that she ceased.     Then said the Master: "Some thou hast with thee,     Brought up among thy children, dutiful     And fair; thy father gave them for my slaves, -     Children of them whom he brought captive forth     From their own heritage." And she replied,     Right scornfully: "Shall Japhet wed a slave?"     Then said the Master: "He shall wed: look thou     To that. I say not he shall wed a slave;     But by the might of One that made him mine,     I will not quit thee for my doomed way     Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste,     Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine,     To bring a maiden, and to say, 'Behold     A wife for Japhet.'" Then she answered, "Sir,     It shall be done."             And forth Niloiya sped.     She gathered all her jewels, - all she held     Of costly or of rich, - and went and spake     With some few slaves that yet abode with her,     For daily they were fewer; and went forth,     With fair and flattering words, among her feres,     And fain had wrought with them: and she had hope     That made her sick, it was so faint; and then     She had fear, and after she had certainty,     For all did scorn her. "Nay," they cried. "O fool!     If this be so, and on a watery world     Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife     Be free or bond? There shall be none to rule,     If she have freedom: if she have it not,     None shall there be to serve."             And she alit,     The time being done, desponding at her door,     And went behind a screen, where should have wrought     The daughters of the captives; but there wrought     One only, and this rose from off the floor,     Where she the river rush full deftly wove,     And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said,     "Where are thy fellows?" And the maid replied,     "Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved,     Be angry; they are fled since yesternight."     Then said Niloiya, "Amarant, my slave,     When have I called thee by thy name before?"     She answered, "Lady, never"; and she took     And spread her broidered robe before her face.     Niloiya spoke thus: "I am come to woe,     And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept     Passionate tears; and all the damsel's soul     Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe     Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face     Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair     That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes,     Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck,     Looked sweetly on Niloiya; but she knew     No meaning in her words; and she drew nigh,     And kneeled and said, "Will this my lady speak?     Her damsel is desirous of her words."     Then said Niloiya, "I, thy mistress, sought     A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found."     And yet again she wept with grief of heart,     Saying, "Ah me, miserable! I must give     A wife: the Master willeth it: a wife,     Ah me! unto the high-born. He will scorn     His mother and reproach me. I must give -     None else have I to give - a slave, - even thee."     This further spake Niloiya: "I was good, -     Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child,     When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast;     I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught     Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize.     But out on me! my good is turned to ill.     O, Japhet, well-beloved!" And she rose up,     And did restrain herself, saying, "Dost thou heed?     Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed,     "Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth.     And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze,     "Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth?     And will he sometimes take them from my arms,     And almost care for me for their sweet sake?     I have not dared to think I loved him, - now     I know it well: but O, the bitterness     For him!" And ending thus, the damsel rose,     For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself     Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood     Ran cold about her heart, for all his face     Was colored with his passion.          Japhet spoke:     He said, "My father's slave"; and she replied,     Low drooping her fair head, "My master's son."     And after that a silence fell on them,     With trembling at her heart, and rage at his.     And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat     And could not speak. O! cruel seemed his fate, -     So cruel her that told it, so unkind.     His breast was full of wounded love and wrath     Wrestling together; and his eyes flashed out     Indignant lights, as all amazed he took     The insult home that she had offered him,     Who should have held his honor dear.             And, lo,     The misery choked him and he cried in pain,     "Go, get thee forth"; but she, all white and still,     Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not,     Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate,     With lifted arm as one about to strike;     But she cried out and met him, and she held     With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him,     "Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say,     'Japhet is like to us.'" And he shook off     The damsel, and he said, "I thank thee, slave;     For never have I stricken yet or child     Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad,     Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words."     Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept.     And no more he restrained himself, but cried,     With heavings of the heart, "O hateful day!     O day that shuts the door upon delight.     A slave! to wed a slave! O loathd wife,     Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long,     With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts     Sullen and sore; then scorned himself, and saying,     "I will not take her, I will die unwed,     It is but that"; lift up his eyes and saw     The slave, and she was sitting at his feet;     And he, so greatly wondering that she dared     The disobedience, looked her in the face     Less angry than afraid, for pale she was     As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun;     And he, his passion being spent, sighed out,     "Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear,     That thou dost flout me?" but she gave to him     The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned,     "No."          And he wondered, and he looked again,     For in her heart there was a new-born pang,     That cried; but she, as mothers with their young,     Suffered, yet loved it; and there shone a strange     Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes.     And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought,     "What is it? I will call her by her name,     To comfort her, for also she is naught     To blame; and since I will not her to wife,     She falls back from the freedom she had hoped."     Then he said "Amarant"; and the damsel drew     Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky     Of even, and she said, "My master's son,     Japhet"; and Japhet said, "I am not wroth     With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed,     Because she shamed me."             And the maiden said,     "Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir?"     "Ay," quoth he, "well." She answered, "Let the heart     Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him     And say, 'The damsel whom my mother chose,     Sits by her in the house; but as for me,     Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you     To that same outland country. Also, sir,     My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe     Of her betrothal'; now, then, sith he loves,     He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile     Is respite, and thy mother far and near     Will seek again: it may be she will find     A fair, free maiden."             Japhet said, "O maid,     Sweet are thy words; but what if I return,     And all again be as it is to-day?"     Then Amarant answered, "Some have died in youth;     But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die.     Though ye shall find it even as I had died, -     Silent, for any words I might have said;     Empty, for any space I might have filled.     Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar;     But if a wife be found, then will I bide     And serve." He answered, "O, thy speech is good;     Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee),     I will reward it; I will find for thee     A goodly husband, and will make him free     Thee also."          Then she started from his feet,     And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him     The passion of her eyes; and put her hands     With catching of the breath to her fair throat,     And stood in her defiance lost to fear,     Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned     And brought to bay, and wild in her despair.     But shortly, "I remember," quoth she, low,     With raining down of tears and broken sighs,     "That I am Japhet's slave; beseech you, sir,     As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet     Of language to me, be not harder now.     Sir, I was yours to take; I knew not, sir,     That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir,     Be pitiful, - be merciful to me,     A slave." He said, "I thought to do thee good,     For good hath been thy counsel"; but she cried,     "Good master, be you therefore pitiful     To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much     At her, and at her beauty, for he thought,     "None of the daughters are so fair as this,     Nor stand with such a grace majestical;     She in her locks is like the travelling sun,     Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold.     And would she die unmatched?" He said to her,     "What! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship,     And dwell alone hereafter?" "Ay," she said,     "And serve my mistress."          "It is well," quoth he,     And held his hand to her, as is the way     Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said,     "Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself,     Adding, "I rest, sir, on your gracious words";     Then stepped into the twilight and was gone.     And Japhet, having found his father, said,     "Sir, let me also journey when ye go."     Who answered, "Hath thy mother done her part?"     He said, "Yea, truly, and my damsel sits     Before her in the house; and also, sir,     She said to me, 'I have not worked, as yet,     The garment of betrothal.'" And he said,     "'Tis not the manner of our kin to speak     Concerning matters that a woman rules;     But hath thy mother brought a damsel home,     And let her see thy face, then all is one     As ye were wed." He answered, "Even so,     It matters nothing; therefore hear me, sir:     The damsel being mine, I am content     To let her do according to her will;     And when we shall return, so surely, sir,     As I shall find her by my mother's side,     Then will I take her"; and he left to speak;     His father answering, "Son, thy words are good."     BOOK VI.     Night. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat     In the door and watched, for on a litter lay     The father of his love. And he was sick     To death; but daily he would rouse him up,     And stare upon the light, and ever say,     "On, let us journey"; but it came to pass     That night, across their path a river ran,     And they who served the father and the son     Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made     A fire, to scare away the savagery     That roamed in that great forest, for their way     Had led among the trees of God.             The moon     Shone on the river, like a silver road     To lead them over; but when Japhet looked,     He said, "We shall not cross it. I shall lay     This well-belovd head low in the leaves, -     Not on the farther side." From time to time,     The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow     With curling undulations, and would lay     Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed,     Consider those long spirting flames, that danced,     When some red log would break and crumble down;     And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched,     Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared     Little; and in the dark, that was not dark,     But dimness of confused incertitude,     Would move a-near all silently, and gaze     And breathe, and shape itself, a mand thing     With eyes; and still he cared not, and the form     Would falter, then recede, and melt again     Into the farther shade. And Japhet said:     "How long? The moon hath grown again in heaven,     After her caving twice, since we did leave     The threshold of our home; and now what 'vails     That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled,     Hungry, and weary, all the day; by night     Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath,     To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran     Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up,     While in the pale white ashes wading on     We saw no stars? - what 'vails if afterward,     Astonished with great silence, we did move     Over the measureless, unknown desert mead;     While all the day, in rents and crevices,     Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind,     Drowsy; and in the night take fearsome shapes,     And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired     Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn;     Or there would wander up, when we were tired,     Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose,     Withstanding us, and staring; - O! what 'vails     That in the dread deep forest we have fought     With following packs of wolves? These men of might,     Even the giants, shall not hear the doom     My father came to tell them of. Ah, me!     If God indeed had sent him, would he lie     (For he is stricken with a sore disease)     Helpless outside their city?"         Then he rose,     And put aside the curtains of the tent,     To look upon his father's face; and lo!     The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat     Beside the litter; and he set his eyes     To see it, and saw not; but only marked     Where, fallen away from manhood and from power,     His father lay. Then he came forth again,     Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire,     And murmured, "Now it is the second time:     An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw).     Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool:     I dared not look; perhaps I saw not aught,     But only knew that it was there: the same     Which walked beside us once when he did pray."     And Japhet hid his face between his hands     For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness     Of watching; and he slumbered not, but mourned     To himself, a little moment, as it seemed,     For sake of his loved father: then he lift     His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly     The moon withheld her silver, and she hung     Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played,     By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood,     Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world     And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars     Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched     The feathered heads of palms, and green was born     Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew     Like veils across the mountains; and he saw,     Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace,     And the sacredness of morn, the battlements     And out-posts of the giants; and there ran     On the other side the river, as it were,     White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair,     And towers below a line of inland cliff:     These were their fastnesses, and here their homes.     In valleys and the forest, all that night,     There had been woe; in every hollow place,     And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow,     Women lay mourning; for the serpent lodged     That night within the gates, and had decreed,     "I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out     The women, the abhorred of my soul."     Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom,     Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs,     Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink     The water of the river; or, new born,     The quivering butterflies in companies,     That slowly crept adown the sandy marge,     Like living crocus beds, and also drank,     And rose an orange cloud; their hollowed hands     They dipped between the lilies, or with robes     Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate,     Weeping; or comforting their little ones,     And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns     Among the palms.          So went the earlier morn.     Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat     Mournfully, and he said, "The men of might     Are willing; let thy master, youth, appear."     And Japhet said, "So be it"; and he thought,     "Now will I trust in God"; and he went in     And stood before his father, and he said,     "My father"; but the Master answered not,     But gazed upon the curtains of his tent,     Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad     As ready for the journey, and his feet     Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side;     And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice     And spread it on him, and he laid his crown     Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift     His hand to heaven, and cried, "My father's God!"     But neither whisper came nor echo fell     When he did listen. Therefore he went on:     "Behold, I have a thing to say to thee.     My father charged thy servant, 'Let not ruth     Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence,     For God appointed me my task, to preach     Before the mighty.' I must do my part     (O! let it not displease thee), for he said     But yesternight, 'When they shall send for me,     Take me before them.' And I sware to him.     I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine     Precious; for I that sware, I will perform."     Then cried he to his people, "Let us hence:     Take up the litter." And they set their feet     Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood.     And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat     Within the fairest hall where all were fair,     Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied     With work of women. And the dragon lay     In a place of honor; and with subtlety     He counselled them, for they did speak by turns;     And they being proud, might nothing master them,     But guile alone: and he did fawn on them;     And when the younger taunted him, submiss     He testified great humbleness, and cried,     "A cruel God, forsooth! but nay, O nay,     I will not think it of Him, that He meant     To threaten these. O, when I look on them,     How doth my soul admire."         And one stood forth,     The youngest; of his brethren, named "the Rock."     "Speak out," quoth he, "thou toothless slavering thing,     What is it? thinkest thou that such as we     Should be afraid? What is this goodly doom?"     And Satan laughed upon him. "Lo," said he,     "Thou art not fully grown, and every one     I look on, standeth higher by the head,     Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men;     Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear,     Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord,     "Speak," cried they; and with mild persuasive eyes,     And flattering tongue, he spoke.         "Ye mighty ones,     It hath been known to you these many days     How that for piety I am much famed.     I am exceeding pious: if I lie,     As hath been whispered, it is but for sake     Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard,     For I am all for God. Now some have thought     that He hath also (and it, may be so     Or yet may not be so) on me been hard;     Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor sake;     I am contented to have earned your weal,     Though I must therefore suffer.         "Now to-day     One cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool,     Who boasts he hath a message from our God,     And lest that you, for bravery of heart     And stoutness, being angered with his prate,     Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here."     Then spoke the Leader, "How now, snake? Thy words     Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us?     Thou coward! none of us will see thee harmed.     I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain;     Myself have hewn down companies, and blood     Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well;     And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age,     Come with a force to bid us spare one fool?"     And Satan answered, "Nay you! be not wroth;     Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth.     Your servant would have told the rest, if now     (For fulness of your life being fretted sore     At mine infirmities, which God in vain     I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused     My speech to stop." And he they called "the Oak"     Made answer, "'Tis a good snake; let him be.     Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast?     Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear.     Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak.     Speak, dragon, thou hast leave; make stout thy heart.     What! hast thou lied to this great company?     It was, we know it was, for humbleness;     Thou wert not willing to offend with truth."     "Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, "thus it was,"     And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned;     "O, can it be, compassionate as brave,     And housed in cunning works themselves have reared,     And served in gold, and warmed with minivere,     And ruling nobly, - that He, not content     Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend     O break them in, like slaves to cry to Him,     'What is Thy will with us, O Master dear?'     Or else to eat of death?         "For my part, lords,     I cannot think it: for my piety     And reason, which I also share with you,     Are my best lights, and ever counsel me,     'Believe not aught against thy God; believe,     Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong,     That He will never stoop to do thee wrong.     Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind?'     Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind     Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think     The message is not like what I have learned     By reason and experience, of the God.     Therefore no message 'tis. The man is mad."     Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, snake;     If God be just, there SHALL be reckoning days.     We rather would He were a partial God,     And being strong, He sided with the strong.     Turn now thy reason to the other side,     And speak for that; for as to justice, snake,     We would have none of it."             And Satan fawned:     "My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit;     Yet in my pious fashion I must talk:     For say that God was wroth with man, and came     And slew him, that should make an empty world,     But not a bettor nation."         This replied,     "Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean     A better nation; may be, He designs,     If none will turn again, a punishment     Upon an evil one."             And Satan cried,     "Alas! my heart being full of love for men,     I cannot choose but think of God as like     To me; and yet my piety concludes,     Since He will have your fear, that love alone     Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say,     'Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God     Your fear.'" But they cried out in wrath and rage,     "We are not strong that any we will fear,     Nor specially a foe that means us ill."     BOOK VII.     And while he spoke there was a noise without;     The curtains of the door were flung aside,     And some with heavy feet bare in, and set     A litter on the floor.         The Master lay     Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set;     And Japhet, in despairing weariness,     Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones,     Silent for pride of heart, and in his place     The jewelled dragon; and the dragon laughed,     And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook     With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried,     Hissing, "Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me;     I fain would have thee for my shrine afar,     To serve among an host as beautiful     As thou: draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt     Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear,     "Father! O help, the serpent draweth me!"     And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils     A netted bird. But still his father lay     Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak,     But half in fear and half for wonderment     Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed,     And leered at him and hissed; and Japhet strove     Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes,     And moved to go to him, till piercingly     Crying out, "God! forbid it, God in heaven!"     The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes     As feigning sleep; and, suddenly released,     He fell back staggering; and at noise of it,     And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor,     And Japhet's voice crying out, "I loathe thee, snake!     I hate thee! O, I hate thee!" came again,     The senses of the shipwright; and he, moved,     And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully     Upon the mighty, said, "One called on God:     Where is my God? If God have need of me,     Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength,     Or dying I shall die."             It came to pass,     While he was speaking, that the curtains swayed;     A rushing wind did move throughout the place,     And all the pillars shook, and on the head     Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played     A somewhat, as it were a light, upon     His breast; then fell a darkness, and men heard     A whisper as of one that spake. With that,     The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch     Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled.     When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke     From many censers where the dragon lay.     It hid him. He had called his ministrants,     And bid them veil him thus, that none might look;     Also the folk who came with Noah had fled.     But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect,     And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause,     The Leader said, "My brethren, it were well     (For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak."     And they did reach toward the man their staves,     And cry with loud accord, "Hail, sorcerer, hail!"     And he made answer, "Hail! I am a man     That is a shipwright. I was born afar     To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit,     Over the land of Jalal. Majesties,     I bring a message, - lay you it to heart;     For there is wrath in heaven: my God is wroth.     'Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He,     'A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts,     'What have we done?' Your dogs may answer that,     To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed     With captives whom ye slew not in the war,     But saved alive, and living throw to them     Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes     Their firstborn ye do take and offer up     To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk     Is in their innocent mouths, - your maiden babes     Tender. Your slaves may answer that, - the gangs     Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work     By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes     They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends     May answer that, - (their bleachd bones cry out.)     For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands,     Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace,     The rivers, and they, choking in the night,     Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave     To tell of more, the time would be so long     To do it, and your time, O mighty ones,     Is short), - but rather say, 'We sinners know     Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn     While yet there may be respite, and repent.     "'Or else,' saith He that formd you, 'I swear,     By all the silence of the times to come,     By the solemnities of death, - yea, more,.     By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned,     That I will come. I will command the clouds,     And raining they shall rain; yea, I will stir     With all my storms the ocean for your sake,     And break for you the boundary of the deep.     "'Then shall the mighty mourn.         Should I forbear,     That have been patient? I will not forbear!     For yet,' saith He, 'the weak cry out; for yet     The little ones do languish; and the slave     Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I     Will hear them. I by death will scatter you;     Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast,     And gather them to peace.             "'But yet,' saith He,     'Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die?'     "Turn then, O turn, while yet the enemy     Untamed of man fatefully moans afar;     For if ye will not turn, the doom is near.     Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat     You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth?     Will ye forbid it? Monsters of the deep     Shall suckle in your palaces their young,     And swim atween your hangings, all of them     Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold     And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress, -     There did ye make you vile); but ye shall lie     Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above,     And urge the weltering wave.             "'Yet,' saith thy God,     'Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, 'O son,     Made in My image, beautiful and strong,     Why wilt thou die? Thy Father loves thee well.     Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways,     O son! and no more dare the wrath of love.     Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee.     Why wilt thou die?' Here will I make an end."     Now ever on his dais the dragon lay,     Feigning to sleep; and all the mighty ones     Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe,     And some at whom the sorcerer they had named, -     Some at their fellows, for the younger sort, -     As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood,     And given to learning and the arts of peace     (Their fathers having crushed rebellion out     Before their time) - lent favorable ears.     They said, "A man, or false or fanatic,     May claim good audience if he fill our ears     With what is strange: and we would hear again."     The Leader said, "An audience hath been given.     The man hath spoken, and his words are naught;     A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat,     And it is not our manner that we sit     Beyond the noonday"; then they grandly rose,     A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved     To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms,     And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left     About the Master; and the feigning snake     Couched on his dais.         Then one to Japhet said,     One called "the Cedar-Tree," "Dost thou, too, think     To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned?"     And Japhet said, "I think not, nor desire,     Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear     Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried,     To one surnamed "the Pine," - "Brother, behooves     That deep we cut our names in yonder crag.     Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask     Our names, and he may answer, 'Matters not,     For my part I forget them.'"         Japhet said,     "They might do worse than that, they might deny     That such as you have ever been." With that     They answered, "No, thou dost not think it, no!"     And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat,     "And wherefore? if ye say of what is sworn,     'He will not do it,' shall it be more hard     For future men, if any talk on it,     To say, 'He did not do it'?" They replied,     With laughter, "Lo you! he is stout with us.     And yet he cowered before the poor old snake.     Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now     To bear our might in mind, - do, sirrah, do;     And likewise tell your sons, '"The Cedar Tree"     Was a good giant, for he struck me not,     Though he was young and full of sport, and though     I taunted him.'"          With that they also passed.     But there remained who with the shipwright spoke:     "How wilt thou certify to us thy truth?"     And he related to them all his ways     From the beginning: of the Voice that called;     Moreover, how the ship of doom was built.     And one made answer, "Shall the mighty God     Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars?     No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne,     Be ordering of His far infinitudes,     And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance,     As if the shadow of His hand had fallen     On one that He forgot, and troubled it."     Then said the Master, "Yet, - who told thee so?"     And from his das the feigning serpent hissed:     "Preacher, the light within, it was that shined,     And told him so. The pious will have dread     Him to declare such as ye rashly told.     The course of God is one. It likes not us     To think of Him as being acquaint with change:     It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth     Is left to her great masters. They must rule;     They do; and I have set myself between, -     A visible thing for worship, sith His face     (For He is hard) He showeth not to men.     Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man,     To be interpreter, and teach mankind     A pious lesson by my piety,     He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, -     It were beneath Him."             And the Master said,     "Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world,     If He, whom thou hast dared speak against,     Would suffer it." "I may not chide with thee,"     It answered, "NOW; but if there come such time     As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign     In all men's sight, shall my dominion then     Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too     Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head.     Then quoth the Leader of the young men: "Sir,     We scorn you not; speak further; yet our thought     First answer. Not but by a miracle     Can this thing be. The fashion of the world     We heretofore have never known to change;     And will God change it now?"             He then replied:     "What is thy thought? THERE is NO MIRACLE?     There is a great one, which thou hast not read.     And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man,     Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest,     'I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world,     Red clay is all my make, myself, my whole,     And not my habitation,' then thy sleep     Shall give thee wings to play among the rays     O' the morning. If thy thought be, 'I am one, -     A spirit among spirits, - and the world     A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream     Being all,' the dominating mountains strong     Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath,     And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back,     And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet     Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself,     Being in the world and of the world, thyself     Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world.     Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son,     That which He is, and that which He hath made:     Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself, -     THOU art thy FATHER'S MIRACLE.         Behold     He buildeth up the stars in companies;     He made for them a law. To man He said,     'Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains?     O, it remains, if thou, the image of God,     Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways;     But first thou must be loyal, - love, O man,     Thy Father, - hearken when He pleads with thee,     For there is something left of Him e'en now, -     A witness for thy Father in thy soul,     Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone.     "Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul,     'The rivers in their course forever run,     And turn not from it. He is like to them     Who made them,' Think the rather, 'With my foot     I have turned the rivers from their ancient way,     To water grasses that were fading. What!     Is God my Father as the river wave,     That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing     He made, and not like me, a living son,     That changed the watercourse to suit his will?'     "Man is the miracle in nature. God     Is the ONE MIRACLE to man. Behold,     'There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well:     In that thou sayest all. To Be is more     Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought,     Or reigned, or rested.     Hold then there, content;     Learn that to love is the one way to know,     Or God or man: it is not love received     That maketh man to know the inner life     Of them that love him; his own love bestowed     Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more     His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret     At any counsel, then, that He will send, -     No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee     Great reservations. Know, to Be is more     Than to have acted; yea, or after rest     And patience, to have risen and been wroth,     Broken the sequence of an ordered earth,     And troubled nations."         Then the dragon sighed.     "Poor fanatic," quoth he, "thou speakest well.     Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong,     Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth,     My masters, let us not despise, but learn     Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul.     Let us go forth - (myself will also go     To head you) - and do sacrifice; for that,     We know, is pleasing to the mighty God:     But as for building many arks of wood,     O majesties! when He shall counsel you     HIMSELF, then build. What say you, shall it be     An hundred oxen, - fat, well liking, white?     An hundred? why, a thousand were not much     To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms     To heaven, and cried, "Thou aged shape of sin,     The Lord rebuke thee."     BOOK VIII.     Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought,     "The Master cometh!" and she went within     To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem     Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field,     And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied,     "Well! and, I pray you, is it well at home?"     But Shem made answer, "Can a house be well,     If he that should command it bides afar?     Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid     Is found to wed thee; and they bring her in     This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste     To cover thick with costly webs the floor,     And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves     Of all sweet herbs, - I warrant, ye shall hear     No footfall where she treadeth; and the seats     Are ready, spread with robes; the tables set     With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred     To fill them; and the rubied censers smoke,     Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon,     And frankincense and cedar."             Japhet said,     "I will betroth her to me straight"; and went     (Yet labored he with sore disquietude)     To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf     For his betrothal. And his brother spake,     "Where is our father? doth he preach to-day?"     And Japhet answered, "Yea. He said to me,     'Go forward; I will follow when the folk     By yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned.'"     And Shem replied, "How thinkest thou? - thine ears     Have heard him oft." He answered, "I do think     These be the last days of this old fair world."     Then he did tell him of the giant folk:     How they, than he, were taller by the head;     How one must stride that will ascend the steps     That lead to their wide halls; and how they drave,     With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north;     And how the talking dragon lied and fawned,     They seated proudly on their ivory thrones,     And scorning him: and of their peakd hoods,     And garments wrought upon, each with the tale     Of him that wore it, - all his manful deeds     (Yea, and about their skirts were effigies     Of kings that they had slain; and some, whose swords     Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red,     To signify much blood): and of their pride     He told, but of the vision in the tent     He told him not.         And when they reached the house,     Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried,     "All hail, right fortunate! Lo, I have found     A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap     The late ripe corn." So he went in with her,     And she did talk with him right motherly:     "It hath been fully told me how ye loathed     To wed thy father's slave; yea, she herself,     Did she not all declare to me?"         He said,     "Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart."     "Yea," quoth his mother; "she made clear to me     How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow,     'I will not take her!' Now it was not I     That wrought to have it so." And he replied,     "I know it." Quoth the mother, "It is well;     For that same cause is laughter in my heart."     "But she is sweet of language," Japhet said.     "Ay," quoth Niloiya, "and thy wife no less     Whom thou shalt wed anon, - forsooth, anon, -     It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt?" He said,     "I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf     From off his shoulder, and he said, "Behold,     My father!" Then Niloiya turned herself,     And lo! the shipwright stood. "All hail!" quoth she.     And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth;     But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed;     And she did hang about his neck the robe     Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands     Clear water, and anointed him, and set     Before him bread.          And Japhet said to him,     "My father, my belovd, wilt thou yet     Be sad because of scorning? Eat this day;     For as an angel in their eyes thou art     Who stand before thee." But he answered, "Peace!     Thy words are wide."          And when Niloiya heard,     She said, "Is this a time for mirth of heart     And wine? Behold, I thought to wed my son,     Even this Japhet; but is this a time,     When sad is he to whom is my desire,     And lying under sorrow as from God?"     He answered, "Yea, it is a time of times;     Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, "The maid     That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed;     It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me.     But I have found another; yea, good sooth,     The damsel will not tarry, she will come     With all her slaves by sundown."             And she said,     "Comfort thy heart, and eat: moreover, know     How that thy great work even to-day is done.     Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk     (For I, according to thy will, have paid     All that was left us to them for their wage,)     Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat,     Honey and oil, - much victual; yea, and fruits,     Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say     It is thy will to take it for thy hold     Our fastness and abode." He answered, "Yea,     Else wherefore was it built?" She said, "Good sir,     I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn.     And now, to-morrow in thy father's house     Is a great feast, and weddings are toward;     Let be the ship, till after, for thy words     Have ever been, 'If God shall send a flood,     There will I dwell'; I pray you therefore wait     At least till He DOTH send it."         And he turned,     And answered nothing. Now the sun was low     While yet she spake; and Japhet came to them     In goodly raiment, and upon his arm     The garment of betrothal. And with that     A noise, and then brake in a woman slave     And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands,     Did say full meekly, "If I do offend,     Yet have not I been willing to offend;     For now this woman will not be denied     Herself to tell her errand."         And they sat.     Then spoke the woman, "If I do offend,     Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue     Is for her mistress. 'Lo!' my mistress saith,     'Put off thy bravery, bridegroom; fold away,     Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes     Woven of many colors. We have heard     Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things     He prophesied to us, that were his friends;     Therefore, my answer: - God do so to me;     Yea, God do so to me, more also, more     Than He did threaten, if my damsel's foot     Ever draw nigh thy door.'"             And when she heard,     Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul.     But Japhet came unto the slave, where low     She bowed herself for fear. He said, "Depart;     Say to thy mistress, 'It is well.'" With that     She turned herself, and she made haste to flee,     Lest any, for those evil words she brought,     Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house     Lift up her hand and said, "If I offend,     It was not of my heart: thy damsel knew     Naught of this matter." And he held to her     His hand and touched her, and said, "Amarant!"     And when she looked upon him, she did take     And spread before her face her radiant locks,     Trembling. And Japhet said, "Lift up thy face,     O fairest of the daughters, thy fair face;     For, lo! the bridegroom standeth with the robe     Of thy betrothal! " - and he took her locks     In his two hands to part them from her brow,     And laid them on her shoulders; and he said,     "Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put     The robe upon her, having said, "Behold,     I have repented me; and oft by night,     In the waste wilderness, while all things slept,     I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet.     "For this I make thee free. And now thyself     Art loveliest in mine eyes; I look, and lo!     Thou art of beauty more than any thought     I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe,     Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough,     And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes,     Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair."     So when she held her peace, he brought her nigh     To hear the speech of wedlock; ay, he took     The golden cup of wine to drink with her,     And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said,     "Like as my fathers in the older days     Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I;     Like as they said, 'Mine honor have I set     Upon thy head!' do I. Eat of my bread,     Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves,     And mother of my children."             And he brought     The damsel to his father, saying, "Behold     My wife! I have betrothed her to myself;     I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did:     He said, "Be mother of a multitude,     And let them to their father even so     Be found, as he is found to me."          With that     She answered, "Let this woman, sir, find grace     And favor in your sight."         And Japhet said,     "Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose     And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand;     Have care on her, till I shall come again     And ask her of thee." So they went apart,     He and his father to the marriage feast.     BOOK IX.     The prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night     And listened; and the earth was dark and still,     And he was driven of his great distress     Into the forest; but the birds of night     Sang sweetly; and he fell upon his face,     And cried, "God, God! Thy billows and Thy waves     Have swallowed up my soul.         "Where is my God?     For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee;     For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep,     Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar,     And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet, -     Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees     With blossom, - spare them. Life is sweet; behold     There is much cattle, and the wild and tame,     Father, do feed in quiet, - spare them.         "God!     Where is my God? The long wave doth not rear     Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up,     And like a chief in battle fall, - not yet.     The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes     In heaven, the torment of their forkd tongues,     And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, - not yet.     The winds awake not, with their awful wings     To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track,     All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride     Of all things strong and all things high -          "Not yet.     O, let it not be yet. Where is my God?     How am I saved, if I and mine be saved     Alone? I am not saved, for I have loved     My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall,     Over their lands be lord when they are gone?     I would not: spare them. Mighty. Spare Thyself,     For Thou dost love them greatly, - and if not ..."     Another praying unremote, a Voice     Calm as the solitude between wide stars.     "Where is my God, who loveth this lost world, -     Lost from its place and name, but won for Thee?     Where is my multitude, my multitude,     That I shall gather?" And white smoke went up     From incense that was burning, but there gleamed     No light of fire, save dimly to reveal     The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him     That mourned. "My God, appear for me, appear;     Give me my multitude, for it is mine.     The bitterness of death I have not feared,     To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full.     Then shall the captive from his bonds go free,     Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest     From labor and from blows. The sorrowful -     That said of joy, 'What is it?' and of songs,     'We have not heard them' - shall be glad and sing;     Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee,     And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face,     And seeing, dwell content."             The prayer of Noah.     He cried out in the darkness, "Hear, O God,     Hear HIM: hear this one; through the gates of death,     If life be all past praying for, O give     To Thy great multitude a way to peace;     Give them to HIM.          "But yet," said he, "O yet,     If there be respite for the terrible,     The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee, - and if not....     Let not mine eyes behold their fall."         He cried,     "Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge,     With a perfect heart; I have but half believed,     While in accustomed language I have warned;     And now there is no more to do, no place     For my repentance, yea, no hour remains     For doing of that work again. O, lost,     Lost world!" And while he prayed, the daylight dawned.     And Noah went up into the ship, and sat     Before the Lord. And all was still; and now     In that great quietness the sun came up,     And there were marks across it, as it were     The shadow of a Hand upon the sun, -     Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward     There rose a white, thick mist, that peacefully     Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud,     The earth that gave no token, save that now     There fell a little trembling under foot.     And Noah went down, and took and hid his face     Behind his mantle, saying, "I have made     Great preparation, and it may be yet,     Beside my house, whom I did charge to come     This day to meet me, there may enter in     Many that yesternight thought scorn of all     My bidding." And because the fog was thick,     He said, "Forbid it, Heaven, if such there be,     That they should miss the way." And even then     There was a noise of weeping and lament;     The words of them that were affrighted, yea,     And cried for grief of heart. There came to him     The mother and her children, and they cried,     "Speak, father, what is this? What hast thou done?"     And when he lifted up his face, he saw     Japhet, his well-belovd, where he stood     Apart; and Amarant leaned upon his breast,     And hid her face, for she was sore afraid;     And lo! the robes of her betrothal gleamed     White in the deadly gloom.             And at his feet     The wives of his two other sons did kneel,     And wring their hands.             One cried, "O, speak to us;     We are affrighted; we have dreamed a dream,     Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine     The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk,     Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked,     And they did enter here."          The other lay     And moaned, "Alas! O father, for my dream     Was evil: lo, I heard when it was dark,     I heard two wicked ones contend for me.     One said, 'And wherefore should this woman live,     When only for her children, and for her,     Is woe and degradation?' Then he laughed,     The other crying, 'Let alone, O prince;     Hinder her not to live and bear much seed,     Because I hate her.'"         But he said, "Rise up,     Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words     To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her,     "Peace! or I swear that for thy dream, myself     Will hate thee also."          And Niloiya said,     "My sons, if one of you will hear my words,     Go now, look out, and tell me of the day,     How fares it?"             And the fateful darkness grew.     But Shem went up to do his mother's will;     And all was one as though the frighted earth     Quivered and fell a-trembling; then they hid     Their faces every one, till he returned,     And spake not. "Nay," they cried, "what hast thou seen?     O, is it come to this?" He answered them,     "The door is shut."