Turned strangely to its opposite, to the

Sobbing. Oh, swiftly then one woman flew

To seek her father’s rooms, one for the new

Bridegroom, to tell the tale. And all the place

Was loud with hurrying feet.

So long a space

As a swift walker on a measured way

Would pace a furlong’s course in, there she lay

Speechless, with veilèd lids. Then wide her eyes

She oped, and wildly, as she strove to rise,

Shrieked: for two diverse waves upon her rolled

Of stabbing death. The carcanet of gold

That gripped her brow was molten in a dire

And wondrous river of devouring fire.

And those fine robes, the gift thy children gave—

God’s mercy!—everywhere did lap and lave

The delicate flesh; till up she sprang, and fled,

A fiery pillar, shaking locks and head

This way and that, seeking to cast the crown

Somewhere away. But like a thing nailed down

The burning gold held fast the anadem,

And through her locks, the more she scattered them,

Came fire the fiercer, till to earth she fell

A thing—save to her sire—scarce nameable,

And strove no more. That cheek of royal mien,

Where was it—or the place where eyes had been?

Only from crown and temples came faint blood

Shot through with fire. The very flesh, it stood

Out from the bones, as from a wounded pine

The gum starts, where those gnawing poisons fine

Bit in the dark—a ghastly sight! And touch

The dead we durst not. We had seen too much.

But that poor father, knowing not, had sped,

Swift to his daughter’s room, and there the dead

Lay at his feet. He knelt, and groaning low,

Folded her in his arms, and kissed her: “Oh,

Unhappy child, what thing unnatural hath

So hideously undone thee? Or what wrath

Of gods, to make this old grey sepulchre

Childless of thee? Would God but lay me there

To die with thee, my daughter!” So he cried.

But after, when he stayed from tears, and tried

To uplift his old bent frame, lo, in the folds

Of those fine robes it held, as ivy holds

Strangling among young laurel boughs. Oh, then

A ghastly struggle came! Again, again,

Up on his knee he writhed; but that dead breast

Clung still to his: till, wild, like one possessed,

He dragged himself half free; and, lo, the live

Flesh parted; and he laid him down to strive

No more with death, but perish; for the deep

Had risen above his soul. And there they sleep,

At last, the old proud father and the bride,

Even as his tears had craved it, side by side.

For thee—Oh, no word more! Thyself will know

How best to baffle vengeance… Long ago

I looked upon man’s days, and found a grey

Shadow. And this thing more I surely say,

That those of all men who are counted wise,