Poems (Hardy)/As it befell
AS IT BEFELL
PHIRAL strode homeward in the early dusk,A sickle on his arm. Between the treesAlong the wooded path lay yellow streaksOf sunset. A little streamlet from a springLoitered among the cress and widened thereWhere herds returning stopped to drink.OnwardHe passed and hardly knew he saw at glanceA moth of dingy wing lie sprawling flatUpon an ox-track pool. Smiling he went,Thinking of her he loved: "O tender heart,And gentle hand—and gentle hand? I thinkI see her now. She would have lifted outThe little moth with pitying words."He turned,And stooping found the half-unheeded poolAnd set the creature on a hazel twig,And singing crossed the meadow-land below.
Years, but scarcely years, went by, and sheOf tender heart and gentle hands was nowFond wife to him and mother to his child.And life and all went healthily and well.
Now in that land the king was sick and laySlow languishing. "Give me," at length, he cried,—As sick men use, wanting they know not what,—"Give me to eat of roasted apples, fruitOf that high garden-tree I love." "Yea, lord,What chanced has no man told? A blight of wormsFell on the orchards here in all thy realm,In blossom-time. But four days' journey bringsFrom Valore's hills the fruit thou cravest so.Royal word and gift discovering outOf all thy youth the swiftest, him shall send."
And Phiral was the swiftest; him they foundAnd sped in double haste to serve the king.And Phiral's wife took counsel of herself,Thinking how their one little child would missHis father's face and weep uncomforted."hy should it be so long? Four days and nightsWill make my darling ill, and all for what?One tree bears apples all as good as thoseUpon another; all's the merest thought,If you but will. Too far is Valore's land.Turn thou aside and take thy way to LormAnd get thee in at Barvan's gate, that soonThou mayst return; the better for the king,For thee, and me, and little Svane. O haste!"Nor Phiral nor his wife looked far before:Blind love unmixed with forethought led him; her,The thing that centered in the moment's need,Hers or her child's.Phiral took the hill road,Then turned aside and came to Barvan's gate,Beside an inland lake, weary at dawn of day;But all unresting till his errand's end,Right forth he set with what he came to seek,Wrapped in a silken scrip, embroidered thickWith mystic dragons and a golden crest. Now Barvan nursed hate against the king, soughtA road to slay him by bare treachery;For he had failed in arms in open fieldThrice, yea, four times failed, in even battle-line;But guileful still in low subjection lived.Apples he gave, ruddy, and gold, and ripe,And in their heart a subtle powder, sweetAnd deadly.Then when Phiral, from the crestOf Lorm's last highland, saw the waning dayGlittering on the king's blue towers afar,He fell a-thirst, seemed to himself all oneAs dead, but resting chewed dry wayside leaves,Took courage, and fared on across the plainThrough miles of trampled dust. Far spent, at last,From thirst and weariness, and weakness, heartGave way and down he sank upon a knollPanting, "Why should one die with food in scrip?"He took and ate of Barvan's gift, and roseWith thought of home and wife and little Svane;He rose and ran, and as the sun went down,Fell at the city's gate, crying, "The king!Save him!" with a great bitter cry and died.And seeing the king's crest upon the scrip,Though hardly they could take the silken bagFrom out his grasp, men bore it quickly onTo the king's palace, to the ailing king,And he died, slain by that subtlety,—slainBy that chance along with Phiral. Nor courtNor people knew.Then reigned another prince,And years went by, and Phiral's son was grownA mighty man at arms; the king took joyOf him and set him over all his hosts, Made him friend, close comrade of his repose,Counselor to his throne through evil days.
It chanced there was a knave in prince's garbAbout the king,—keeper of his own thoughts,Silent and cold-eyed, observant of ear,Stealthy of spirit, one that plotted muchIn crass day-dreams his own aggrandizement.But ever Svane kept to the simple waysThat never hinder men from living long and well,And dwelt untrammeled in his own first homeWhere still his mother, mistress of his heart,Lived and loved for him—how else?—in the roundOf her small world, each day as it arose.
And Svane wrought the king's will with sword and word,And all the people were at peace to tillTheir lands and tend their flocks, or make their martAmong themselves, by land and sea. But Doure,The knave-prince, grumbled in his palace hall,Until his wife, a princess wise and gentle, said,"Patience, my lord; the king will give you place yetTo do the thing you would. His armies lieExpectant in their tents." But Doure's one thoughtWas "Svane, Svane! Ay, 'tis ever Svane," and sulkedAnd crept away to think,A young moon's arcHung low among the yellow stars,—betweenThe purple and the gray that meet the blue,Banding, all three, the early evening sky,—And lighted Svane forth and back, amongHis garden plots and arbored paths and gladesOf scented shrubs, and crossed his troubled thoughtWith brief cessation. "Time to tell the king?Ay, now, for Doure is even now—But ifThe king knew, yea, to-night, Doure's head would fall,And that poor princess and the child, his son:My mother pleads for them: that DoureMay fail, that I may ward his treason, saveHim alive, and never tell the king all;And take the traitor in my hands and holdHis waywardness in check and make him serveHis duty to the king,—and keep the three alive.'The wife,' my mother weeps, 'the little child!'Yet when had not the innocent to sufferIf those they love are guilty? Doure must die!"
But Svane's mother, all awake, rose and metHer son, took him full-armored as he stood,And set him by her bed and made him seeAnd feel her way: less haste might save the twoThat else would die with Doure. So Svane's mind turned,Saw not what might befall between and failedOf natural tenor. So he slept, all be,In armor, by his door, and not at peace.
Now whether Doure's envy, his traitor mindAt work betimes, despite his craven heart,Drove honest sleep away, the tale tells not,But something led him forth to walk at deepOf night between the dawn and that dim hourWhen palest stars withdraw and leave the brightestWaning, a cold wind blows, and sleep is heaviest.Slinking by Svane's garden, even to his door,There he found the sleeping warrior,—thereWounded him to death and left him bare wordsEnough to warn the king. And so Svane died;All was ended for Phiral and his line. Whether, then, as some think it ought to seem,By reason of the people's wrath, Doure cameTo death, or fled beyond the western plainTo Barvan's high-walled city, certain wordHas no man had. But the knave prince's childIn later years fell heir to Barvan's crown,And Lorm's empire,—scrolls say not how,—Except as son of that wise princess, wifeTo Doure, whose record ends where it beginsThat she was wise and gentle all her days.
NEPHRAN AND THE LAW
THUS Nephran made discourse unto himself,Walking at eve beneath the sycamores:
"Alarion says that Nature—God—fails notTo punish evil-doing. Ay, a priest,Alarion speaks as a priest should speak, I grant.Were I a priest, this thing upon my tongueShould be and help to get my bread as well.But I am young and strong and free—my own,I am—and no man hinders. Would I, think,Endure that freedom should be hedged aboutFor harping like to this? So, look at me!A score of times have I done thus,—and thus,—That he denominates wrong,—and look at me!Who is so strong? Who goes so far and neverTires? Or who sleeps as I? And I will thinkAlarion is a fool, or Nature is, or—"
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Nephran bows low above his only child,The last of seven; agonizing seeksTo save the feeble flame of life alive;He chafes the little hand, the poor lame feet;He lifts the helpless head, and holds the cupTo lips that smile, but, drinking not, try,To please the face that hangs above,As the blue eyes widely open, glistening,Seem to say. . . .