The Princess; a medley/Canto 6

by Alfred Tennyson

VI.What follow'd, tho' I saw not, yet I heardSo often that I speak as having seen.

 For when our side was vanquished and my causeFor ever lost, there went up a great cryThe Prince is slain. My father heard and ranIn on the lists, and there unlaced my casqueAnd grovell'd on my body, and after himCame Psyche, sorrowing for Agläia,

 But high upon the palace Ida stoodWith Psyche's babe in arm: there on the roofsLike that great dame of Lapidoth she sang.

 'Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark,Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulkOf spanless girth, that lays on every sideA thousand arms and rushes to the Sun.

 'Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came; The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard A noise of songs they would not understand.They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall,And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves.

 'Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came, The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree!But we will make it faggots for the hearth, And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor,And boats and bridges for the use of men.

 'Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knewThere dwelt an iron nature in the grain: The glittering axe was broken in their arms,Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade,

 'Our enemies have fall'n, but this shalt grow A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roll'd With music in the Æonian breeze of Time, The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs Shall move the stony bases of the world.

 'And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary Is violate, our laws broken: fear we not To break them more in their behoof, whose arms Champion'd our cause and won it with a day Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast, When dames and heroines of the golden year Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, To rain an April of ovation round Their statues borne aloft, the three: but come,We will be liberal, since our rights are won. Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind, Ill nurses; but descend, and proffer theseThe brethren of our blood and cause, that there Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender ministriesOf female hands and hospitality.'

 She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms, Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led A hundred maids in train across the Park.Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they came, Their feet in flowers, her loveliest: by them went The enamour'd air sighing, and on their curls From the high tree the blossom wavering fell, And over them the tremulous isles of lightSlided, they moving under shade: but Blanche At distance follow'd: so they came: anonThro' the open field into the lists they wound. Timorously; and as the leader of the herdThat holds a stately fretwork to the Sun,And follow'd up by a hundred airy does, Steps with a tender foot, light as on air,The lovely, lordly creature floated onTo where her wounded brethren lay; there stay'd; Knelt on one knee,—the child on one,—and prest Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers,And happy warriors, and immortal names,And said 'You shall not lie in the tents but here, And nursed by those for whom you fought, and served With female hands and hospitality.'

 Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance,She past my way. Up started from my side The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, Silent; but when she saw me lying stark, Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly pale, Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd; and when she saw The haggard father's face and reverend beard Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of painTortured her mouth and o'er her forehead past A shadow, and all her hue changed, and she said: 'He saved my life: my brother slew him for it'No more; at which the king in bitter scornDrew from my neck the painting and the tress, And held them up: she saw them, and a dayRose from the distance on her memory,When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche:And then once more she look'd at my pale-face: Till understanding all the foolish workOf Fancy, and the bitter close of all,Her iron will was broken in her mind;Her noble heart was molten in her breast;She bow'd, she set the child on the earth; she laid A feeling finger on my brows, and presently'O Sire,' she said, 'he lives: he is not dead:O let me have him with my brethren hereIn our own palace: we will tend on himLike one of these; if so, by any means,To lighten this great clog of thanks, that makesOur progress falter to the woman's goal.' She said: but at the happy word 'he lives'My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my wounds. So those two foes above my fallen life, With brow to brow like night and evening mixt Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole A little nearer, till the babe that by us, Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass, Uncared for, spied its mother and began A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal Brook'd not, but clamouring out 'Mine—mine—not yours, It is not yours, but mine: give me the child' Ceased all on tremble: piteous was the cry: So stood the unhappy mother open-mouthed, And turn'd each face her way: wan was her cheek With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn, Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye, And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burstThe laces toward her babe; but she nor cared Nor knew it, clamouring on, till Ida heard, Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood Erect and silent, striking with her glanceThe mother, me, the child; but Cyril, who lay Bruised, where he fell, not far off, much in pain, Trail'd himself up on one knee: then he drew Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look'd At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as it seem'd, Or self-involved; but when she learnt his face, Remembering his ill-omen'd song, aroseOnce more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sandWhen the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said:

 'O fair and strong and terrible! Lioness That with your long locks play the Lion's mane! But Love and Nature, these are two more terribleAnd stronger. See, your foot is on our necks, We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will.What would you more? give her the child! remain Orb'd in your isolation: he is dead,Or all as dead: henceforth we let you be:Win you the hearts of women; and beware Lest, where you seek the common love of these, The common hate with the revolving wheel Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis Break from a darken'd future, crown'd with fire, And tread you out for ever: but howsoe'er Fix'd in yourself, never in your own armsTo hold your own, deny not her's to her,Give her the child! O if, I say, you keepOne pulse that beats true woman, if you loved The breast that fed or the arm that dandled you, Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer, Give her the child! or if you scorn to lay it, Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with yours,Or speak to her, your dearest, her one faultThe tenderness, not yours, that could not kill, Give me it, and I will give it her.'He said: At first her eye with slow dilation roll'd Dry flame, she listening; after sank and sank And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt Full on the child; she took it: 'Pretty bud! Lily of the vale! half open'd bell of the woods! Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world Of traitorous friend and broken system made No purple in the distance, mystery, Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell;These men are hard upon us as of old, We two must part: and yet how fain was I To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think I might be something to thee, when I felt Thy waxen warmth about my milkless breast In the dead prime: but may thy mother prove As true to thee as false, false, false to me! And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish itGentle as freedom'—here she kiss'd it: then— 'All good go with thee! take it Sir' and soLaid the soft babe in his hard-mailed handsWho turn'd half-round to Psyche as she sprang To embrace it, with an eye that swum in thanks, Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot, And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close enough, And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it, And hid her bosom with it; after thatPut on more calm and added suppliantly;

 'We two were friends: I go to mine own land For ever: find some other: as for me I scarce am fit for your great plans: yet speak to me,Say one soft word and let me part forgiven.'

 But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. Then Arac. 'Soul and life! you blame the man; You wrong yourselves—the woman is so hard Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me! I am your brother; I advise you well: I am your warrior; I and mine have foughtYour battle; kiss her; take her hand, she weeps;Life! I would sooner fight thrice o'er than see it.'

 But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground, And reddening in the furrows of his chin,And moved beyond his custom, Gama said:

 'I've heard that there is iron in the blood, And I believe it. Not one word? not one? Whence drew you this steel temper? not from me, Not from your mother now a saint with saints. She said you had a heart—I heard her say it— "Our Ida has a heart"—just ere she died— "But see that some one with authority Be near her still" and I—I sought for one— All people said she had authority—The Lady Blanche: much profit! Not one word; No! tho' your father sues: see how you standStiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights maim'd For your wild whim: and was it then for this,Was it for this we gave our palace upWhere we withdrew from summer heats and state, And had our wine and chess beneath the planes, And many a pleasant hour with her that's gone, Ere you were born to vex us? Is it kind?Speak to her I say: is this not she of whom,When first she came, all-flush'd you said to meNow had you got a friend of your own age,Now could you share your thought; now should men see Two women faster welded in one loveThan pairs of wedlock; she you walk'd with, she You talk'd with, whole nights long, up in the tower, Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth,And right ascension, Heaven knows what: and now A word but one, one little kindly word,Not one to spare her: out upon you, flint!You love nor her, nor me, nor any; nay,You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one?You will not? well—no heart have you, or such As fancies like the vermin in a nut Have fretted all to dust and bitterness.'So said the small king moved beyond his wont.

 But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her force By many a varying influence and so long.Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept: Her head a little bent; and on her mouth A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon In a still water: then brake out my sire Lifting his grim head from my wounds. 'O you, Woman, whom we thought woman even now, And were half fool'd to let you tend our son, Because he might have wish'd it—but we see The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, And think that you might mix his draught with death, When your skies change again: the rougher handIs safer: on to the tents: take up the prince.'

 He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd her broke A genial warmth and light once more, and shoneThro' glittering drops on her sad friend.

Come hither O Psyche,' she cried out, 'embrace me, come, Quick while I melt; make reconcilement sure With one that cannot keep her mind an hour: Came to the hollow heart they slander so! Kiss and be friends like children being chid! I seem no more: I want forgiveness too: I should have had to do with none but maids, That have no links with men, Ah false but dear, Dear traitor too much loved, why?—why?—Yet see Before these kings we embrace you yet once more With all forgiveness, all oblivion,And trust not love you less.

And now, O Sire,Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon him, Like mine own brother. For my debt to him,This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it; Taunt me no more: yourself and yours shall have Free adit; we will scatter all our maidsTill happier times each to her proper hearth: What use to keep them here, now? grant my prayer. Help, father, brother help; speak to the king: Thaw this male nature to some touch of that Which kills me with myself, and drags me down From my fixt height to mob me up with allThe soft and milky rabble of womankindPoor weakling ev'n as they are.'

Passionate tears Follow'd: the king replied not: Cyril said; 'Your brother, Lady,—Florian,—ask for him Of your great head—for he is wounded too—That you may tend upon him with the prince.''Ay so,' said Ida with a bitter smile,'Our laws are broken: let him enter too.' Then Violet, she that sang the mournful songAnd had a cousin tumbled on the plain,Petition'd too for him. 'Ay so,' she said,'I stagger in the stream: I cannot keepMy heart an eddy from the brawling hour:We break our laws with ease, but let it be.''Ay so?' said Blanche: 'I am all amaze to hear Your Highness: but your Highness breaks with ease The law your Highness did not make: 'twas I.I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind,And block'd them out; but these men came to wooYour Highness—verily I think to win.'

 So she, and turn'd askance a wintry eye: But Ida with a voice, that like a bell Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling tower,Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and scorn.

 'What! in our time of glory when the causeNow stands up, first, a trophied pillar—now So clipt, so stinted in our triumph—barr'dEv'n from our free heart-thanks, and every way Thwarted and vext, and lastly catechisedBy our own creature! one that made our laws!Our great she-Solon! her that built the nestTo hatch the cuckoo! whom we call'd our friend! But we will crush the lie that glances at usAs cloaking in the larger charitiesSome baby predilection: all amazed!We must amaze this legislator more.Fling our doors wide! all, all, not one, but all, Not only he, but by my mother's soul,Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe,Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit,Till the storm die! but had you stood by us, The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base Had left us rock. She fain would sting us too, But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your likes. Go, help the half-brain'd dwarf, Society,To find low motives unto noble deeds, To fix all doubt upon the darker side;Go, fitter thou for narrowest neighbourhoods, Old talker, haunt where gossip breeds and seethes And festers in provincial sloth: and, you,That think we sought to practise on a life Risk'd for our own and trusted to our hands, What say you, Sir? you hear us: deem ye not 'Tis all too like that even now we scheme,In one broad death confounding friend and foe, To drug them all? revolve it: you are man, And therefore no doubt wise; but after thisWe brook no further insult, but are gone.'

 She turn'd; the very nape of her white neck Was rosed with indignation: but the Prince Her brother came; the king her father charm'd Her wounded soul with words; nor did mine ownRefuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand.

 Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and bare Straight to the doors: to them the doors gave way Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'dThe virgin marble under iron heels:And they moved on and gain'd the hall, and there Rested: but great the crush was, and each base, To left and right, of those tall columns drown'd In silken fluctuation and the swarmOf female whisperers: at the further endWas Ida by the throne, the two great catsClose by her, like supporters on a shield Bow-back'd with fear: but in the centre stood The common men with rolling eyes; amazed They glared upon the women, and aghastThe women stared at these, all silent, saveWhen armour clash'd or jingled while the day, Descending, struck athwart the hall and shotA flying splendour out of brass and steel,That o'er the statues leapt from head to head, Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm,Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on flame, And now and then an echo started up,And shuddering fled from room to room, and diedOf fright in far apartments.

Then the voiceOf Ida sounded, issuing ordinance:And me they bore up the broad stairs and thro'The long-laid galleries past a hundred doorsTo one deep chamber shut from sound, and dueTo languid limbs and sickness; left me in it;And others otherwhere they laid; and allThat afternoon a sound arose of hoofAnd chariot, many a maiden passing homeTill happier times; but some were left of thoseHeld sagest, and the great lords out and in,From those two hosts that lay beside the walls,Walk'd at their will, and everything was changed.