Minos is slain; his guards are slain;
Which of his sons shall live
In this pillared Hall of the Double Axe
The word of the Kings to give?
Which of his sons? Shall they know his sons
In this sudden terror sprung
On sleeping men? Half-armed they stand,
Foot pressed to foot, hand tense to hand,
And muscles iron-strung.
The flame of the torches in the wind
Of their struggle blackens the wall,
And the floor is sticky with blood, and heaped
With the bodies of those that fall.
What if a son of Minos live?
In that horror of blood and gloom,
What of the noble, what of the brave?
Better to die, than endure as a slave
The days after Knossos' doom.
But above the scuffle of sandalled feet,
And the breath of men hard-pressed,
And the clash of bronze, and the gasp and thud
As the point goes through the breast,
And above the startled hoot of owls,
And the rattle of shield and spear,
The wailing voices of women rise
As their men are stricken before their eyes
And they huddle together in fear.
Slow comes the dawning in the East;
Pale light on the earth is shed,
And cool and dewy blows the wind
Over the writhen dead;
Pale light, which fades in the growing glare
Of the flames that swirl and leap
Through corridor, and bower, and hall,
On carven pillar and painted wall;
The flames that like sickles reap
A barren harvest of kingly things,
To be bound in ashy sheaves,
While driven forth by the work of his hands,
Stumbles the last of the thieves.
Behind him is fire, ruin, and death,
Before him the kine-sweet morn,
But vases of silver and cups of gold
And hoarded treasures fashioned of old
On his blood-stained back are borne.
*****
Is it the night-wind alone that blows shuddering
Down the dim corridors, tangled with weeds;
Is it a bat's wing, or is it an owl's wing
That silently passes, as thistledown seeds,
In the Hall, where the small owlet breeds?
Here do the moonbeams come, slithering, wandering
Over the faded, pale frescoes that stand
Faint and remote on the walls that are mouldering,
Crowned with a King's crown, or flowers in hand,
—Pale ghosts of a gaily-dressed band.
Faintly they gaze on the wide desolation;
Faintly they smile when the white moonbeams play
Over the dust of the throne-room of Minos,
Over the pavements where small creatures stray,
The humble small things of a day.
But there are other nights, moonless and starless,
When no moth flutters, no bat flits, owl calls,
Something is stirring, something is rustling,
Something that is not of mortals befalls
In galleries, cellars, and halls.