But she, dear heart,
Being sick indeed with love, and in despair,
Yet reverencing her duty to her sire,
Turned half-distraught to fill the fated cup
And with it mar her life.
But as she stood
Alone within the vestibule and poured
The sweet wine forth, slow, trembling, blind with tears,
A voice beside her whispered, "Love, I am here!"
And looking round her, at her side she saw
A youthful mailed form—the festal robe
Flung backward, and the face, the mouth, the eyes
Whereof the vision filled her night and day.
Then straight, without a word, with one deep sigh,
She held the wine-cup forth. He poured forth first
Libation to the goddess, and the rest
Drained at a draught, and cast his arms round her,
And down the long-drawn sounding colonnade
Snatched her to where without, beneath the dawn,
The brave steeds waited and the charioteer.
His robe he round her threw; they saw the flare
Of torches at the gate; they heard the shouts
Of hot pursuit grow fainter; till at last,
In solitude, across the rounding plain
They flew through waking day, until they came
To Media, and were wed. And soon her sire,
Knowing their love, consented, and they lived
Long happy lives; such is the might of Love.
——————
That is the tale the soldier from the East,
Chares of Mytilené, ages gone,
Told oftentimes at many a joyous feast
In Hellas; and he said that all the folk
In Media loved it, and their painters limned
The story in the temples of their gods,
And in the stately palaces of kings,
Because they reverenced the might of Love.
IN WILD WALES.
I.
AT THE EISTEDDFOD.
The close-ranked faces rise,
With their watching, eager eyes,
And the banners and the mottoes blaze above;
And without, on either hand,
The eternal mountains stand,
And the salt sea river ebbs and flows again,
And through the thin-drawn bridge the wandering winds complain.