B00ARI2G5C EBOK (16 page)

[
The Night and Graveyard poets
*
send their apologies, explaining that they are in the middle of a highly interesting discussion with a freshly resurrected vampire, from which a new poetic genre may perhaps be developed;
THE HERALD
has to excuse them, and in the meantime summons up Greek mythology, which loses none of its character and charm even in modern costume
.]

THE GRACES

AGLAIA
. If you would learn graceful living,

Mingle grace with all your giving.

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HEGEMONE
. To accept with grace be skilled,

When sweet wishes are fulfilled.

EUPHROSYNE
. And from quiet sheltered days

Learn to thank in graceful ways.

THE FATES

ATROPOS
. As the eldest, I am bidden

Now to spin the thread of fate.

Many meanings here lie hidden,

Much for me to meditate.

Finest flax your lives has woven,

Soft and supple it must be,

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Ever slender, smooth and even;

Leave such skilful work to me.

But reflect: though bold your dances,

Rank the pleasures you may take,

Towards its end this thread advances;

So beware, for it may break.

CLOTHO
. Things have changed: in recent years

I have held the fateful shears.

She is old, and by her action

With them caused dissatisfaction.

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Useless lives dragged out their story,

Lingered on in light and breath,

But the hopes of youth and glory

She cut short by gloomy death.

Yet I too, I’m bound to say,

Made mistakes in my own day,

So my shears are sheathed for surety

In the interests of security.

And I welcome this restraint

On such festival occasions;

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Watching you, I am content

To prolong your celebrations.

LACHESIS
. As the wise one of the three,

Fate’s disposal fell to me;

Ever-even distribution

By my reel’s perpetual motion.

Threads appear and threads are wound,

And they never miss their way:

Each I guide where it is bound,

It must circle as I say.

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And my vigilance must never

Lapse, or all the world’s disjointed.

Years are measured, hours are counted;

Twisted skein goes to the weaver.

THE HERALD
. Now here come ladies you’ll not know by sight,

However well you’ve read the ancient books;

They’ve done great harm—but judge them by their looks,

And they’ll be guests you’re eager to invite.

They are the Furies—you’ll not credit this,

Seeing them so attractive, young and kind;

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But get to know them better, and you’ll find

How sharp as snakes these pretty doves can hiss.

Yet though they are malignant, nowadays

The foolish vogue’s to boast of one’s defects;

So they’ll not pose as angels to win praise,

But own that they are ruin’s architects.

ALECTO
. Try as you will, youll trust us in the end;

We’re pretty pussies and good flatterers.

If one of you has got a little friend,

We’ll pour caressing poison in his ears

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Till he believes us when we tell him straight

That she’s come-hithering so and so as well,

That she’s lame, hunchbacked, or an addlepate—

In fact, that he’ll be marrying trash. We tell

Similar stories to the bride: we say,

For instance, that her friend, the other day,

Spoke to that other girl, or some such slight.

They may be reconciled, but never quite.

MEGAERA
. That’s a mere trifle; once she is his wife

My work begins. Their happiness I can

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Destroy with mere ill humour. Human life

Is various, various are the hours of man.

The lover may embrace what he desires,

But longs at once for something still more sweet;

Poor fool! He quits the joy of which he tires,

Seeks to warm ice, flees the sun’s ardent heat.

All this well suits the tricks I have in mind.

My faithful demon Asmodeus
*
stands by,

We scatter well-timed mischief, he and I;

Thus, pair by pair, we ruin all mankind.

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TISIPHONE
.     Death, not merely tittle-tattle,

Is my vengeance on the traitor!

Knife or poison, soon or later

Comes the adulterer’s requital.

Moments of sweet love must all

Turn to froth and turn to gall;

Here no special plea assuages,

Guilt must pay its utmost wages.

Let none sing ‘Forgive, forgive!’

‘Justice!’ to the rocks I cry;

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‘Shall the fickle-hearted live?’

And they echo: ‘He shall die!’

THE HERALD
. Now move aside, make way, if you don’t mind:

Something is coming that is not your kind.

A mountainous beast
*
approaches, if you please,

Its flanks bedecked with gorgeous tapestries;

Two tusks, a snake-like trunk hang from its head;

Mysterious! But such riddles can be read.

High on its back you see a slender beauty sit,

With a slim wand she guides and governs it.

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Up there, too, stands another, ringed with light

And splendour—I am dazzled by the sight.

In chains two women walk, of noble mien,

One at each side, one fearful, one serene:

One wishing, and one feeling herself free.

Let each state her identity!

FEAR
.  Reeking torch and lamp and light

Glimmer through this feast’s confusion;

Among faces of illusion

I am bound, alas, so tight!

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Foolish jokers thronging round me,

Grinning false seductive smiles!

All my enemies surround me

On this night of treacherous wiles.

This man was my friend: I see

Through him now and his disguise.

That man tried to murder me,

Now he flees from my sharp eyes.

Why can I not get away

From the world? Yet I must stay:

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Doom that hangs above my head

Holds me here in murk and dread.

HOPE
. Greetings, sisters! You have spent

These two days in merriment,

In a pleasant masquerade;

But tomorrow you’ll prefer,

I am sure, to be displayed

As yourselves. Indeed, we care

Little for this torchlight scene;

We would wander our own ways

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On the sunny summer days,

Freely through the meadows green,

Single or companioned, choosing

To be active or reposing.

Lacking nothing, free of care,

All we seek is granted there;

Every one a welcome guest,

We may enter where we please,

Seeking happiness with ease,

Sure of finding what is best.

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WISDOM
. Let not Fear or Hope infect you!

See, I bring them chained and bound;

Thus—stand back, make way all round!—

From these scourges I protect you.

This great living lump of power,

On his back he bears a tower.

On he plods with steps enchanted,

Uphill, downhill, nothing daunted.

But above his turret’s wall

Stands a goddess with swift wings

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Wide outspread; for so she brings

Ready benefit to all.

Glorious brightnesses surround her,

Flashing far and all around her,

And her name is Victory,

Goddess of all activity.

ZOILO-THERSITES.
*
HO
, ho! It seems I’m just in time

To curse the lot of you! But I’m

Particularly keen to sneer

At Lady Victory up here.

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With her white flapping wings she may

Well think herself a bird of prey,

And as she gazes down so grand,

Fancy she’s queen of all the land.

But where there’s honour and success,

They raise my hackles, I confess.

I’d lift what’s low, put down what’s high,

Make wry things straight and straight things wry:

That’s the one thing that comforts me,

That’s how I want the world to be!

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THE HERALD
. Why then, my sacred staff, you low-Born cur, shall strike a master-blow!—

Now writhe and squirm! Now you’re in trouble!—

Ugh! Now that back-and-front dwarf-double

Shrinks to a dirty clod of earth,

Then to an egg; just fancy that!

It swells to bursting and gives birth

To twins: a viper and a bat

Hatch out of it! One slithers back

Into the dust; the other, black

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As night, flits to the roof. Somewhere

Outside, this ill-intentioned pair

Will meet; I’d rather not be there.

MURMURS FROM THE CROWD
.

Come, there’s dancing, music’s playing!—

I don’t like this, I’m not staying—

This is creepy; don’t you feel

Spells being woven? It’s not real—

Something’s whirring round my head—

There, you see, my foot feels dead—

We’re not really hurt at all—

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We’re just scared to death, that’s all—

I call this a rotten joke—

It’s those swine, the trickster-folk.

THE HERALD
. I have done, since I was made

Herald of the Masquerade,

Duty at each feast as sentry:

Nothing harmful must gain entry

To our place of celebration,

And I stand firm at my station.

Yet through windows, I admit,

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Airy phantoms seem to flit;

There are ghosts and magic here

Which I can’t keep out, I fear.

First, that spooky dwarf; and now

A whole flood of it somehow.

As my office bids, I should

Give you an interpretation

Of these shapes; I wish I could!

They defy all explanation.

Pray assist my ignorance! See,

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Through the crowd—how can this be?—

Floats a splendid chariot,
*
drawn

By four steeds, easily borne

Through their midst; they need not part

Or give way. What wizard’s art

Does it?—Far-off glittering

Stars in many colours rise,

Flickering, magic-lanternwise.

What is this storm-snorting thing?

Now I’m scared! Make way now!

THE BOY CHARIOTEER
. Whoa-ah!

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Check your wings, my horses; so!

Feel the wonted reins you know;

Rule yourselves as now I rule you,

Leap like fire when so I school you—

Let us pause and pay respect

To this place. Look, they collect

Round us, the admiring crowd.

Herald, come; proclaim out loud,

While we’re with you, who we are,

What we’re like, etcetera.

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Since we’re allegorical,

You, I think, should know us all.

THE HERALD
. To describe you I might try;

But that’s not to identify.

THE BOY CHARIOTEER
. Try it, then!

THE HERALD
. First, I must concede

You’re a young, handsome, halfling boy;

Women must hope to have more joy

Of you when you are fully grown. Indeed,

You are a future lady’s man, I’d say,

A born seducer anyway.

5540

THE BOY CHARIOTEER
.

You are most kind; but pray continue.

Have you this riddle’s pleasant answer in you?

THE HERALD
. A jewelled ribbon beautifies Your night-black hair above dark flashing eyes.

And from your shoulders to your feet, how fine

A garment flows, with gems ashine

And edged with purple! Some might say

You’re like a girl; and yet, even today,

For better or for worse, you’d make a good

Impression on the girls—they would,

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I’m sure, teach you your
ABC
.

THE BOY CHARIOTEER
.

And this resplendent figure, who is he,

Who on the chariot’s throne sits royally?

THE HERALD
. A prince he seems, rich and a generous giver:

Lucky are those who know his favour.

To gain their wish they cannot fail;

To scan all needs his eyes avail,

And giving is his purest pleasure,

Greater than fortune or than treasure.

THE BOY CHARIOTEER
.

Good, but that’s only half your task:

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A full description’s what I ask.

THE HERALD
. Such dignity no words can praise.

A moon-shaped visage bright with health,

Full lips, red cheeks, a sun-like gaze

Beneath his jewelled turban’s wealth;

A rich commodious robe. What shall

I say of his demeanour? All

The world must know him as a king!

THE BOY CHARIOTEER
. Plutus, the god of riches (for That is his name) in triumph here I bring;

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He is badly needed by the Emperor.

THE HERALD
. But tell us now your own identity.

THE BOY CHARIOTEER
. I am Profusion, I am Poetry,

The poet who perfects himself the more

He spends from his most precious store.

I too am rich like Plutus, and I hold

Myself his peer in wealth untold.