Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that night expell'd 300 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep, While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear Made tunable with every sweetest vow; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! 311 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim,-sav'd by miracle. 339 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from fairy land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 344 Arise arise! the morning is at hand; The bloated wassailers will never heed: Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. 355 In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 358 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; Like phantoms, to the iron porch they glide; But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 370 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, SECOND CONVERSATION Esop. And so, our fellow-slaves are given to contention on the score of dignity? Rhodope. I do not believe they are much addicted to contention: for, whenever the good Xanthus hears a signal of such misbehaviour, he either brings a scourge into the midst of them or sends our lady to scold them smartly for it. Esop. Admirable evidence against their propensity! Rhodope. I will not have you find them out so, nor laugh at them. Esop. Seeing that the good Xanthus and our lady are equally fond of thee, and always visit thee both together, the girls, however envious, cannot well or safely be arrogant, but must of necessity yield the first place to thee. Rhodope. They indeed are observant of the kindness thus bestowed upon me: yet they afflict me by taunting me continually with what I am unable to deny. Esop. If it is true, it ought little to trouble thee; if untrue, less. I know, for I have looked into nothing else of late, no evil can thy heart have admitted: a sigh of thine before the gods would remove the heaviest that could fall on it. Pray tell me what it may be. Come, be courageous; be cheerful. I can easily pardon a smile if thou impleadest me of curiosity. Rhodope. They remark to me that enemies or robbers took them forcibly from their parents . . . and that . . . and that Æsop. Likely enough: what then? Why desist from speaking? why cover thy face with thy hair and hands? Rhodope! Rhodope! dost thou weep moreover? Rhodopè. It is so sure! any. . if there was Æsop. While it pains thee to tell it, keep thy silence; but when utterance is a solace, then impart it. Rhodope. They remind me (oh! who could have had the cruelty to relate it?) that my father, my own dear father. Esop. Say not the rest: I know it: his day was come. Rhodope. . . . sold me, sold me. You start: you did not at the lightning last night, nor at the rolling sounds above. And do you, generous Æsop! do you also call a misfortune a disgrace? Esop. If it is, I am among the most disgraceful of men. Didst thou dearly love thy father? Rhodope. All loved him. He was very fond of me. Esop. And yet sold thee! sold thee to a stranger! Rhodopè. He was the kindest of all kind fathers, nevertheless. Nine summers ago, you may have heard perhaps, there was a grievous famine in our land of Thrace. Esop. I remember it perfectly. Rhodope. O poor Æsop! and were you too iamishing in your native Phrygia? Esop. The calamity extended beyond the narrow sea that separates our countries. My appetite was sharpened; but the appetite and the wits are equally set on the same grindstone. Rhodopè. I was then scarcely five years old: my mother died the year before: my father sighed at every funeral, but he sighed more deeply at every bridal, song. He loved me because he loved her who bore me: and yet I made him sorrowful whether I cried or smiled. If ever I vexed him, it was because I would not play when he told me, but made him, by my weeping, weep again. Æsop. And yet he could endure to lose thee! he, thy father! Could any other? could any who lives on the fruits of the earth, endure it? O age, that art incumbent over me! blessed be thou; thrice blessed! Not that thou stillest the tumults of the heart, and promisest eternal calm, but that, prevented by thy beneficence, I never shall experience this only intolerable wretchedness. Rhodope. Alas! alas! Esop. Thou art now happy, and shouldst not utter that useless exclamation. Rhodope. You said something angrily and vehemently when you stepped aside. Is it not enough that the handmaidens doubt the kindness of my father? Must so virtuous and so wise a man as Æsop blame him also? Æsop. Perhaps he is little to be blamed; certainly he is much to be pitied. Rhodope. Kind heart! on which mine must never rest! Esop. Rest on it for comfort and for counsel when they fail thee: rest on it, as the deities on the breast of mortals, to console and purify it. Rhodope. Could I remove any sorrow from it, I should be contented. Esop. Then be so; and proceed in thy narrative. Rhodope. Bear with me a little yet. My thoughts have overpowered my words, and now themselves are overpowered and scattered. Forty-seven days ago (this is only the fortyeighth since I beheld you first) I was a child; I was ignorant, I was careless. Esop. If these qualities are signs of childhood, the universe is a nursery. Rhodope. Affliction, which makes many wiser, had no such effect on me. But reverence and love (why should I hesitate at the one avowal more than at the other?) came over me, to ripen my understanding. Esop. O Rhodopè! we must loiter no longer upon this discourse. Rhodope. Why not? Esop. Pleasant is yonder beanfield, seen over the high papyrus when it waves and bends: deep laden with the sweet heaviness of its odour is the listless air that palpitates dizzily above it but Death is lurking for the slumberer beneath its blossoms. Rhodope. You must not love then! ... but may not I? Esop. We will . . . but . Rhodope. We! O sound that is to vibrate on my breast forever! O hour! happier than all other hours since time began! O gracious Gods! who brought me into bondage! Æsop. Be calm, be composed, be circumspect. We must hide our treasure that we may not lose it. Rhodope. I do not think that you can love me; and I fear and tremble to hope so. Ah, yes; you have said you did. But again you only look at me, and sigh as if you repented. Esop. Unworthy as I may be of thy fond regard, I am not unworthy of thy fullest confidence: why distrust me? Rhodope. Never will I . . . never, never. To know that I possess your love, surpasses all other knowledge, dear as is all that I receive from you. I should be tired of my own voice if I heard it on aught beside: and, even yours is less melodious in any other sound than Rhodope. Esop. Do such little girls learn to flatter? Rhodope. Teach me how to speak, since you could not teach me how to be silent. Esop. Speak no longer of me, but of thyself; and only of things that never pain thee. Rhodope. Nothing can pain me now. Esop. Relate thy story then, from infancy. Rhodopè. I must hold your hand: I am afraid of losing you again. Esop. Now begin. Why silent so long? Rhodope. I have dropped all memory of what is told by me and what is untold. Esop. Recollect a little. I can be patient with this hand in mine. Rhodopè. I am not certain that yours is any help to recollection. Æsop. Shall I remove it? Rhodopè. O! now I think I can recall the whole story. What did you say? did you ask any question? Esop. None, excepting what thou hast answered. Rhodope. Never shall I forget the morning when my father, sitting in the coolest part of the house, exchanged his last measure of grain for a chlamys of scarlet cloth fringed with silver. He watched the merchant out of the door, and then looked wistfully into the cornchest. I, who thought there was something worth seeing, looked in also, and, finding it empty, expressed my disappointment, not thinking however about the corn. A faint and transient smile came over his countenance at the sight of mine. He unfolded the chlamys, stretched it out with both hands before me, and then cast it over my shoulders. I looked down on the glittering fringe and screamed with joy. He then went out; and I know not what flowers he gathered, but he gathered many; and some he placed in my bosom, and some in my hair. But I told him with captious pride, first that I could arrange them better, and again that I would have only the white. However, when he had selected all the white, and I had placed a few of them according to my fancy, I told him (rising in my slipper) he might crown me with the remainder. The splendour of my apparel gave me a sensation of authority. Soon as the flowers had taken their station on my head, I expressed a dignified satisfaction at the taste displayed by my father, just as if I could have seen how they appeared! But he knew that there was at least as much pleasure as pride in it, and perhaps we divided the latter (alas! not both) pretty equally. He now took me into the market-place, where a concourse of people was waiting for the purchase of slaves. Merchants came and looked at me; some commending, others disparaging; but all agreeing that I was slender and delicate, that I could not live long, and that I should give much trouble. Many would have bought the chlamys, but there was something less salable in the child and flowers. Esop. Had thy features been coarse and thy voice rustic, they would all have patted thy cheeks and found no fault in thee. Rhodope. As it was, every one had bought exactly such another in time past, and been a loser by it. At these speeches I perceived the flowers tremble slightly on my bosom, from my father's agitation. Although he scoffed at them, knowing my healthiness, he was troubled internally, and said many short prayers, not very unlike imprecations, turning his head aside. Proud was I, prouder than ever, when at last several talents were offered for me, and by the very man who in the beginning had undervalued me the most, and prophesied the worst of me. My father scowled at him, and refused the money. I thought he was playing a game, and began to wonder what it could be, since I never had seen it played before. Then I fancied it might be some celebration because plenty had returned to the city, insomuch that my father had bartered the last of the corn he hoarded. I grew more and more delighted at the sport. But soon there advanced an elderly man, who said gravely, "Thou hast stolen this child: her vesture alone is worth above a hundred drachmas. Carry her home again to her parents, and do it directly, or Nemesis 1 and the Eumenides 2 will overtake thee." Knowing the estimation in which my father had always been holden by his fellow-citizens, I laughed again, and pinched his ear. He, although naturally choleric, burst forth into no resentment at these reproaches, but said calmly, "I think I know thee by name, O 2 the wrongs 1 the goddess who avenges Furies, who also are regarded as avengers |