In gratulation, till as when a boat Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all her voice A pack of wolves! the Lord be gracious to me! 'No plot, no plot,' he answer'd. 'Wretched boy, How saw you not the inscription on the gate, LET NO MAN ENTER IN ON PAIN OF DEATH?' 'And if I had' he answer'd 'who could think The softer Adams of your Academe, O sister, Sirens tho' they be, were such As chanted on the blanching bones of men?' 'But you will find it otherwise' she said. 'You jest: ill jesting with edge-tools! my vow Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, The Princess.' 'Well then, Psyche, take my life, And nail me like a weasel on a grange For warning: bury me beside the gate, All for the common good of womankind.' And heard the Lady Psyche.' I struck in: 'Albeit so mask'd, Madam, I love the truth; Receive it; and in me behold the Prince Your countryman, affianced years ago To the Lady Ida: here, for here she was, And thus (what other way was left) I came.' 'O Sir, O Prince, I have no country; none; If any, this; but none. Whate'er I was Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not breathe Within this vestal limit, and how should I, Who am not mine, say, live: the thunderbolt Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it falls.' 'Yet pause,' I said: 'for that inscription there, I think no more of deadly lurks therein, Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there be, If more and acted on, what follows? war; Your own work marr'd: for this your Academe, Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo Will topple to the trumpet down, and With all fair theories only made to gild pass A stormless summer.' 'Let the Princess judge Of that' she said: 'farewell Sir-and to you. I shudder at the sequel, but I go.' 'Are you that Lady Psyche' I rejoin'd, As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, My sickness down to happy dreams? are you You were that Psyche, but what are you now?' Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, And glean your scatter'd sapience.' Then once more, 'Are you that Lady Psyche' I began, Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties Would still be dear beyond the southern hills; In want or peril, there was one to hear And help them look! for such are these and I.' 'Are you that Psyche' Florian ask'd 'to whom, In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn Came flying while you sat beside the well? And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, and the blood That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept. O by the bright head of my little niece, You were that Psyche, and what are you now?' 'You are that Psyche' Cyril said again, 'The mother of the sweetest little maid, That ever crow'd for kisses.' 'Out upon it!' She answer'd, 'peace! and why should I not play The Spartan Mother with emotion, be |