some white bird that leaves the flock, which sails
High in mid air above the haunts of men,
Feeling some little dart within her breast,
Not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks
Down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt
Unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool,
And pines until the end.

Even from that day
I strove to gain his love. Nay, 'twas not I,
But the cruel gods who drove me. Day by day
We were together; for in days of old
Women were free, not pent in gilded jails
As afterwards, but free to walk alone,
For good or evil, free. I hardly took
Thought for my spouse, the King. For I had found
My love at last: what matter if it were
A guilty love? Yet love is love indeed,
Stronger than heaven or hell. Day after day
I set myself to tempt him from his proud
And innocent way, for I had spurned aside
Care for the gods or men—all but my love.

What need to tell the tale? Was it a sigh,
A blush, a momentary glance, which brought
Assurance of my triumph? It is long
Since I have lived, I cannot tell; I know
Only the penalty of death and hell
Which followed on my sin. I knew he loved.
It was not wonderful, seeing that we dwelt
A boy and girl together. I was fair,
And Eros fired my eyes and lent my voice
His own soft tremulous tones. But when our souls
Trembled upon the verge, and fancy feigned
His arms around me as we fled alone
To some free land of exile, lo! a scroll:
'Dearest, it may not be; I fear the Gods;
We dare not do this wrong. I go from hence
And see thy face no more. Farewell! Forget
The love we may not own; go, seek for both
Forgiveness from the gods.'

When I read the words,
The cruel words, methought my heart stood still,
And when the ebbing life returned I seemed
To have lost all thought of Love. Only Revenge
Dwelt with me still, the fiercer that I knew
My long-prized hope, which came so near success,
Snatched from me and for ever.

When I rose
From my deep swoon, I bade a messenger
Go, seek the King for me. He came and sate
Beside my couch, and all the doors were closed,
And all withdrawn. Then with the liar's art,
And hypocrite tears, and feigned reluctancy,
And all the subtle wiles a woman draws
From the armoury of hate, I did instil
The poison to his soul. Cunning devices,
Feigned sorrow, mention of his son, regrets,
And half confessions—these, with hateful skill
Confused together, drove the old man's soul
To frenzy; and I watched him, with a sneer,
Turn to a dotard thirsting for the life
Of his own child. But how to do the deed,
Yet shed no blood, nor know the people's hate,
Who loved the Prince, I knew not.

Till one day
The old man, looking out upon the sea,
Besought the dread Poseidon to avenge
The treachery of his son. Even as we stood
Gazing upon the breathless blue, a cloud
Rose from the deep, a little fleecy cloud,
Which sudden grew and grew, and turned the blue
To purple; and a swift wind rose and sang
Higher and higher, and the wine-dark sea
Grew ruffled, and within the circling bay
The tiny ripples, stealing up the sand,
Plunged loud with manes of foam, until they swelled
To misty surges thundering on the shore.

Then at the old man's elbow as I stood,
A deep dark thought, sent by the powers of ill,
Answering, as now I know, my own black hate
And not my poor dupe's anger, fired my soul
And bade me speak. 'The god has heard thy prayer,'
I whispered; 'See the surge which wakes and swells
To fury; well I know what things shall be.
It is Poseidon's voice sounds in the storm
And sends thy vengeance. Young Hippolytus
Loves, as thou knowest, on the yellow sand,
Hard by the rippled margin of the wave,
To urge his flying steeds. Bid him go forth—
He will obey—and see what recompense
The god will send his wrong.'

In the old man's eyes
A watery gleam of malice played awhile—
I hated him for it—and he bade his son
Drive forth his chariot on the sand, and yoke
His three young fiery steeds.

And still the storm
Blew fiercer and more fierce, and the white crests
Plunged on the strand, and the high promontories
Resounded counter-stricken, and a mist
Of foam, blown landward, hid the sounding shore.

Then saw I him come forth and bid them yoke
His untamed colts. I had not seen his face
Since that last day, but, seeing him, I felt
The old love spring anew, yet mixed with hate—
A storm of warring passions. Tho' I knew
What end should come, yet would I speak no word
That might avert it. The old man looked forth;
I think he had well-nigh forgotten all
The wrong he fancied and the doom he prayed,
All but the father's pride in the strong son,
Who was so young and bold. I saw a smile
Upon the dotard's face, when now the steeds
Were harnessed and the chariot, on the sand
Along the circling margin of the bay,
Flew, swift as light. A sudden gleam of sun
Flashed on the silver harness as it went,
Burned on the brazen axles of the wheels,
And on the golden fillets of the Prince
Doubled the gold. Sometimes a larger wave
Would dash in mist around him, and in fear
The rearing coursers plunged, and then again
The strong young arm constrained them, and they flashed
To where the wave-worn foreland ends the bay.

And then he turned his chariot, a bright speck
Now seen, now hidden, but always, tho' the surge
Broke round it, safe; emerging like a star
From the white clouds of foam. And as I watched,
Speaking no word, and breathing scarce a breath,
I saw the firm limbs strongly set apart
Upon the chariot, and the reins held high,
And the proud head bent forward, with long locks
Streaming behind, as nearer and more near
The swift team rushed—until, with a half joy,
It seemed as if my love might yet elude
The slow sure anger of the god, dull wrath
Swayed by a woman's lie.

But on the verge,
As I cast my eyes, a vast and purple wall
Swelled swiftly towards the land; the lesser waves
Sank as it came, and to its toppling crest
The spume-flecked waters, from the strand drawn back,
Left dry the yellow shore. Onward it came,
Hoarse, capped with breaking foam, lurid, immense,
Rearing its dreadful height. The chariot sped
Nearer and nearer. I could see my love
With the light of victory in his eyes, the smile
Of daring on his lips: so near he came
To where the marble palace-wall confined
The narrow strip of beach—his brave young eyes
Fixed steadfast on the goal, in the pride of life,
Without a thought of death. I strove to cry,
But terror choked my breath. Then, like a bull
Upon the windy level of the plain
Lashing himself to rage, the furious wave,
Poising itself a moment, tossing high
Its wind-vexed crest, dashed downward on the strand
With a stamp, with a rush, with a roar.

And when I looked,
The shore, the fields, the plain, were one white sea
Of churning,