while to plunge in these, as fair boys plunge
Naked in summer streams, all veil of shame
Laid by, only the young dear body bathed
And sunk in its delight, while the firm earth,
The soft green pastures gay with innocent flowers,
Or sober harvest fields, show like a dream;
And nought is left, but the young life which floats
Upon the depths of death, to sink, maybe,
And drown in pleasure, or rise at length grown wise
And gain the abandoned shore.

Ah, but at last
The swift desire waxed stronger and more strong,
And feeding on itself, grows tyrannous;
And the parched soul no longer finds delight
In the cool stream of old; nay, this itself,
Smitten by the fire of sense as by a flame,
Holds not its coolness more; and fevered limbs,
Seeking the fresh tides of their youth, may find
No more refreshment, but a cauldron fired
With the fires of nether hell; and a black rage
Usurps the soul, and drives it on to slake
Its thirst with crime and blood.

Longing Desire!
Unsatisfied, sick, impotent Desire!
Oh, I have known it ages long. I knew
Its pain on earth ere yet my life had grown
To its full stature, thro' the weary years
Of manhood, nay, in age itself; I knew
The quenchless weary thirst, unsatisfied
By all the charms of sense, by wealth and power
And homage; always craving, never quenched—
The undying curse of the soul! The ministers
And agents of my will drave far and wide
Through all the land for me, seeking to find
Fresh pleasures for me, who had spent my sum
Of pleasure, and had power, not even in thought,
Nor faculty to enjoy. They tore apart
The sacred claustral doors of home for me,
Defiled the inviolate hearth for me, laid waste
The flower of humble lives, in hope to heal
The sickly fancies of the king, till rose
A cry of pain from all the land; and I
Grew happier for it, since I held the power
To quench desire in blood.

But even thus
The old pain faded not, but swift again
Revived; and thro' the sensual dull lengths
Of my seraglios I stalked, and marked
The glitter of the gems, the precious webs
Plundered from every clime by cruel wars
That strewed the sands with corpses; lovely eyes
That looked no look of love, and fired no more
Thoughts of the flesh; rich meats, and fruits, and wines
Grown flat and savourless; and loathed them all,
And only cared for power; content to shed
Rivers of innocent blood, if only thus
I might appease my thirst. Until I grew
A monster gloating over blood and pain.

Ah, weary, weary days, when every sense
Was satisfied, and nothing left to slake
The parched unhappy soul, except to watch
The writhing limbs and mark the slow blood drip,
Drop after drop, as the life ebbed with it;
In a new thrill of lust, till blood itself
Palled on me, and I knew the fiend I was,
Yet cared not—I who was, brief years ago,
Only a careless boy lapt round with ease,
Stretched by the soft and stealing tide of sense
Which now grew red; nor ever dreamed at all
What Furies lurked beneath it, but had shrunk
In indolent horror from the sight of tears
And misery, and felt my inmost soul
Sicken with the thought of blood. There comes a time
When the insatiate brute within the man,
Weary with wallowing in the mire, leaps forth
Devouring, and the cloven satyr-hoof
Grows to the rending claw, and the lewd leer
To the horrible fanged snarl, and the soul sinks
And leaves the man a devil, all his sin
Grown savourless, and yet he longs to sin
And longs in vain for ever.

Yet, methinks,
It was not for the gods to leave me thus.
I stinted not their worship, building shrines
To all of them; the Goddess of Love I served
With hecatombs, letting the fragrant fumes
Of incense and the costly steam ascend
From victims year by year; nay, my own son
Pelops, my best beloved, I gave to them
Offering, as he must offer who would gain
The great gods' grace, my dearest.

I had gained
Through long and weary orgies that strange sense
Of nothingness and wasted days which blights
The exhausted life, bearing upon its front
Counterfeit knowledge, when the bitter ash
Of Evil, which the sick soul loathes, appears
Like the pure fruit of Wisdom. I had grown
As wizards seem, who mingle sensual rites
And forms impure with murderous spells and dark
Enchantments; till the simple people held
My very weakness wisdom, and believed
That in my blood-stained palace-halls, withdrawn,
I kept the inner mysteries of Zeus
And knew the secret of all Being; who was
A sick and impotent wretch, so sick, so tired,
That even bloodshed palled.

For my stained soul,
Knowing its sin, hastened to purge itself
With every rite and charm which the dark lore
Of priestcraft offered to it. Spells obscene,
The blood of innocent babes, sorceries foul
Muttered at midnight—these could occupy
My weary days; till all my people shrank
To see me, and the mother clasped her child
Who heard the monster pass.

They would not hear.
They listened not—the cold ungrateful gods—
For all my supplications; nay, the more
I sought them were they hidden.

At the last
A dark voice whispered nightly: 'Thou, poor wretch,
That art so sick and impotent, thyself
The source of all thy misery, the great gods
Ask a more precious gift and excellent
Than alien victims which thou prizest not
And givest without a pang. But shouldst thou take
Thy costliest and fairest offering,
'Twere otherwise. The life which thou hast given
Thou mayst recall. Go, offer at the shrine
Thy best belovèd Pelops, and appease
Zeus and the averted gods, and know again
The youth and joy of yore.'

Night after night,
While all the halls were still, and the cold stars
Were fading into dawn, I lay awake
Distraught with warring thoughts, my throbbing brain
Filled with that dreadful voice. I had not shrunk
From blood, but this, the strong son of my youth—
How should I dare this thing? And all day long
I would steal from sight of him and men, and fight
Against the dreadful thought, until the voice
Seared all my burning brain, and clamoured, 'Kill!
Zeus bids thee, and be happy.' Then I rose
At midnight, when the halls were still, and raised
The arras, and stole soft to where my son
Lay sleeping. For one moment on his face
And stalwart limbs I gazed, and marked the rise
And fall of his young breast, and the soft plume
Which drooped upon his brow, and felt a thrill
Of yearning; but the cold voice urging me
Burned me like fire. Three times I gazed and turned
Irresolute, till last it thundered at me,
'Strike, fool! thou art in hell; strike, fool! and lose
The burden of thy chains.' Then with slow step
I crept as creeps the tiger on the deer,
Raised high my arm, shut close my eyes, and plunged
My dagger in his heart.

And then, with a flash,
The veil fell downward from my life and left
Myself to