Why should'st thou spare my life, who hate thee well,
Loading me with all store of costly gifts,
And adding pleasant freedom to thy slave?
Oh! Arvan, be as in the days of old,
Warrior-like, cruel, prone to deeds of blood,
That I may hate thee still. Pardon me not.
Have I not sinned against thee with the strength
Of all my heart? Oh! Arvan, spare me not,
But draw thy glaive. Avenge thy fame's defeat,
Thy kingdom overthrown, thy slaughtered sons,
Spilling fair Chavah's life-blood on the earth.”
And Arvan said: "Be the thought far from me.
Chavah, thou art my foe, hating me much;
And hast prevailed against me. In the days
Which have departed from me, when my soul
Was hot with battle-fire, thou had'st not lived
To boast thy triumph. But the veil of earth
Hath fallen from me, and my warrior feet
Are on the threshold of that other world,
Where falls no shadow from departed days.
There shall I shun the sorrow of my soul,
Escaping from all evils. Therefore live.
Thou in thy vengeance, bitter overmuch,
Wast but the servant of the immortal ones,
Fulfilling in thine anger their dread will.
Not by thy hand, but theirs, am I o'erthrown ;
For they desired to prove my strength of heart,
Knowing my strength of hand, willing to learn
If it were possible to crush my soul,
Which nought can conquer, for its might is great.
Thou then depart in peace. Seek thou thy clime,
Bearing rich gifts and precious. Thou hast been
To me a foe, endeavouring my harm,
But the great Sun ruleth supreme in heaven,
The star-gods are above all earthly lives;
And men should reverence their servants still,
Whether they bring them evil gifts or fair."
So Arvan spake unto his warrior-men,
Faithful, who yet obeyed their king's command,
That they should give into Queen Chavah's hands
Rich gifts and fair, all that a queen might crave,
And bring her surely guarded to her land.
This then they also did, and brought her home,
Guarding her safely through the desert wilds,
Till her eyes, hungry with the dearth of years,
Looked once more on the mountains of her land,
Desirèd long with passionatest love.
But Chavah having won with patient toil,
And prudent care, and courage all divine,
The prize of her endeavouring, pined at heart.
For even as one who heaps upon a flame
Wood fuel overmuch, stifling the fire
With that designed to nourish; even so she
Had sated her fierce vengeance to the full;
It died, her aim accomplished. The great king,
Her mortal foe, while in his pride of place,
Whom she had hated with all strength of heart,
Fallen from his power, unto her soul grew dear,
So that regrets were clustered round his name,
As round a friend's. Her life grew objectless.
Something was wanting in her inmost heart;
For sated hate, even like sated love,
Being a master-passion of the soul,
Leaves the heart hungerless. Thus though she lived,
Existence was a weariness. She pined
For the cool quiet of the passionless grave,
As once for her own country. So the years
Closed greyly round her, as the autumn mists
Close round some wildered wanderer on the hills,
Upswallowing slowly her remaining life.
KING ARVAN sat upon the council-stone,
The rock of basalt, in the former times,
Hewn from the black-browed cliff, that o'er the brine
With cloud-helmed head watches the Northern sky.
Around him were the chiefs whom red-tressed war,
Consumer of the sons of men, had spared;
Survivors of the slaughter in the West,
And the unblest retreat o'er wintry wilds;
Irach, great lord of lands, sword of the host,
Ervar the fair, Khala and Rohn and Bar,
Elvan, sure drawer of the clanging bow,
Noak and Ahr, quick slingers of the stone,
Gylar, and Mor, and Arar of the sword,
Oran and Odan, slaughterers of men,
Black-armoured Isli, Goran of the isle,
Moran the white haired, ancientest of men,
Bor, the grey leader of the brass-beaked ships,
And many other chiefs less known to fame,
Whereof no record sure remaineth now,
Though named of men's lips in those days remote,
For mighty deeds, such as men work not yet.
These all sat, sitting on their oaken thrones,
Ranged round the ample dark-roofed council hall.
Then spake King Arvan, using sober words:
"Chieftains, the gods who rule all mortal lives,
Standing upon the dark-blue vault of heaven,
Have looked upon me, showing me a thought.
Hearken, for I will tell you words of truth.
'In the dim stillness, ere sleep-giving night
Turned from the earth her dusky-sandalled feet,
While the fair day that now delights our eyes
Yet tarried in the halls of supreme Ur,
Feasting at the high table of the gods,
Ere yet he issued forth a joy to men,
A dream came to me, sent of the bright Sun,
Who, pitying the Northland, rules in heaven,
Methought I stood upon the ocean beach,
Where the great river Rha rests, in its strength,
Upon the heaving bosom of the main.
There saw I all the wave thronged with black ships,
Far as the eye could reach to the world's edge,
And as I, greatly wondering, gazed on them,
Last of the ocean travellers, down the stream,
A great bark glided past me to the sea.
There stood a man high on the painted poop,
'Twas thou, oh! Irach, lord of many men.
Upon thy head was set the royal crown,
And in thy hand the sceptre. Widely flowed
From thy great shoulders, in abounding folds
Of ruddy light, thick sown with golden gleams,
Th' imperial mantle. And a voice from heaven.
Declared, 'Irach is monarch of the North.'
Then cried I, deeming thou didst flee away,
Leaving the city in her saddest need,
'Oh! Irach, whither o'er the watery waste
Bendest thou flying sails? Wilt thou forsake
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