# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/At Eleusis

AT ELEUSIS.
Men of Eleusis, ye that with long staves Sit in the market-houses, and speak words Made sweet with wisdom as the rare wine is Thickened with honey; and ye sons of these Who in the glad thick streets go up and down For pastime or grave traffic or mere chance; And all fair women having rings of gold On hands or hair; and chiefest over these I name you, daughters of this man the king, Who dipping deep smooth pitchers of pure brass Under the bubbled wells, till each round lip Stooped with loose gurgle of waters incoming, Found me an old sick woman, lamed and lean, Beside a growth of builded olive-boughs Whence multiplied thick song of thick-plumed throats— Also wet tears filled up my hollow hands By reason of my crying into them— And pitied me; for as cold water ran And washed the pitchers full from lip to lip, So washed both eyes full the strong salt of tears.
And ye put water to my mouth, made sweet With brown hill-berries; so in time I spoke And gathered my loose knees from under me. Moreover in the broad fair halls this month Have I found space and bountiful abode To please me. I Demeter speak of this, Who am the mother and the mate of things: For as ill men by drugs or singing words Shut the doors inward of the narrowed womb Like a lock bolted with round iron through, Thus I shut up the body and sweet mouth Of all soft pasture and the tender land, So that no seed can enter in by it Though one sow thickly, nor some grain get out Past the hard clods men cleave and bite with steel To widen the sealed lips of them for use. None of you is there in the peopled street But knows how all the dry-drawn furrows ache With no green spot made count of in the black: How the wind finds no comfortable grass Nor is assuaged with bud nor breath of herbs; And in hot autumn when ye house the stacks, All fields are helpless in the sun, all trees Stand as a man stripped out of all but skin. Nevertheless ye sick have help to get By means and stablished ordinance of God; For God is wiser than a good man is. But never shall new grass be sweet in earth
Till I get righted of my wound and wrong By changing counsel of ill-minded Zeus. For of all other gods is none save me Clothed with like power to build and break the year. I make the lesser green begin, when spring Touches not earth but with one fearful foot; And as a careful gilder with grave art Soberly colours and completes the face, Mouth, chin and all, of some sweet work in stone, I carve the shapes of grass and tender corn And colour the ripe edges and long spikes With the red increase and the grace of gold. No tradesman in soft wools is cunninger To kill the secret of the fat white fleece With stains of blue and purple wrought in it. Three moons were made and three moons burnt away While I held journey hither out of Crete Comfortless, tended by grave Hecate Whom my wound stung with double iron point; For all my face was like a cloth wrung out With close and weeping wrinkles, and both lids Sodden with salt continuance of tears. For Hades and the sidelong will of Zeus And that lame wisdom that has writhen feet, Cunning, begotten in the bed of Shame, These three took evil will at me, and made Such counsel that when time got wing to fly This Hades out of summer and low fields
Forced the bright body of Persephone: Out of pure grass, where she lying down, red flowers Made their sharp little shadows on her sides, Pale heat, pale colour on pale maiden flesh— And chill water slid over her reddening feet, Killing the throbs in their soft blood; and birds, Perched next her elbow and pecking at her hair, Stretched their necks more to see her than even to sing. A sharp thing is it I have need to say; For Hades holding both white wrists of hers Unloosed the girdle and with knot by knot Bound her between his wheels upon the seat, Bound her pure body, holiest yet and dear To me and God as always, clothed about With blossoms loosened as her knees went down, Let fall as she let go of this and this By tens and twenties, tumbled to her feet, White waifs or purple of the pasturage. Therefore with only going up and down My feet were wasted, and the gracious air, To me discomfortable and dun, became As weak smoke blowing in the under world. And finding in the process of ill days What part had Zeus herein, and how as mate He coped with Hades, yokefellow in sin, I set my lips against the meat of gods And drank not neither ate or slept in heaven. Nor in the golden greeting of their mouths
Did ear take note of me, nor eye at all Track my feet going in the ways of them. Like a great fire on some strait slip of land Between two washing inlets of wet sea That burns the grass up to each lip of beach And strengthens, waxing in the growth of wind, So burnt my soul in me at heaven and earth, Each way a ruin and a hungry plague, Visible evil; nor could any night Put cool between mine eyelids, nor the sun With competence of gold fill out my want. Yea so my flame burnt up the grass and stones, Shone to the salt-white edges of thin sea, Distempered all the gracious work, and made Sick change, unseasonable increase of days And scant avail of seasons; for by this The fair gods faint in hollow heaven: there comes No taste of burnings of the twofold fat To leave their palates smooth, nor in their lips Soft rings of smoke and weak scent wandering; All cattle waste and rot, and their ill smell Grows alway from the lank unsavoury flesh That no man slays for offering; the sea And waters moved between the heath and corn Preserve the people of fin-twinkling fish, And river-flies feed thick upon the smooth; But all earth over is no man or bird (Except the sweet race of the kingfisher)
That lacks not and is wearied with much loss. Meantime the purple inward of the house Was softened with all grace of scent and sound In ear and nostril perfecting my praise; Faint grape-flowers and cloven honey-cake And the just grain with dues of the shed salt Made me content: yet my hand loosened not Its gripe upon your harvest all year long. While I, thus woman-muffled in wan flesh And waste externals of a perished face, Preserved the levels of my wrath and love Patiently ruled; and with soft offices Cooled the sharp noons and busied the warm nights In care of this my choice, this child my choice, Triptolemus, the king’s selected son: That this fair yearlong body, which hath grown Strong with strange milk upon the mortal lip And nerved with half a god, might so increase Outside the bulk and the bare scope of man: And waxen over large to hold within Base breath of yours and this impoverished air, I might exalt him past the flame of stars, The limit and walled reach of the great world. Therefore my breast made common to his mouth Immortal savours, and the taste whereat Twice their hard life strains out the coloured veins And twice its brain confirms the narrow shell. Also at night, unwinding cloth from cloth
As who unhusks an almond to the white And pastures curiously the purer taste, I bared the gracious limbs and the soft feet, Unswaddled the weak hands, and in mid ash Laid the sweet flesh of either feeble side, More tender for impressure of some touch Than wax to any pen; and lit around Fire, and made crawl the white worm-shapen flame, And leap in little angers spark by spark At head at once and feet; and the faint hair Hissed with rare sprinkles in the closer curl, And like scaled oarage of a keen thin fish In sea-water, so in pure fire his feet Struck out, and the flame bit not in his flesh, But like a kiss it curled his lip, and heat Fluttered his eyelids; so each night I blew The hot ash red to purge him to full god. Ill is it when fear hungers in the soul For painful food, and chokes thereon, being fed; And ill slant eyes interpret the straight sun, But in their scope its white is wried to black: By the queen Metaneira mean I this; For with sick wrath upon her lips, and heart, Narrowing with fear the spleenful passages, She thought to thread this web’s fine ravel out, Nor leave her shuttle split in combing it; Therefore she stole on us, and with hard sight Peered, and stooped close; then with pale open mouth
As the fire smote her in the eyes between Cried, and the child’s laugh, sharply shortening As fire doth under rain, fell off; the flame Writhed once all through and died, and in thick dark Tears fell from mine on the child’s weeping eyes, Eyes dispossessed of strong inheritance And mortal fallen anew. Who not the less From bud of beard to pale-grey flower of hair Shall wax vinewise to a lordly vine, whose grapes Bleed the red heavy blood of swoln soft wine, Subtle with sharp leaves’ intricacy, until Full of white years and blossom of hoary days I take him perfected; for whose one sake I am thus gracious to the least who stands Filleted with white wool and girt upon As he whose prayer endures upon the lip And falls not waste: wherefore let sacrifice Burn and run red in all the wider ways; Seeing I have sworn by the pale temples’ band And poppied hair of gold Persephone Sad-tressed and pleached low down about her brows, And by the sorrow in her lips, and death Her dumb and mournful-mouthèd minister, My word for you is eased of its harsh weight And doubled with soft promise; and your king Triptolemus, this Celeus dead and swathed Purple and pale for golden burial, Shall be your helper in my services,
Dividing earth and reaping fruits thereof In fields where wait, well-girt, well-wreathen, all The heavy-handed seasons all year through; Saving the choice of warm spear-headed grain, And stooping sharp to the slant-sided share All beasts that furrow the remeasured land With their bowed necks of burden equable.