Cautiously, In his far corner, one behind the king At the dumb bursting-point of that weird hush, With nervous finger twitched his neighbor’s sleeve, And strove to whisper him with palsied tongue, And straight relaxed, and smiled; but new-convinced Towards twilight’s gracious advent, crept in awe With arm extended, to his fellow’s side; And the two thrilled alike, immovable, Each palm down-roofed above the frantic eye, Froze at their posts: which eager Theron marked, Piloting his keen sight across the main, And smote his bosom with quick-smothered groan, And, breathless, gazed and gazed. By twos and threes The apprehensive company dropped aghast Out on the reeling ragged precipice Sparkled and shelled with the oncoming tide: Till Ægeus, slow-divining dupe of hope, Awoke, and knelt him down against his throne, Faint with thanksgiving. And the moments creaked In gyral passage, like Ixion’s wheel, Spoke on accursèd spoke, portending woe. But he, athwart his lonely pinnacle Called like a ghost from walled eternity: ‘What of the sail? What cheer?’ Their lips congealed Nothing replied. The cruel hour rolled on. Intolerable arid east-blown wave Vaulting on wave thro’ all her caverns loud, Far upon Oliaros boomed the sea. Then bearded Rhodalus, compassionate, Spied leaning o’er the crags the frenzied king, Rending his garment to the paling moon; And yet evasive of those pleading eyes, Knotting his arms against his breast, downcast, Adjured him: ‘O most reverend, O most dear! The heart of life is rotten; prayer is vain. Stay up thy soul: for lo! the sail is black.’ And all the trancèd host burst into moan. Old Ægeus, like a dreamer, muttered ‘Aye,’ Passive; and from his brain the fever fell, And more than Zeus himself, he things unseen Saw, and to unheard choirings lent his ear. Theseus, truth-speaking, vowed the sky-sail white; The sail was black: therefore was Theseus dead In untriumphant state; his comrades, dead; Dead, the emprise of Greece; her dynasty Ungendered, dead; the very gods were dead! And he alive, alive? a wind-worn leaf All winter gibbeted upon that bough Whence the last fruit was reft? O mockery! Inert, of his own broken heart impelled, From the steep, solitary trysting-place, King Ægeus, like a stone, dropped in the sea. A wraith of smoke, fast-driven against a flame, Yon by the crimsoning east the dark ship moved, Her herald noises strangely borne ashore: ‘Joy, joy!’ and interlinked: ‘O joy, O joy, Athens our mother! joy to all thy gates!’ And thunderous firm acclaim of minstrelsy, Laughter, and antheming, and salvos wild Outran the racing prow. But mute they lay, The blinded watchers, spent beyond desire, Wounded beyond this wonder’s balsaming.