So dragged the dreadful twelvemonth thro’ the realm, Aye of its dearest blood depopulate, And losing grasp on life. The fourth weak year, Youngest of all departed, full thirteen Faltered aboard the deck calamitous; And with them Theseus, best-belovèd Theseus, The king’s sole-born, whom last the doom befell. But as no sister-galley e’er set out To dolorous ports predestined, in due lapse Returning with her steersman, went this ship, Not hopeless; now her bravest made his vaunt To thread the maze Dædalian, and destroy The pampered monster, holding harm at bay From the frail flock of Athens; and to flash Homeward, to chime of oar-compellèd waves, Signalling with the white exultant sail! ‘So that I live, this thing,’ he said, ‘is sworn: Watch! you that keep your faith and love in me.’ Such tales of Theseus’ youth his father’s mind Rehearsed, while at his vigil in the night, Deep pondering on each noble circumstance, As a man shifteth, thro’ an idle hour, Anon with hand in light, anon in shade, The lustres of his one memorial gem. And oft the king, with a foreboding throe Called, urging eld’s unserviceable sight: ‘Shines the white sail yet?’ Spake the murmurous ring: ‘Nay; but fantastic clouds low-wandering on.’ Then the fond voice of Ægeus, askingly: ‘Alcamenes! yield my sad heart a song.’ Rose kind Alcamenes, who from his birth The king had cherished, from a mossy seat, The anxious faces turned his happy way; And with his pose quiescent, lyre in arm, Breathed forth a simple ditty, sweet-sustained Against the diapason of the sea. ‘Thy voice is like the moon, revealed by stealthy paces, Thy silver-margined voice like the ample moon and free: Ah, beautiful! ah, mighty! the stars fall on their faces, The warring world is silent, for love and awe of thee. ‘My soul is but a sailor, to whom thy wonder-singing Is anchorage, and haven, and unimagined day! And who, in angry ocean, to thine enchantment clinging, Forgets the helm for rapture, and drifts to doom away.’ But the king hid his brow in both wan hands, Sighing: ‘That song at her beguiling feet, Out of my brief enslavement, did I make The year that Theseus on our revels stole. It sears me like a brand with fires o’erpast: Be silent, my Alcamenes! spare it me. Thou rather, Theron, sing! Engird my pain With some thrice-gallant catch, some madrigal That sets the dull blood dancing.’ Theron smiled, Masking suspense (for he was Theseus’ friend), Half-prone beneath his damask cloak, with chin Hand-propped; and fixed his dark eyes on the king, In trolling of an agitated lay.