Challenge to Dis to yield its prey; while, on And on, the chant rolled, till its way it won Past the black realms of ancient Erebus, Past too the torture cells of Tartarus, Where cold-blue snakes, the Furies’ locks that tied, By the trespassing strain, charmed, stupefied, Drew in their fangs, Ixion’s wheel made pause, And, one shocked wide gape, stood Cerberus’s triple jaws. At last, at last! a Palace flaming high With angry flashes from a mocking sky; And, seated on twin thrones, the King and Queen, Garbed in life-which-is-death’s Infernal sheen; Both silent; but, as whispered soft and low The lyre, stern Proserpine remembered how A girl plucked flowers. As nursery rhymes On dying ears, returned old happy times, Sunshine, and the sweet thought, if mixed with pain, A mother’s toil to have her child again. Paradise for Hell’s Queen once more to know That She had heart to feel for others’ woe!— For her Lord to see, transfigured, ere a crown Burned on her brow, the maid he had brought down To Hell; and she answering his eyes, cried: “Minstrel, depart in peace, and with thy Bride!” The Manes registered the high decree, Adding that, since no mortal eyes may see Spirit take flesh, Orpheus must be resigned, Till Earth was reached, never to look behind. And as they wrote and sealed what their Queen spoke, From unseen instruments weird music broke,— An owlet’s hooting, a swan’s dying cry— A rapture near akin to agony. Orpheus turned, or was led; more felt than heard— Passing the gates—as when a babe has stirred, Dreaming—a sigh; but, venturing no glance Anywhere, or speech, walked as in a trance. Save, as if strings snapt, the lyre stammered out A spasm of jarred notes wandering about, Nor glad nor sad; the harper scarce aware Of the music that he made; or how far He had gone, through what scenes of bale or bliss, Since he quitted the royal halls of Dis; Trembling only lest the whole dream might take Flight, like his rapt girl-Bride, and he awake To find himself, widowed, lost, as before, Companionless upon the wild sea-shore. And yet. Was it not breath, a woman’s breath, Fanning his cheeks? Could even unkind Death Have the heart to cheat, with the goal so near? Was not the light he saw day’s, warm and clear? And, sure, the landscape spread before his view Was of meadows and woods, all which he knew? Phantoms, begone! Here was his spring-tide come, And his Bride with him, out of Hades, home! Sudden, an avalanche—compound—Earth, Hell— Long chained—irresistible passion—fell, Defying thought, fear! his hand left the string But just caressed; his throat forbore to sing— That he might clasp and kiss;—one look behind! A world of travail scattered to the wind!