They hurl'd their javelins at him. With the rest
That stranger (he that was King Crœsus' guest,
The Phrygian, named Adrastus, purified
Of murder by the monarch), when he spied
The monster, by the dogs' tenacious bite
An smart of clinging steel, now madden'd quite,
Making towards him,—hurl'd against the boar:
Which missing, by mischance he wounded sore
Atys; through whose gash'd body, with a groan
The quick life rush'd.

Thus fates, in vain foreknown,
Were suddenly accomplish'd. For those Powers
That spin, and snap, the threads of mortal hours,
Had will'd that Crœsus nevermore should hear
The voice of Atys; unto him more dear
Than fondest echo to forlornest hill
In lonesome lands, more sweet than sweetest rill,
Through shadowy mountain meadows murmuring cold,
To panting herds: nor evermore behold
The face of Atys; unto him more fair
Than mellow sunlight and the summer air
To sick men waking heal'd. Now, therefore, one,
Having beheld the fate of the king's son,
Fled back to Sardis, and to Crœsus said
What he had seen:—now that a javelin, sped
By that ill-fated hand, to nothing good
Predestined, from the blot of brother's blood
By Crœsus purified, yet all in vain,
Since still to bloodshed doom'd,—had Atys slain,
Fulfilling fates predicted.

Crœsus then, Believing that he was of living men
Most miserable, who had purified,
Himself, the hand by second slaughter dyed
In the dear blood of his much-mourn'd-for son
(Since by his own deed was he now undone),
Uplifted hands to Heaven, and vengeance claimed
Of Zeus, the Expiator; whom he named
By double title, to make doubly strong
A twofold curse upon a twofold wrong:
As god of hospitality,—since he
That was his guest had proved his enemy;
As god of private friendship,—since the man
That slew his son was his son's guardian,
To whom himself the sacred charge did give.

Therefore he pray'd, "Let not Adrastus live!"

But, while he pray'd, a noise of mourning rose
Among the flinty courts: and, follow'd close
Out of the narrow streets by a vast throng
Of people weeping, slowly moved along
The Lydian hunters, bearing up the bier
Of Atys, strewn with branches; in whose rear,
Down-headed, as a man that bears the weight
Of some enormous and excessive fate,
The slayer walk'd.

Full slowly had they come,
With steps that ever slacken'd nearer home,
And heavier evermore their burthen seem'd,
As ever longer round their footsteps stream'd
The woful crowd; and evermore they thought
Sadlier on him to whom they sadly brought
His hope in ruins. When they reach'd the gate
The western sky was all on flame. Stretch'd straight
Through a thick amber haze Adrastus saw,
As in a trance of supernatural awe,
The high dim street; that lengthen'd on, and on,
And up, and up, until it touch'd the sun,
And these fell off into a field of flame.
He knew that he was bearing his last shame;
And all the men and women, swarming dim
Along the misty light, were made to him
Shadows, and things of air, for all his mind
Was pass'd beyond them. So, with heart resign'd
To its surpassing sorrow, he bow'd down
His head, and follow'd up the colum'd town
The bier of Atys, without any care
Of what might come: because supreme despair
Had taken out the substance from the show
Of the world's business, and his thoughts were now
In a great silence, which no mortal speech,
Kind, or unkind, might any longer reach.
Meanwhile, with melancholy footsteps slow,
Slow footsteps hinder'd by the general woe,
Those hunters mount the murmurous marble stair
To the king's palace.

He himself stood there
To meet them; knowing why they came; with eyes
Impatiently defiant of surprise.
But, when they sat their burthen down before
The father of him murder'd, whom they bore;
And, when the inward-moaning monarch flung
His body on the branchèd bier—there, hung
With murmurings meaningless, and dabbled vest
Soak'd in the dear blood sobbing from the breast
Of his slain son,—there, dragg'd along the flint
His bruisèd knees; and crush'd, beneath the print
Of passionate lips, groans choked in kisses close,
Pour'd idly on those eyelids meek, and those
White lips that aye such cruel coldness kept,
For all the hot love on them kist and wept;
And when the miserable wife, whom now
The sudden hubbub from the courts below
Had pierced to, through the swiftly-emptied house,
Flew forth, and, kneeling o'er her slaughter'd spouse,
Beat with wild hands her breast, and tore her hair,
And cried out, "Where, you unjust gods, O where,
Between the stubborn earth and stolid sky,
Was found the fault of my felicity?
That such a cruel deed should have been done
Under high heaven, beneath the pleasant sun!"
Then he, that was the cause of that wide woe,
Came forth before the corpse, and, kneeling low,
Stretch'd out sad hands to Crœsus; upon whom
He call'd to execute the righteous doom
Of death on him, deserving life no more.

When, therefore, Crœsus heard this, he forbore
To groan against the edge of his own fate;
But judged most miserable that man's state
Who, evil meaning not, had evil done,—
First having slain his brother, then the son
Of him that gave him hospitality.
So, letting sink a slowly-soften'd eye,
To settle on Adrastus, who yet knelt
Before him, his hard thoughts began to melt,
And he was moved in mind to tolerate
The greatness of his grief; which being less great
Than his that caused it, stood in check, to make
This tolerable, too.

Sadly he spake:
"To me," he said, "thou hast requital made,
Most miserable man! on thine own head
Invoking death. Wherefore, I doom thee not.
Nor deem thy hand hath this disastrous lot
From the dark urn down shaken. Rather, he,
That unknown god, whoever he may be,
That long ago foreshadow'd this worst hour,
Hath thus compell'd it to us. Some unknown Power
Walks in our midst, and moves us to strange ends.
Our wills are Heaven's, and we what Heaven intends."
Then Crœsus caused to be upheaved foursquare
A mount of milk-white marble: and did there