University of Virginia Library

I

Long days the banded armies of the air
Had fought against the Spring; until the heart
Pined, and grew fainter with the hope of her.
But yestereve the cloudy curtain rose
On a far vision full of blessedness.
A long line in the West of happy light;
A hush'd smooth Ocean, solemn and divine,
Gold fire, translucent gold; and out of it
The warm airs flew like Angels to the earth,
Wafting my cheek with passing plumes. I rose;
I breathed delight; and with adoring eyes,
Far thorough that ambrosial element
I wander'd, seeking, what my heart had lost,
Hopes, fancies, jocund thoughts, and songs of joy.
I stretch'd my arms, as to a glorious God
In parting seen; imploring him with tears
To stay his flight, till I could reach him too,
That I too, I, might sail upon that sea
With the bright company that follow'd him
Whose gladness was immortal! The sweet wind
Sang in mine ears, to-morrow, oh! to-morrow.
And, with that answer from myself to self,
I lean'd my head upon my arm, and look'd
Across the purple air, and glooming vale
Into the ebbing glory, till deep sleep
Came down on me, unbroken; till the Morn,
Sprang like a virgin fountain from the East—
So many days we had not seen the sun—
And dash'd my face with gold drops as I lay,
That woke me with their touch. It seem'd a moment;
And lo! my love was answer'd, and my prayer;
And all things were rejoicing. Ev'n the dews
Throbb'd exultation, answering to the call
Of forest pipes, whose mingled melodies
Rose like a rising tide, that simmers clear
'Mid rosy shells; or with their sweetness made
A tempest; as when sudden gusts of dawn
Swoop on a garden plot, and snatch away
Rich spoil of dewy odours in their haste,
Whirling them all together. And I saw
Under a green arch of a hedge of rose,
Whose sweetbriers fill'd the turfwalks with their breath,
The awakening champaign, and the lark above
Singing of things to be; and stepping forth
I saw the orchards rippling in the light.
The lily of the valley wagg'd its head,
Delirious with the bliss; and all the soul
Of silver dawns of other early days,
Of earliest springs, a thousand years ago,
Rose on its sighs; and the faint primroses
Breathed inexpressible sweet thoughts; that seem'd,
When I could bind them for a moment's span,
To waft the freshness of some mighty morn
When Death shall be no more; and violets
Held in their fairy amethystine bowls
The waters turn'd to wine; and crimson lilies
Seem'd lamps of chisell'd ruby, borne aloft
To catch the first spark from the Summer's eye.

II

And now, when all the isle was full of flowers,
And the far slopes were fresh with forest green,
Citharus, my youngest brother—whose kind heart
Thrill'd less to sound of song and clash of arms
Than homely faith and truth—led home his bride,
A daughter of Methymna, a soft-eyed
And gentle-hearted girl—their hopes were one.
Ev'n as transparent waters, skyward flung
Up from a fresh fount's heart, fall back again,
His happy thoughts return'd to him again
In her clear voice—a sweet monotony
That never tired—their souls, like mirror'd mirrors,
Made never-ending answers to each other.
The staid Andromeda had fashioned her
In arts and graces, that were so transfused
Into her inmost being, they shed thereout
A sweetness like the breath of hidden flowers;
More loveable than if they wreathed the brows
Of stronger genius with a heart less pure.
And, though her limbs were slight, her stature less
Than majesty, her modest motions left
In the beholder's eye, when she was gone,
Fair traces like the waving of a flower;
A secret charm of subtle magistery.
And if her voice was low, as rivulets are
When winds are still, its earnest tenderness
Made it an oracle; and Sappho saw
No fault in her, whom cunning Nature framed
Of so fine woof, that the world's eye, half blind
With looking on the lily and the rose,
Know nothing of it; and those only find
Who seek in quiet shadows, and are fond
Of her least handiwork. Her trim robe knit
Her delicate ankles with such comely grace
That all her tiny paces you might count
And time to music; beauty in her soul
Made that pale face, that common eyes would miss,
Above all beauty of proportion, as
The marble form, in its proportions pure,
Excels all living types except the soul.

III

That morning I had writ a gay new song;
And on the plumes of mine own winged words
Felt lifted as an eagle toward the sun.
“And oh!” I cried, “if I could grasp the glory
Of Power but for a day, to lay it down
The next! I should have tasted that I thirst for.
I should have heard men's living voices shout
My name; and lightnings of rejoicing eyes
Would flash around me. But the golden dreams,
The silent raptures of the lonely bard,
Are but the sunmists on a deathcold peak
That fall back on him; and a deathless name
Is as the thunder from beyond the sea,
Heard out of the far future. Cannot the fire
Of this tumultuous being, which I feel,
Instead of flickering round my harpstrings, strike
At once, like lightning, on the hearts of men;
And mould them suddenly into such shapes
As I desire? Doth not one day of triumph
Outweigh the breath of cycles pour'd into
The deaf ears of the dead? What is a name,
An ancestry, the customary honours
That lift us o'er the world, if all we gain
Is but the fickle reverence of those
That hate us while they fear? Who, if they serve us
The best fruits of the earth, and build our homes,
And weave our garments, would, to-morrow noon,
If the Fates smiled on Envy, take back all;
And more than they have given us, or can give,
Our breath itself? Who would not only stint us
To their black broth; but in their darkness make
The poet and the lawgiver cupbearers
To their foul pride; but take from us the food
Of knowledge, while they cannot taste themselves.
And if 'twere possible, would quench the sun
Of genius, and the prodigalities
Of Nature trample underfoot; and dance
With idiot glee upon the ruin'd world!
Blunt, edgeless weapons for us or against;
Waves to and fro driv'n by the restless winds;
That in another day may overwhelm
The Idol of to-day—but stop—perchance
The floodtide of their favour, upbearing us,
May set us on a rock, whence all their storms
May fail to unfix us ever. Then, oh! then,
From that high place we may behold and laugh
To scorn their baffled onsets; by and by
The boiling waves will lessen, and subside
To their original calm; and they will come
And kiss the feet of the Invincible
Who humbled them, as, in the quiet sea,
The little ripples lap the iron base
Of the great rock that overshadows them.
And yet what do I say? Oh! Heaven, forbid
That I should mock the poor man with my tongue,
Or scorn him in my heart; the eldest-born
Of Nature is an honourable man;
Whose daily duties he hath not to seek
By guesswork, like the rich man's boasted toils;
Who stay'd by patience cannot miss the mark.
Oh! holy is the patience of the poor;
That from his stubborn acre wins his life,
And thanks the Gods for it; say, hath he time
For guilt, for sins, that in the Courts of Kings
Are born of sultry moments, that throw up
From some small seed sun'd by unnatural sloth—
Some tiny seed that in the fields would die
Under the frosty winds—a hundred arms
That knit together into darkest shade,
And stifle Nature, and shut out the light;
What space hath he to wander from the Right?
To play with perils that distort the soul;
To bathe in passions that exhaust the heart;
To feed himself with pleasures, like the meats
Trick'd for their taste whose palsied senses sleep,
Who never see the sunrise? If his lips
Are silent; if he paints no love with words;
While poets dream by lamplight of the morn;
Dream that they feel what they have never known;
He lives and feels a life, like Nature's own,
Steadfast and true. By him the daily face
Of Nature is beheld with daily love
Unconscious; till behind some prison's bars
He sees his sacred mother torn from him.
He sees, and haply for the first time knows
She was his mother—oh! how dear to him—
And wonders at her loveliness, and weeps,
And pines as only he can pine—and dies.
Oh! no; it is the currish, shameless cit
I hate; the alternate man of shouts and sneers,
Whelpt of ungodly priests, and bloody kings;
With soul, encased in smouldering soot, and slime,
The rogue who being what stronger rogues have made him
Is proud of infamy—and Pride in rags
Is Evil, naked as the beggar's sore,
A weed most rampant where nought grows beside—
Is proud of infamy, and scoffs the thought
Of honesty, as honest men a rogue.
With whom to be a fool is not to steal—
To be a simpleton is not to lie.
I hate his godless heart, and lawless tongue,
And cruel hands that tear like lion's claws;
Less delicate in shedding human blood
Than slaughtering of bullocks. The dull mob,
Where each man, hearing with his ass's ears
The universal hubbub, takes the roar
Of many cowards for his own brave voice.
Like evil children, emulous of folly,
They would chip sculptured marble with rough stones.
Knaves, they would steal, and sell the stars of Heaven,
If only they were silverheaded nails;
Or melt the sacred strings of Orpheus' lyre
To buy a feast of beans. And if they thought
There was a heaven of gold above their heads—
(For them a grain of knowledge more than folly
Leads straight to madness) they would fling up flints
To graze off fragments from the epicycle.
Look at yon smith, with hair like matted horsetails,
And hands that are less horny than his soul;
His grimy forehead pearl'd with sweat and dust,
Swart giant of the anvil, King of brutes;
True head, and type of vulgar violence,
Who with the selfsame brawn that thunders down
The hammer on the anvil, jovially
Would pound the world to powder; splinter shrines;
Fling brands into the carven sanctuaries;
And fire the precious palaces; that he
Might see the riches that he cannot reach
Burst off in sparks of ruin o'er the land!”

IV

Needs must I own ambition is a flame
Blown by the winds of Pride, that spareth not
Things lovely or things good; but ravins thro'
The pleasant places we have built ourselves,
The quiet gardens, and the pleasurehouses
Of fancy, sweeping all things from its path;
Till it hath made a desert where it stands.
And, when all things are wasted, ev'n the fire
That fed upon them, the dark smoke of ruin
Goes up, and casts its cloudlike shadows down.
Ah me! I knew not, when I sang of old
Of beauty and of valour; nectarous draughts
Of mirth, convivial converse, noble aims;
The majesty of brave men, the dark eyes
And charming smile of youth; that aught, beyond
Imagination, and its godlike shapes,
Was wanting to this world to make of it
Elysium. My own visions bore me up,
Like wings, above low fears, and homely cares:
Till on that fatal day when first I heard
The voice, and saw the form of Myrsilus;
His proud smile and his dark triumphant eye.
Still present seems the moment, when I pass'd
The temple of the Muses, whence I came,
My robe still scatter'd with the leaves and flowers
Of the spring garlands I had offer'd there.
With downward vision dreaming on I came;
Descending slowly, by the marble stair.
When lo! it seem'd a nobler than the Gods
Of sculptur'd marble rose before me—he,
The chief of men, with hymns, and banners borne
Onward to power—that day he was proclaim'd
Our ruler, and the sudden glory burst
My gates of dream, and flooded my whole soul
Like morning light with wonder. On he came
With acclamation; four white horses drew
His chariot; and he rose to greet the welcome
Of thousands upon thousands, like the God
Who sways the waters, and his dauntless aspect,
His swift and fervent utterance took the hearts
Of all that multitude. His dark locks shook
In the young May-wind; and from forth his eye
The restless laughter, born of secret scorn,
Play'd fearlessly before the cloud of men,
That love to look on evil robed in pride;
And under the gay leopard's spotted skin
See not his lurking malice. In that eye
Lay treason, as a dragon in the sun,
To spring upon them, when their careless strength,
That now was knit together in his aid,
Should be stretch'd out in slumber. As he spoke,
The bursting of the popular acclaim
Lifted him from the earth, like thunders borne
From hill to hill; nay, at that very moment,
As tho' to make a very God of him,
A storm, with lightning rolling from behind,
Made giant music from the inland heights.
He waved his jovian locks; and made his eyes,
Lifted to heaven in his impassion'd, pure,
And sacred love of liberty, appear
As though they kindled at that mighty thought,
In common with the laughing earth and air,
The winged clouds, the glad and boundless seas,
And bade the Immortal witness to his words!
Alas! at sight of that magnificence,
My nature changed; as on that fair Spring day
The blue serenity and golden calm
Were burst up by the tempest. In me grew
Far other passion than the simple love
Of music, and of beauty—who was I?
Tho' flattering tongues of loving friends might fill
Mine ears with endless praise; though I should strive
At noble sports and warlike games; could hurl
My javelin with the hunters; could affront
The curly heads of the rebellious seas
And toss them from me; though I ran as swift
As rivulets whose frostfetters are unbound;
Could wield all arms, and dance the Pyrrhic measures
To clang of beaten shield; and sing as well
As larks at morn: what, though I might do all
As well as I could sing unto the lyre?
What even then were all? Here was a man
Youthful as I; far stronger, who could chain
The manyheaded monster, and make calm
Revenge and envy, insolence and hate,
With flowing words, like smooth oil on the waves;
And with his large eyes flashing in the sun,
His beaten breast, and waving arms, and lip
'Twixt laughter and defiance, he could tame
Lions about to spring; and make them crouch
Before him, like an Orpheus! Who was I?
That fatal day I should have slept a sleep
Deep as enchanter's rod, or wizard's charm,
Or aconite could drown me. Who was I?
A Marsyas beside Apollo's self;
A cupbearer before the brow of Jove
In sight of Myrsilus. If I could win
A gentle ear to listen to my song,
Lycus, or Atthis, or Erinna—boys
Eager and faithful; girls whose faith is love—
Yet who was I? For he could brandish fate
In his vulcanic arms, and weld the world
According to his will; and make the tongues
Of countless others like or unlike him;
Roll acclamation as the banded seas,
That, when the stormy winds are tyrannous,
Lift up their voices in a thunder-song!
That day was past when I had worshipp'd him,
Or envied; yet 'twas but a year ago.
And now my heart was fill'd with fear and hate,
At thought of all the evil he had done.

V

I ran down to the shore to breathe the winds,
With flown hair, and with parted lips; my heart
Plumed with the pride of youth, my mind a tumult
Of undefined hopes, in which no fear
Mingled at all. I pass'd the schoolhouse gate,
And peep'd in with the gracious air of one
Now come to years mature, who had put off
His childish things. Deserted were the courts;
But my old master sat before the door
Of his own home; he too was quaffing there
The spirits of morning, with uncover'd head;
Whose white hairs flowing down his shoulders once
Were dark as mine. He call'd me by my name;
He took my hand, and spake with gentle tone:
“I saw thee passing; and the memory of thee,
And all thy ways, came over me at once.
For I do note the attributes of them
I discipline—the form and spirit remain
Drawn on the tablet of my heart, like sandmarks
Left by the rippling shallows on the beach—
And know, my boy, I early mark'd thee out
For one whom curious Nature set apart,
And lifted o'er thy fellows; made thee tread
With those swift steps, that oftener lead to sorrow,
Than to glory; listen to me; for two hearts
Battle within thy bosom, love, and pride.
They may not rule together; if the one
Show thee the harmonies of this great world
We live and move in—colour, form, and music—
And if thy nimble wit enable thee
To fix, and to compare the diverse virtues
Of those around thee; pride is not content
With wonder only; thou must rule and guide them.
And few are strong enough—and only those
Whose steely texture hath no golden threads
Of tenderness wove with it—to subdue
Wills strong as are their own: thus the proud passion,
Like a tall tree imprison'd amid briers,
Cannot throw out its branches freely, and so
Is tortur'd to misshapes; and when it struggles
To lift its head above the jungle, is claspt
Under by poisonous o'ergrowths; is distorted
To envies, which beget asperities,
And scorn. Oh! often, when thou couldst not use
Thine hand to strike, I've seen thee sting with fear;
And with thy tongue wound worse than with thine arm.
And when thou couldst not win thy way with truth,
Creep round by secret ways; and when compell'd
To yield to right, resent it as a wrong;
And till the sunset of that day brood o'er it
In solitude. Should such things be? and thou
Able to do great deeds? For I have seen thee
Give aid unto the weak against the strong;
Proffer wise counsel, breathe consoling words,
And living on the love which thou hadst won.
Then have I said, ‘Ah! that it might be so—
For ever, only so—and he content
To feed on praise of true, nor thirst to grasp
The glitter of false honour, would but feel
That all, that is not freely given, sometime
Must be withdrawn’; for if thou wert a God
Dwelling with men, thou couldst not in their eyes
Possess thine own unenvied. Oh beware!
For he that aims at all things, like a child,
Who strives to catch fair flowers beyond his reach,
Falls wounded back, and misses even that
Which lies within his grasp; and thou wilt find thee,
When years are over, poorer than the man,
Whose aim, however lowly, still is single,
For less than all—tho' far more than enough—
Being short of thy desire, will leave thee lean;
While he is mighty being satisfied.
Wouldst thou be Poet, Warrior, Statesman, Sage?
Soon as thy young ambition puts on armour,
Straightway the tender voices of the Muse,
Within the secret places of thy soul,
Will bid thee follow her to lonely vales,
Turfwalks, and caverns echoing with seamusic;
Up to the hills crested with golden clouds.
Will bid thee wander thro' the isles, and hear
The tongues of many peoples; and to tread
Strange cities, to behold great festivals;
Pluck beauty from sweet wildernesses; hear
The songs of many minstrels, and give answer
With thine own harp and voice; to weave thee garlands,
Garlands of such imperishable hue,
No time shall fade them. All this mayst thou win
By love alone, in light of peaceful hours,
Thine hands unstain'd with blood, thine heart unvex'd
By storms of strife; and when old age shall come,
The past would look to thee as young as now,
Seen thro' the veil of natural tears, which soon,
Or late, must dim the bright divinity
Of this life's dawn; or Death, which is our friend,
Calling us on to Immortality
Would seem to be our foe. Be wise, be wise.
Is it not better to climb one green hill;
To build thee there a cottage in a garden;
To wreathe with rose, to fence it with sweet briers;
To walk in thine own vineyard, and to pluck
The fruits of every season, and at last
The vintage, crown of all thy happy toil;
To see the sun rise, and the sun go down,
Upon thy day of life, in holy calm,
Holier for all the storms that pass between
The morn and even; than with beating heart
All the day long to struggle on and on
Up to the thunderpeaks, and icy crown
Of desolation; only to rejoice
In silence, and to shout where none can hear;
Till darkness fall on thee when thou art faint,
And none to help thee? O boy, death is better
And deaf ears fill'd with dust, than listening ever
To lamentations of thy lonely heart,
Regrets, and yearnings, where no echo is
Of human sympathy; no well-earn'd hymn
Of that true praise, whose chords of harmony
Are others' love. Forgive me, if I speak
Words that may seem to chide thee—'tis not so—
Couldst thou but hear that still small voice within,
That pleadeth with unutterable pity
For thee, who sometime wert my charge; who art,
Of all the dear sons of my soul, the most
To love and fear: forget not thou my words;
When he, who gave thee counsel in thy youth,
Is vanish'd, like a shadow, from the earth;
The voice that warn'd thee thinner than the winds.”

VI

Ev'n as he spoke, all passions, like the lights,
And glooms that follow o'er the morning plains,
Flitted across my heart; pride, anger, scorn,
Remorse, and tenderness, and grim resolve.
But when he ended, at his feet I fell;
I bow'd before him; I had no voice, but tears
That fell upon his hand. Oh that his words
Had been more deeply rooted in my heart!
Oh that, like fruitful rains, those tears had grown them
About my heartstrings! but alas! they sank not
Far thro' the stony corselet of ambition;
But there were wither'd, like the seed unsown.
I felt, while listening to the wise old man,
Like one who sentinels a barren rock,
Which a clear cold river runs around,
Making a pleasant sound; but none the more
Can he come down from that lone crag, and take
A drop to cool his tongue; but hears it glide
With a forlorn regret. Pride seem'd a conscience;
The fancied duties of my station strong
Necessities, and vast, thro' fumes of pride.
Methought that heartful man, though old in years,
Less manly-wise than children; sure his heart
Ne'er dreamt of ills; his ears had never heard
Wrongs which I look'd on daily; and to redress them—
Ambitious less of virtue than of praise—
I held a virtue. Then I said, “O father;
I fear it will but seem ingratitude,
For friendly counsels, to unmask to thee
The world's experiences; and cast their shadows
Upon thy clear and honourable soul;
To cloud the even of thy peaceful days
With evil memories of evil deeds.
Thy spirit, like a quiet mountain peak
Smit by the setting sun, less warm than bright,
Looks down upon the waters tossing under
And takes far distance for tranquillity.
'Tis well for thee to see the vessel toil
Through troubled waves; he, standing at the helm,
And watchful of its motions, only knows
How mighty are the waters and the winds.
The groaning timbers, and the roaring storm,
The momentary perils, constant trials,
Far off may seem no more to thy dim eyes,
Whose youth was peaceful, than the tiny motions
Of a child's boat built of a stick and shell.
But there are some who work and watch therein,
Who guard the onward vessel of the state,
And look for rocks and breakers night and day,
Tho' days and nights of calm may make our tasks
Seem easy; sometimes must the vessel's course
Change suddenly, else founder, struck by squalls;
Or split upon sharp crags. Now Myrsilus,
Whom thou didst guide, and counsel for his good—
As thou hast ever done—is one of them;
A rock, not hid, but open, and defiant;
And loud with insult as the bark of Scylla.
There are some spirits like watchers in a tower;
Who first survey the region, and its bound,
Ere they come down to traverse it; forewarned,
Tho' timid, weak, and faint, they still are armed.
While others, with a giant's strength, are weak
As blinded Cyclops; measureless conceit
They take for inspiration; and rush on
In darkness, till they stumble; such is he.
His strength is folly, and his arms vainglory.
He with his troop strides on thro' bloody wrongs;
And takes the wandering eyes of pale despair,
The mute fear of the oppressed and the poor,
For tributes to his triumph; he forgets
That a hush goes before a hurricane;
And that the surge, thrown hindward by the wind,
Regathers, and, driven on by stronger winds
Of public hate, rolls back upon the shore;
Effaces the old hollows, and flings up
The surf beyond the highest watermark.
And be not angry with me, O my father,
If I desire to be this very wind,
Ay, ev'n the hurricane to blow against him,
The boaster; and to carry on my wings
The curses of the poor. Judge for thyself,
If he, who hath learnt justice from thy lips,
Should not lift up a youthful noble's hand
To thrust aside for ever, and at once
This overgrown, and heavy-footed idler,
Who, trampling on the worm, hath roused the serpent.

VII

Listen then, father: 'twas but yester-even,
Returning from Methymna by the shore,
We reach'd a hamlet of poor fishermen,
Hard by a countryhouse of Myrsilus,
And there we met a bridal band with flowers
And torches. They were bearing the young bride
Up to her future home among the hills,
The only daughter of a fisherman;
For she was wed unto an upland youth.
They met at Mitylene oft and early
On marketdays, as he sat by his panniers
Of figs and grapes; she by her fishy crates
Ere sunrise; and their young eyes told their hearts
Unto each other. And then simple chat,
Held in cool shadows of the quiet dawn,
Left memories that to each other were
An added life; they laugh'd, they sang, they dream'd;
The rough-spun network of their innocent hopes
Was link'd for them as strongly as the toils
Of Vulcan, and with magic blisses laden.
Still neither fisher's bark, nor viny slope,
Was golden as their dreams; which if not all
As vain, are yet unequal to provide them
Their hearts' desire. So many a changeful day,
Though hopeful, rolled by, till the old man died,
Peacefully at his farm among the hills.
And now the warmth of that more eager flame,
Gentler and swifter than the touch of Time,
Dried up the tears of Nature; the new love
Embalm'd the old; he richer by a field,
And orchard, like a temple for the Nymphs,
Pillar'd with cherry, fig, and plum, and pear,
Round which the lithe vine gambol'd like a flame;
Or led thro' long green aisles which screen'd the sun;
And left the moss, and sweet herb underneath
Dewy at noon; and then a patch of grain,
That rippled in the spring-wind like a tide
Of gold, up to a ridge of olives gray,
Old, gnarl'd, and crook'd; as though they strove to mock
The vineyard with its laughters underneath.
Now, therefore, corn and wine, and oil were his,
And now he would fetch up, to his own home,
To cheer his widow'd mother, that fair girl,
That maid o' the sea, whose rosy feet were kiss'd
Each morn by the blue waves; whose azure eyes,
Yet dark, had drawn into their inmost depth
The purple of the waters; and whose heart,
Simple, and trustful, loving, strong, and pure,
Was more a treasure to him than the pearls
Of all the Nereids. The country folk
Turn'd up a sideward valley; and the hour
The soft breaths of the twilight, the still flame
Yet throbbing in the west, the happy songs,
The twinkle of the lamps and torches sinking
Into the violet distance, stay'd us there
Awhile, and set us musing; and we wove
Instinctively epithalamial measures;
And with fantastic beauty strove to gild
The simple sweetness of the festal show
Sacred to peace. Once more the rustic pomp
Rose visible to us, tho' more remote,
In winding slowlier up a thymy slope.
When all at once, in wonder and alarm,
We heard the singing change to angry cries.
With violence we saw the torchbearers
Seized; and their lights dash'd earthward; and their robes
Rent by strange hands; and from a cypress-wood,
Shadowing the upland way, rush'd forth a band
Of masked revellers; and methought I saw
Iæus with his frantic acolytes
Borne on with shouts and laughter, that overwhelm'd
The uproar of the beaten villagers.
I cried—‘Oh sure I know that central shape,
Still foremost in all outrage, as of old,
And clothed with might of limb beyond the rest
To deal it: let us haste, while yet we may,
Lest ill be done, that cannot be undone.
But, when we reach'd the spot, the deed was done.
The rioters had vanish'd; and their steeds
Held harness'd for them in the thicket near,
Had borne them off along the winding ways
Between the vineyards; and we heard their shouts
Dying afar among the hills, and nearer
The curses of the bridesmen, and the shrieks
Of women in despair. Such was this deed.
Grief drove the poor men wild; none knew the name
Of their oppressor; but a month before
A villager had seen him step ashore
Out of a pleasure-barge, while Ida's brothers
And father there were hauling in their nets,
And she sat knitting in the prow o' the boat,
Her dark hair drooping o'er her shoulders fair,
Her large blue eyes raised with a mute surprise.
And with the faith of her inviolate heart
Truthful and innocent, she gave to him
That faith, which to a brave man is a shield
Invisible betwixt himself and her,
Yet strong as adamant. But to his heart
It show'd like lawless freedom, and a kind
Of welcome, and a challenge to his prowess.
And when her eyes were cast down suddenly,
And swift confusion mantled on her cheek,
'Twas to him as submission, and a triumph;
And he look'd on devouring with his own.
And, as the tyrant and his company
Wound round the hill in their descent again,
They came close under us; their voices rose
Clearly: I heard him say, ‘They know us not;
But I know them; and who, think ye, they be?
Alcæus and his brothers whom I hate;
On whom I swear that I will be avenged
With this same act repeated on themselves.
And, for the wild-eyed fisher's girl, fullsoon
They shall repay me with a fairer flower;
And the three I will charge with mine own deed!’
Scarce had we space to swallow these few words,
Gasp'd out with panting breath—when ‘Follow me!’
I cried—but knew not whither; for our foes
Were horsemen; and 'twas vain to seek for them
Already in the city's unknown shades
Concealed. And while we spake, a dark-eyed boy
Broke thro' the midst of us; he had beheld
Out of his upland home the bridal band
Ascending; he had mark'd the sudden tumult;
And with alarmed speed and fixed eye
Rush'd down the stony way; and to his cry
‘Where is she? where?’ no answer came; he shriek'd,
‘Quick follow me;’ and diving suddenly
Into a neighbour's orchard—as he knew
All byways and all crosspaths in the hills—
He brought us, swift as their well-baited steeds
Where two roads met; and there and then we stay'd
Our course, just in the nick of time to see
Sweep by the armed robbers. When the bride
Beheld her lover she stretch'd forth her arms.
And he, his dark locks like a lion waving,
With desperate might snatch'd from the spoiler's arms
The treasure of his life; she sank unharm'd
By the wayside, but he before the strength
Of the onward rushing steed; the horse, though scared,
Harm'd not in aught the boy; the ravisher
Fled shamefully before the brandish'd staves
And uproar of the bridesmen; but a club,
Drawn by a menial's hand, in passing, smote
Against the temples of the fallen youth;
And laid him helpless with his bleeding locks
Scatter'd along the dust; his eyes in death
Turn'd fondly on her—but he spake no more.
And then indeed all lesser passions hush'd
In the wild grief of that forsaken girl,
Who rose up in the strength of her despair,
And flung herself upon the breast of him
She loved; and press'd his lips yet warm, and laugh'd
A frenzied laugh, not knowing what she did;
For madness had possess'd her; and she sat
Playing with his smear'd locks, and her red lips
Still redder with his blood. We raised him up;
We bore him through an open garden gate,
Along a trellised walk, which led us to
A table, spread beneath a portico,
Telling of recent revels; now the place
Was still, the seats forsaken; and the cups,
And the half-empty flagons signified
That here the tyrant and his guests had been;
And had gone forth, on fire with wine, to do
A deed of wrong; and risen from their carouse
Struck with unnatural thirst to sacrifice
The pure blood of the simple and the poor
To the Eumenides! We stood around,
In silence, and we fill'd a bowl of wine,
And, our hands stain'd with that most innocent blood,
We pledged each other, vowing to avenge it;
While the last crimson band of the sunk sun
Answer'd us from afar, as 'twere a torch
Of Nemesis; and from the mountains came
A low wind sighing thro' the garden trees
A sympathetic threne. And now, O father,
Such is a portion of the many wrongs,
Inflicted by the mighty and the proud
Upon the weak and poor. If I be born
Of that same class, that holds the sacred right
Of standing foremost in all deeds of honour,
Shall I behold such things go unaveng'd?
Not rather peril me and mine for right;
Lest the great Gods should mock us in our pride,
Our self-love, and our frail prosperity;
And join us to the downfall of the godless,
The lawless, and the worst; us mortal men,
Who dare to live the life of the Immortals
Secure from harms.” And then the old man said—
“If such be deeds done in these evil days,
Then needs must I be glad that I am old;
And that mine aged feeble steps outrun
The old age of the world; that I no more
Have strength to shed the blood of good or ill.
Although I blame thee not for heats of anger,
Where calm philosophy had been dishonour;
Yet none the less may my untroubled eld,
That hath escaped this fire of youth unharm'd,
And looks not back on ills it cannot heal,
Counsel thee—what at last may win thee too—
What I have earn'd—a spirit unreproved;
Counsel thee patience which is fortitude,
Stronger than daring hand, and eagle eye,
Can arm thee with. Oh may thy latter days
Turn to their prime, as moonlight to the sun,
Drawing from them a pale yet peaceful light.
Though I be last of all my kin—have seen
My friends of youth, all my beloved ones
Pass to the shades before me—though I be
Childless, forgotten; though I leave no eye
To weep for me, yet this I do remember.
No human face has closed its eyes on mine,
That in my conscience, to torment me, set
Fiery words of judgment, awful tongues,
And blood-bedabbled spectres. Those I prized
Are parted; yet they peep from out the past,
With tender smiles of an immortal love,
That time shall wound no more; they come to me
Like the sweet Hamadryads, and mild Fauns,
Haunting my sleep with sunny looks, kind words,
And consolations. Hark! I charge thee, boy,
To listen to a few last words of mine.
For thou wilt never listen to me more;
A day or two, and I shall be at rest.
And when thou wakest up, or liest down,
Fail not to fetch them from thy memory forth;
And greet each day, and close it with the same.
Speak truth with the true heart—Oh! that is best—
But alway truth; tho' the rebellious will,
Like a wild horse, rear up against the curb.
Speak of the absent as tho' they were by,
And heard thy faintest whisper; lest perchance
Ill tongues should wing ill words, as winds that blow
Sparks into angry flames; or thou be found,
When challenged, for the sake of a good name,
Or gain, or peace, to vary from thyself,
And honour. Let thy secret, unseen acts
Be such as if the men thou prizest most
Were witnesses around thee; the great Gods
Look'd down upon thee, and immortal ears
Hearken'd thine inmost thought! So may thine age
Be even as mine. Lift not thine hand to strike,
Save in the cause of justice, and when words
Are vain as wind, avenge not a slight wrong,
Or any, with that violence which, weigh'd
Against the evil deed thou wouldst avenge,
Makes equipoise of ill, disarms the hand
Of Nemesis, and mocks the blessed Gods
We pray to for their aid, and then disown;
And scatters o'er the earth the fruitful seed
Of ceaseless discords, like the thistleheads
Borne o'er the wilderness. Make not of mirth
An endless feast, lest the wide world of weeds
And flowers, that grow together, afterwards
Seem as that wilderness; and keep thou wine
For winter hearths, and through the summer days
Rejoice with songs alone—farewell, farewell.”
I kiss'd that aged hand, and parted from him
Swiftly: my heart was full; and when his words
Ceased, as the winds before the rain, I wept.
Once looking back, I saw him seated there
For the last time beneath the rustling vine;
The sea broke at his feet; the swallows whirl'd
O'er his white head; then he arose, and pass'd
Slowly upon his staff into the shade
Of his own dwelling. As the shadow drown'd
His form, methought a darker shadow closed
Round him—alas! I never saw him more.
He was borne out, nor seen nor heard again
By them who loved him, and who ow'd to him
Much flower and fruitage of their after lives.
Some humble souls wept for him; and I saw
The torches pass, I heard the trumpet wail
As he was borne to silence; as I stood
Amid a crowd of the gay heartless youth,
Whose flatteries were singing in mine ears;
Whose idle taunts were flung like sparks of fire
From whirling brands on good and ill alike;
Whose reckless folly and light laugh I fear'd
More than the dead man's frown; whose mockery scorch'd
My tears up faster than all tender thoughts
Could draw them from me. For ev'n then I mused
Of him, whose loving wisdom might have changed me
For good, if gratitude and piety
Had made their voices heard above the din
Of daily vanity, and the trumpet notes
Of haughty aspirations—but in vain.

VIII

Hymen! O Hymenæe! was the cry
That woke me up upon the sovran morn,
Ere sunrise; and their songs came to mine ear,
Ere sleep had been thrown off, and bred such dreams,
As make the reawaken'd sense and soul
Weep for the lost unreal; tho' that morn
Was heavenly-bright with glad realities,
Sweet spousals of twin loves; that had not grown
Some April morning, like the first sweet flowers,
Sweeter than all the wealth of Summer, yet
To fade and die away ere Summer came;
But were the incense of two faithful hearts,
That knew each other's heart, and not the eyes
Only; and saw for ever in those eyes
The heart's own beauty. Should I not awake?
Hymen! O Hymenæe! rose again
The bridal song; and flutes and tabors join'd
Their pleasant voices, and the happy birds
Fired all the Maymorn azure with the sparks
Of kindred jubilee; and cymbals rang,
Lifted by the lithe arms of jocund girls
High o'er their rose-bound temples, as they press'd
Lightly the dewy green with dancer's step,
And pass'd before us. As the pomp advanced
Along the green slope of a bowery hill,
Methought I look'd upon the Golden Age
Come back to life; some pure Ideal wrought
Out of the sunny brain of Phœbus laid,
In noonday drowse, under a covert roof'd
With early rose. Along the path we trod,
The sunlights, dashing thro' the leaves, blown back
By the warm gusts of morning, flooded all
The moss-walks for a moment, and lit up
The fallen blooms, snow-white, and gold, and blue,
And crimson; and play'd o'er the curly locks
Of the young timbrel-bearers—many a braid
Of choicest flowerets dropt with diamond dew.
Once more the envious shadows veil'd the day,
And swallow'd up in their cool, soft embrace
The waving heads, white arms, and rosy wreaths
Of the young damsels, and the youths that bore
Fresh panniers, laden with some precious gifts
For Artemis, to lay before her shrine,
And charm the virgin Goddess till she smiled.
I hung back to behold, with all my soul
Set in mine eyes, the glory of that morn,
That I might paint it on my inner sense
So wondrous clear, no cares, no aftertimes
Of mortal trouble, nor old age itself
Should hide it from me! and I stood apart,
Until their forms thro' distance seem'd to swim
In mists of light. And when again there rose
“Hymen! O Hymenæe!” it was far
And faint; then I ran forward and o'ertook,
Just as the foremost of the bridal march
Rose in the sunshine o'er the circling woods.
And lo! the temple with its columns huge,
And architrave, throng'd with the solemn Gods,
Drown'd in the golden smoke of sunrise, shone
Like a tall gate of Heaven!

IX

The next day,
At even, from her father's house they bore
The gentle bride; and all the company
Of friends, and kinsfolk, all who yestermorn
Had fill'd the temples of the Gods with prayers,
And hymns and odours—and beyond the rest
Artemis, Virgin ever, lest she frown
Upon espousals even such as this—
Were met together; and my mother came
And kiss'd the damsel in the portico.
The bridegroom stood aside, that he might hear
The tender words exchanged, and mark the smiles
Of greeting unobserved. And now they brought,
From far and near, such tributes to the bride,
As, whether plain or costly, still were fair
And precious all; for none seem'd more or less
Than other; whether gold and silver threads,
Or homely woollen thro' the tissues ran;
On all, seen clearly by the eye of Love,
Heart-love was broider'd like a rich red-rose;
And old and young strove to outdo each other
In lavish bounty. There were vestures, wrought
Of such rare needlework, they seem'd to weigh
No heavier than a breath of morning dew:
And yet their price in gold might to the poor
Seem vanity, such as the Gods might visit
With retribution; there were sandals, sew'd
By delicate fingers, only to be worn
On such high festivals as come not oft
In any year; and many-colour'd veils;
Vials of eastern odours; carven cups;
Flagons of silver, boss'd with buds and flowers;
Urns moulded out of finest filter'd earth,
And baked to lucent marble in the flame
Of sevenfold-heated furnaces; whereon
Triumphs, and pomps were shown, and deeds of arms;
Or wrestlers knit together; or the wheels
Of rival chariots flinging up the dust.
The vestibule was throng'd with laughing eyes
And mirthful voices; while the bronzed arms
Of slaveboys, well contented with their task,
Bore up the panniers laden with the gifts.
And then came Citharus, bearing in his hand
The offering of our house, a diadem
Of mingled gems, all colours, made to mock
The beauty of fresh flowers; an heirloom rich,
From mother unto mother handed down,
Thro' many generations, and at last
Thus best bestow'd upon the sweet young bride;
At least, in their first rapture so they said.
And yet I thought the tender pensive face
That smiled beneath it once, when thou wert young,
My Mother, would have bow'd in answer to
The selfsame loving words in days of old.