University of Virginia Library

ANTIMENIDAS

I

Amid the merrymaking came the cry
Of instant war; as when the mountain wind
Shrills thro' the purple vineyards, and bears down
At summernoon the frore breath of the snows.
We spread the banquet in the Armoury,
That Love should not forget the morrowmorn;
That he was sitting under cloud of Death,
And that his flutes and tabors must give place
To brazen tongues of wrath; that War should part
Not without the sweet memories of Love;
For partings must be with the coming dawn.
Meanwhile, let there be joy with dance and song;
That, when the clash of arms is in our ears,
Still they may echo with the festal sounds
Of this sweet eve, and make the warrior's heart
Impregnable to fears, with thought of those
He leaves behind him; and his armed hand
Insuperable, in the hope to save
The land he loves and yearns to tread again.
So, soon all friends were gather'd at the board;
And the bright day gave place to softer light
Let down by silver chains from lamps that burn'd
Sweet odours; lamps that shone, as summer moons,
Over the carven cups, and urns of flowers.
The evening wind blew from the plots without
Their dewy breathings; and the sound was heard
Of fountains in the gardens; and the rain,
Seen 'twixt the parting curtain's wind-blown folds,
Glitter'd in the moonlight like sparks of fire;
And from rosethickets, under arching sprays,
Came, ever and anon, the distant swell
Of choral voices, whose soft tide of song
Swam, mingling with the moonbeams. And we paused
Amid our converse; as though in our ears,
And hearts, Elysium seem'd to fall in drops
Of Music, sweet tears of Melpomene;
Melpomene best Muse of all the Nine!
Foremost sat Citharus with his dove-eyed bride;
And all the children of our house were there
But Antimenidas; ah! where was he?
And first in honour, and not least in grace,
The dear house-mother with her children sat;
Then kindred faces, from far mountain homes
Seldom turn'd city-wards; and many a friend,
Loved for his truth, or honour'd for his skill;
Menon, the sun of wit, and soul of mirth;
And Melanippus, trusty friend; and she,
The pale-brow'd Sappho, through whose dark, deep eyes
Rose, starlike, inner glories. And I saw
There Anaktoria wreath'd with rose, herself
The queen of beauty; and she tamed her lips
To tenderness; her eyes, two sunlit heavens,
To dewy twilights; everyone was glad.
And ev'n the sad Erinna left her loom,
And solitary home, to warm her heart
For years to come; and feed upon those joys
In memory which she never hoped to feel.
And now the youths and damsels, cupbearers,
The fairest children of our noblest chiefs,
Each a young Hermes, or a Hebe, clad
In many-colour'd vests, began to run
Between the tables, filling to the brim
The beakers wreathed with fresh-gather'd flowers,
That painted in the purple Lesbian wine
Their hues, as 'twere dark fountains shaded o'er
By hanging gardens. Some cast odours in,
That fill'd the place with blisses; some sweetmeats,
As was the custom of the early times;
Some on their knees did hold up silver ewers,
Wherein they dipp'd their hands: the elders fill'd
The highest seats; and then the foremost men
In noble deeds; along the centre stood
White images of the great Gods. Then rose
Citharus, now the Master of the feast;
And bade us pour out the first and best wine
To the Immortals, on the festal board,
Altar of Friendship, and convivial Joy,
And hospitable Peace: “For are not those
Gather'd around me, a mirror of the World,
A picture of Humanity on earth
Call'd by the good Gods to the feast of Life,
Its fruits and flowers? Pour out the best of all
To them who give it; that our hopes may be
Crown'd by their graces, and our joys be full.
And first to Vesta, guardian of the hearth,
And home, who holds the rooftree o'er our heads;
Without whose mercies all our household cares
Were frail, as dwellings builded on the slope
Of fiery mountains, or earthquaking plains.”
Then from tall vases, running o'er with flowers,
He handed to the guests fresh garlands, strung
With silver braid, till every man had bound
His brows, and scatter'd roundabout him all
The remnant roses; till but half the floor
Was visible between the fallen rain
Of garden sweets, of leaves, and buds, and flowers.
Oh! who shall tell how soft the moments were,
How swiftly sped, though on their plumes they bore
More lovely, glancing colours than the wings
Of turtles in the sunbeam; were more sweet
Than dew-dropt musk-rose petals shed at dawn?
The laugh of Menon, heard among the rest,
Set mirth a moving, like a flute-note high
Above the timbrels, or a dancer's foot.
Fair Anaktoria bent her queenlike brow,
—Well pleased to read heart-homage in men's eyes—
In answer to sweet words, though her own heart
Unvanquish'd laugh'd at their captivity.
She spoke of her own land, Ionia,
Its wealth and wonders; and “Alas!” she sigh'd,
“Shall a strange sceptre shadow us at last,
A conqueror's heel press on us? let me hope
That here are some, who will turn back the proud
The way they came, ere my Miletus hear
The owl of Athens hooting from her towers.”
Atthis was gleeful as a dimpling spring
Shaded with maiden-hair, and briery rose;
But Sappho lean'd back, dreamful even then;
And from the beauty of the Actual
Weaving a lovelier beauty, to the tune
To some unheard sweet song; and oft her smile,
Like a warm moonbeam cross'd by twinkling leaves,
Seem'd all astir with inner fancy-work.
Then follow'd many a pleasant tale, or sad,
Of prowess, peril, wonders, accidents;
Ventures by flood and field, heroic acts;
Triumphs of patience, nights in mountain snows;
Spoils won; the chase, the race; midsummer days
Among the islands; wanderings into wilds
Unknown before; memories that kindled hopes;
Young hopes that look'd on to far years, and drew
Smiles from old eyes that look'd back to the same;
Of victors crown'd, of wrestlers overthrown;
The chariot-course when last the rivals met,
And to the inland solitudes went up
The shoutings from the amphitheatre.

II

But suddenly both eyes and ears were closed
To all around me, and I saw but one.
Whose is that face, so dark with eastern suns,
That eye so bright, those limbs so knit with toil
To sinewy strength, that form heroical,
But thine, my brother? He had but enter'd now;
And stood awhile apart, with both his palms
Resting upon an ivory-hilted sword
Of eastern fashion, rarely wrought; “'Tis he!
'Tis Antimenidas!” ah! then I rose;
I ran, I fell upon his neck; but he
Smiled as he press'd me to him: “It is well
That warlike rumours reach'd me; else had I
O brother, never reach'd our home to see
This feast of friends; I see that good things gush,
Like fountains in the desert unforeseen,
From evils; had I lost another day
We should have met only in battle-field
Without the memory of this bliss to cheer
My spirit onward.” Again I cried, “O thou
Deem'd lost, as to our senses thou hast been,
This many a winter, since we parted last,
For no sign reach'd us; when thou wert not seen—
As they who listen in a vacant night,
And hearkening ever to the dreary void
May hear weird noises in the silence—I,
Methought, heard Death articulate thy name.
So doubly is this moment blest to me,
That from the ashes of dead Hope awakes
No fancied form to baffle me, no shape
Cloudlike of memory; but thyself, the same
Thy very self:” just then a lamp pass'd by,
And cast a light upon his weary face;
And then I saw, clearer than in my own,
How moments, like to little waterdrops,
Had worn them channels, like dry torrent beds,
Laid for those tears that only dew the cheeks
Where they are not; and how his brow had felt
The breath of the scorch'd deserts, and the fire
Of other climes! He sat down by my side.
I bade the cup-boy bear him of that wine
That had slept, dreaming underneath the earth
Of this great day, since last he parted hence,
When I was but a boy, and look'd on him,
As only boyhood can on one advanced
One lustre onward; as he drain'd the cup
He cried—“Ah! Lesbos, Lesbos; never since
Hath any vintage purpled on my lip
Like this our island nectar;” and I said—
“While they are talking of their divers feats,
Tell me, my brother, of thine own; and when
Came to thee the great sword I see thee bear;
An ivory-hilted sword of massy weight,
Wreathed with fantastic scroll-work, and inlaid
With gold device:” “I bring thee this” he said.
“My voice hath never had a charm, like thine,
For tears, for triumphs, for delight—a voice
To make the young heart echo, and the old
Live o'er again—a voice, to which the world
Trembles in answer, like a harp struck well.
One only note it hath, and that hath been
A clarion-sound in peril. But take this;
And hang it up amid the curious arms
Of many generations; if they say,
‘Which of thy forefathers of mighty build
Carried this weapon?’ thou shalt say ‘My brother
Won it from him who bore it, one who stood
A giant of six cubits’; and my praise,
Pour'd from thy lips, will be to me and thee
A double harvest from the selfsame field.
Thou know'st full well my heart was not as thine
From the beginning; tho' we grew together,
As two tall trees that bend to one another,
Thine was the seemlier, mine the sturdier frame;
Thy hair was dark, but mine was sunny-fair.
And while thy soul shone chiefly in thine eyes,
When some great thought, as lightning in the night,
Struck thro' their blackness; mine, as the blue sea
Lifting the sunbeams on its surface, throbb'd
With momentary passions, eager hopes,
Brief joys, and high thoughts of heroic acts,
And strength, and names of honour won with arms.
Yet how we loved each other, how we loved!
Star drawn to star by powers that cross'd each other;
Loud trumpet-notes round which soft harpings shower'd;
So that sweet Sappho named us Night and Day.
And twain were thus as one—unlike grew like—
Our spirits borrow'd aspects of each other—
For thou my hardihood with dews of pity
Didst temper; and I lent thee linked mail
For action. Hand in hand we trod the earth;
I loved to hear thee sing of deeds of mine;
Thou lovedst to see me body forth thy songs.
And when thy heart, as sometimes needs must be,
With shadows scared, or dazzled with its light,
Saw not the shapes of things, my clear gray eyes
Peer'd thro' the mists of dark and bright; and thou,
When with mine iron will I would rebel
'Gainst Time, and Space, and Possibility,
Wouldst with keen arrows of thy fancy sound
The abysses; till my soul unused to fear,
Grew still as at the wholesome touch of frost.
And yet not all unlike; for both were born
Fashion'd with eyes that open'd on the sun,
And those strong wings that seek it; hearts that held
Unhonour'd life a living death; and death,
Honour achieved, immortal life! alas!
But we were dreamers both; both fired too soon
To lift the anchor reckless of the helm;
Scornful of rest and peaceful thoughts, to sail
Far forth from shelter'd inlets undisturb'd,
And dash athwart the great seas manifold.
Ah me! ah me! how many days seem fled
Since those thoughts were; for, tho' my years are few,
My thoughts are many; and here we meet again
A little space, too soon to part once more.
Ah me! how dreadful is the spectre fair
That once was joy in life; how mournful-sweet
The memory of those moments—days—ev'n years—
When all before us, whether Earth or Heaven,
Desert or vineyard, icy peak, or plain,
Swathed in the selfsame Summer azure, fled
Before us as we trod the dews at morn.
Soon shall we stand upon the top of all;
Touch with faint hands the barrenness that seem'd
Elysium; hear the silence round us, whence
Far songs seem'd waving to us; or only hear
The cinders crash beneath our heels; the dust
Of vanities—cold ashes, loves or fears—
The spirits of the Dead go by as wind,
Or Death, like the lone thunder, calls to us.
Now we are met, and have between us set
This jar of golden Lesbian, I will tell thee
All that befell me since that saddest hour
Of all my life; it was a rainy eve,
I well remember, when as now we sat,
Our young morn shadow'd with untimely cloud,
As now the noonday of our vexed years
Is lit a moment with returning mirth.
Tell me which is the better—hard to say—
Yet such is Life—Songs end in sighs—and sighs
Kindle with songs again. The host's swart face
Peep'd thro' the fluttering trellis, anger'd half,
And half well-pleased, that we had order'd wine
We could not taste; the breeze swept by, and broke
Our sad low murmur'd speech with wailing sound.
We heard the melody of one sweet song—
Known from our cradles unto me and thee—
Wave from behind; and ebb with the hoarse sea
That sobb'd beneath us. I rose, and took thy hand;
And with my feet upon the plashy stair
That met the sea, I stretch'd the other down
To the boatmen; and when first I raised my eyes
Out of my folded arms, I saw thee there,
Thine hand upon the marble balustrade,
Thy brows bent forward with an eager look,
Till misty twilight shut out all but that
One mournful image shadow'd in my soul.”
“The heart is faithful whose fond records are
Slight things like these”—I answer'd, “O my brother;
And yet thy spirit, better knit than mine,
Needed but merry voices, or a song;
Or welcome of bold comrades wing'd with hope;
Thine eyes to look upon the busy crowd,
And common purpose, making many one,
And the weak strong; straight to put off, like sleep,
The present weight of sorrow, and forget
Like dreams in sudden daylight. But I stood
In love with grief; and shrank from sight of men
For weary hours; as tho' familiar life
Like loving touches to a wounded side
Made sorrow ache the more: Oh! how I loved
To torture mine own soul, with memories wrought
To such a fairy skein of tenderness
By cunning fancies, that thy smallest acts,
Unnoted words, and unremember'd looks,
As ghostly witnesses against me came
And charged me with ingratitude. One morn
That we had plann'd to reach a mountain peak
Before the Sun, I woke thee with a shout;
But thou wert sick and all our purpose lost;
And I went forth half anger'd, and alone.
Again, when I was lying with fix'd eyes,
And fever'd tongue, I saw my mother pass
Into the chamber with thee, and thy hand
Did clasp hers piteously, thy wondering eyes
Look'd weeping up into her anxious face;
I heard thee whisper ‘Can he die so soon?’
I saw thee running on the morning sands,
A warrior leading on the fisher boys,
Thy trumpet but a wreathen rosy shell;
A swimmer buffeting the ridgy sea;
A horseman flying towards the mountains dark,
Thy fair head smitten by a spark of light
Over the dark cloud of his rolling mane,
Bent like the morning star above the sea.
O Brother, none but those whose daily life
Is fed by Love's sun, and perennial dew,
By hourly converse, like the Summer air
That stirs the flowers and draws forth all their sweetness,
Can feel how like Night in a wilderness
With barrenness, and silence, and the dark,
It is to lose the interchanging moods
Of that home-life; tho' crost with stormy hours,
That make relapsing peace like Summer blue
Come back with tenfold blisses—let me hear thee—”

III

Then answer'd Antimenidas, and said—
“Thou wilt remember, when I parted hence,
'Twas for the wars nigh Babylon; the kings
Of Egypt and Assyria would meet,
And I would serve with Pharaoh in the East.
Thrice did the boatman shout in my deaf ears,
Ere I had turn'd from gazing on the shores,
Whence I was parting, dim as early dreams;
And in the shadow of the warship's hull
He rested on his oars; a few brief words—
A trumpet from the deck—and helmed heads
That gleam'd amid the twilight—and I saw
The swarthy captain of the Egyptian King;
Who to my queries moved his hand along
The cloudy orient, black with coming night;
And the long line of that heroic land,
The memorable plain, where Xanthus runs
And Ilion frown'd; whose giant ghosts I saw
Rise up that moment 'twixt the earth and heaven,
And heard the iron ring upon their shields
In dream more moving than the armed hosts
Of living men. ‘Young man, if there were light,’
He said, ‘ev'n now perchance I might show to thee
How the old fights, sung by your ancient bard,
Were lost and won.’ I answer'd not his words;
I thought in silence. On those very shores,
Where spectral twilights only flitted now,
An ancestor of mine had won renown,
Whose face and form may have prefigured mine;
And I was following after a strange host
While he had seen Achilles! I was born
Long ages after the heroic years,
Haply to fall untimely, and unknown
In some far wilderness. Methought I saw,
Shaped out of uncouth shadows dim and vast,
The two primeval armies camping there;
Methought their watchfires flushed the blowy night,
And show'd dark fragments of the ruin'd towers,
As two or three far fishers with their boys
Hung up the evening cauldron o'er the coals.
But Reason, swift as lightning, whisper'd me,
‘Patience, not Passion, builds up the great heart;
What hast thou done, or suffer'd?’ ‘Ah!’ I cried—
‘Will honour, or dishonour wait on me?
Glory, or shame, or a swift end of all?
Oh! Honour, like the diamond in the dark
Wrapt round by the unlovely rugged rock,
Is won by perils, to be broken through
Ere it can blaze out sunlike.’ Then I thought,
As the weak arm grows strong with daily toil,
My soul with custom of heroic thoughts
Will laugh at peril; and then hourly use,
By little and by little—as the growth
By silent atoms of the human frame
Till the poor infant is a mighty man—
Will make me first o'ercome the dread of death
And then forget the very thought, and then
To seek him out with mockery and disdain,
And catch his dart upon my very sword-point!
Yet though I long'd for it, this change was swift,
Ah! this was sudden as the rising sea,
That met me ofttimes in the straits at morn
Rolling from the Ægean, when my heart
Beat quicker to behold mine enemies;
And soon proud resolution, youth, and strength,
Made my arms iron, as I struck my way
Shoreward, with dark locks glittering in the foam.
And now the vision of a bloody time,
That shook me for a moment, made me soon
Strong as the thunder when it follows fast
The fiery zigzags cloven in the cloud.
And as I linger'd by the chieftain's side;
‘Young man,’ he said, ‘my luck among the isles
Is of the best; fifty from Tenedos,
A hundred men from Samos, and from Cos,
Sixty from Chios, out of Lesbos none,
Saving thyself: but thou, if I may guess,
Hast in thine eye the star that guideth men
And rules their fates; and, when my years were thine,
Long days of dusty march, and midnight watch,
My corselet dinted with an hundred fights,
My breast all wrinkled with my many wounds
On nightly trench, hillside, and battleplain,
Scarce won me notice from the Satrap vain,
Whose noble blood was not a drop the less
For all his boasted feats, and bellying words.
Circled by our good swords no harm could reach him;
And to the eye of the proud King our master
His brainless brows seem'd wreath'd with brave men's bays,
And piled with all the praise of our best deeds.
'Twas hard to bear; at length, when this old arm
Is shrunken with the fiery breath of War;
And life, so often perill'd, scarcely seems
My own possession; and my stormbeat Age
Hath shed away the last leaves of hope's flower—
Such as to dream at ease by my own hearth—
To wind mine arm about some loving heart—
To feel my little ones about my knees—
To see the fond looks of my countrymen
Turn'd on me; and to sit with faithful friends
And talk of my past cares at eventide—
Oh! just when Honour, tho' piled up to heaven,
Would scarce outweigh the lifelong load of ill,
Behold I am become a thing to fear.
And this old head, say they, might love to change
The heavy iron for the heavier gold,
And press its gray hairs with a circling crown.
And Pharaoh bids me, for my many years,
And services, take guerdon and repose
In far-off lands. Oh! if the blood of youth
Stirr'd in me now, the same ambitious motions,
Revenge would, like an unobserved spark,
Breed suddenly more tumult in the state
Than any hopes of empire; but the days
Are over when my spirit could take fire.
The peace, which is my punishment, I crave.
And I could sit, a solitary man
And listen to the murmurs of the Nile.
Perhaps 'tis best to die as I have lived,
The thunder and the shouting in mine ears,
As it may be to-morrow. I could have hoped,
If I should come out of the strife to be,
To watch the faint wind waft the fisher's sail
Down stream toward the great sea—as my breath
Shall waft the silent remnant of my days
Far as the Ocean of Oblivion—
I know, that, if I lose, or if I win,
This is my last great venture: if I return,
Methinks 'twould be a lovely thing to walk
At morn and even 'twixt my plots of flowers;
Nurse them as children; raise their drooping heads
And give them all my care—let it be so.
And, if they pay me with ingratitude,
They cannot quench in me the glorious thought,
Thought still in curved age to comfort me,
That I have served my country, which I loved,
Thro' good and ill, and met its ill with good.
I charge thee, hold before thine eyes for ever,
By night and day, in fiery letters scroll'd,
Not Glory—no! nor Honour—but this—Duty!
O word that all do utter, few can hear,
Fruit of sweet kernel, though of bitter rind!
O golden sunbeam wandering in the dark;
Goddess, who frownest with thine onward face,
And, when we look back to thee, smilest sweetly!
My star in youth thou wert, in age thou art:
Thy lamp shall light me down unto the tomb.
And so I charge thee, boy, fix not thy faith
On kingly promise; but be wise, and fill
Thy conscience with such memories, as will shine,
Like the sweet stars at midnight, in thine age.’”
I heard no more; although I yearn'd to hear
How Antimenidas had won that sword.
For hark! the sweet notes of a harp and flute
Struck in together; and two dancers sprang
Forward, lithe-limb'd as Hermes, or the Nymph
Who fled before Apollo; and all eyes
Turn'd to their subtle motions, made to yield
Harmonious utterance to the thoughts within;
As 'twere an unsung music, silently
Unfolding what the nimble melodies
Spake openly. And every footfall soft,
That touch'd the veined marble, straightway seem'd
Instinct with a wing'd spirit that again
Upbore it; every pace with beauty breathed
Fell on the eye, as on the charmed ear
The mingled magic of the harped strings
And breathed notes, running through every curve
With skill and lovely change; as from the heart
A rapt emotion pours into the mind
Fast following thoughts that melt into each other;
As sinuous currents join and flow together;
As the green woods wave in the morning wind;
As the blue waters surge along the shore;
So one smooth motion pass'd into another.
It seem'd a tale of many passions told
In inarticulate tongue, yet eloquent;
Life given not to one sculptured form alone
But many statues chasing one another
Thro' labyrinths of grace! Oh! there was love
Pleading in truthful sweet humility
To timorous simplicity; then the boy
And girl in their first trance of sympathy;
Then swifter motions, faith, hope, eager joy,
And triumph: then a pause, a shuddering pause
Of fear, no longer born of self-mistrust,
But fierce self-love, that sever'd them at once
With gestures of disdain; for she had seen
As 'twere the shadow of the sickly fiend
That turns love into hate. She flies away
In ever-widening circles; and he stands
Awhile, mute image of despair and woe.
And now the music deals fantastic airs
With a weird rhythm, and in a harsher key.
And, while he stands thus, in between the two
Starts forward, like the very imp of Ill,
A swart form, ragged-lock'd, and dwarfish mould,
And uncouth mien, yet sinewy in its strength
And lithe activity; and laughter curls
The parted lips, and mockery rules his limbs
To ribald motions, as he signs to them
With his dusk finger, and they hang their heads;
And bend their dull eyes sadly to the earth.
But, after a brief silence, once again
Low notes of still a sweeter melody
Rose slowly, through a still-ascending flood,
To a full swell of re-awakening hope,
Rebuoyant blissfulness, and perfect peace.
And, when the rude and sunburnt elf had ceased
His lawless paces, comes a winged child,
Light, as a linnet perching on a rose,
And bends to each in turn with perfect grace,
And a clear song, whose piercing lark-like thrills
Gush'd forth like a first sunbeam, that reveal'd
Love's fair new earth and heaven, yet old as Time,
Green earth of Nature, and blue heaven of Truth.
Again the music peals; again they raise
Their pensive brows; again they come together
With ever-narrowing circles, and again
They whirl the timbrels o'er their laughing heads.
They clasp their willing arms about each other,
Sunning each other with delighted eyes
Victoriously; for Love hath vanquish'd Fear!
When they had ceased there rose a shout from all
That soften'd into melody; and hark!
The golden voice of Sappho in a song.
For she was there in honour of the feast,
Although her lonely heart was far away.
It was that saddest season of her life,
That lamentable interval, ere yet
The shadow of great sorrow she had borne,
A soul-consuming sickness nigh to death,
Had pass'd away from her; I knew it not,
Till we were aged in far after years;
And then she told me all in calmest words,
With steadfast eye and unimpassion'd voice.
But now her best friend Anaktoria
Had join'd the guests; for she was come from far
To bear her off upon the breezy seas
Between the isles; and so the gentle Muse
Once more could raise her mournful head and smile:
And all her spirit woke up suddenly:
And with her spirit, like a searching fire,
She threads anew the windings of the dance,
Interpreting the whole with magic art;
And throwing over the dumb pageantry
The mantle of her fancy; till the ear
Marvell'd that out of such a thing should spring
Food for the heart as well—a tale of joy
And tears.—And as her wonder-weaving words
Were lifted on the flood-tide of her voice,
And waved along the armed walls, and beat
The tall roof, and went forth into the night,
Some eyes were lit with rapture, some with wrath,
Some rain'd warm drops of pity. I stood apart,
As one who nevermore might hear the like;
And down beneath the dust of death would bear
That voice away with me, that it might ring
Through the starless midnight of dread Nought
A peal to wake Oblivion, echoing on
For ever and for ever! And I bow'd
My head upon my hands as one afraid;
And closed mine eyes, that, shutting out the light,
I might not miss one note of that sweet song
That was divine, and mystically phrased
To them who love not, but an oracle
From heart to heart of lovers; closed mine eyes,
That their cross sense should not offend mine ears,
Thro' which such magic sank into my soul,
As made all aspects and all motions else
Pale and delightless. When I raised my head
She was not there; ah! was it she indeed?
Or some immortal in a mortal form
Seen for a moment? Then I saw her pass
With noiseless speed adown the garden walk
Beyond the fountain; and her moonlit robe
Vanishing through a bowery arch that led
To odorous gloom, like a sad Muse, that shuns
All mortal voices ev'n of praise, and loves
Better to hear the echoes of her soul
In the lone nightingale's ecstatic song
Beneath the stars. Softly I followed her,
Half fearful; there she sat; her upward eyes
Catching the quivering moonbeams, as tho' they
Were throbbing pulses of that lord of night
That kindled all the shadows overhead,
Transform'd to tender lightnings; and I said—

THE PARTING OF ALCÆUS AND SAPPHO

IV

And, when the night was far advanced, the youths,
Ere parting, set beneath a niche apart
An upright lance, and cross'd it with another,
Whence hung two empty bowls at either end,
Much like to scales; and underneath they placed
Twin vessels brimm'd with water, in the midst
Whereof two brazen statues stood immerged.
The youths stood round intent upon their play,
Each with a cup of wine held in his hand,
To fling into the bowls suspended from
The cross-lance, that the weight might bear them down
To strike the statues on their heads of brass.
For in the pastime was an augury:
And he who threw his wine, and spilt it least,
And struck the bowl down on the head of brass
With the most force, was master of the game;
And he would reign unrivall'd in the heart
Of his beloved. So they sped their sport
With laughter, and with shouting: some had miss'd
Their mark, and all their wine was shed aside,
And stain'd the marble floor; some hit the edge,
And tilted up the bowl; some shook with mirth,
And cast the wine with so unsteady hand
That part was splash'd upon the robes of friends,
And part on their own sandals; one or two
Emptied their goblets with a better sight;
But not with force to make the head beneath
Ring to the bowl, and totter: last came he
Who own'd the omen most; he had no fear
That he should fail; and, if he fail'd, what then?
He had no fear: all his young heart was strong
In faith: was it not twofold, his and hers?
Laughing he poised his chalice, and he threw
With such sure aim that all the golden rain
Fell, without loss of one of its bright drops,
Right in the middle of the pendent bowl;
That lighting on the brazen head below
Made all the chamber echo to the clang,
The image totter'd, and the water waved,
And every voice gave “Victory!” with a shout!

V

And then I rose, and draining at a draught
A goblet brimm'd with bright Methymna wine,
Sang with a kindling eye, and hearty voice
My last new song, that mingled farewell sighs
With shouts of victory—clanging at every pause
A javelin on a shield—but, ere it ceased,
One in a whisper bade me turn and mark
An unexpected guest; and I sat fixed
Like chidden schoolboy by the sombre eye
And pale calm brows of Pittacus, who bending
With temper'd grace, and with a half-smile, said;
“Pardon me, Countrymen, if I make bold,
Now the symposium is o'er, to venture
Upon this feast of friends; for I was loath
To mar a merrymaking, and to jar
Your happy songs, and pleasant praise of wine,
An owl amid the summer nightingales.
Your wine is its own warrant; it hath heart
And body like a hero's; but the heart
Heroic needs it not; and in the coward's
It leaves a hollow like a raging fire,
That roars and leaves white ashes in its place.
Who shall be sure, that, when the wine is out,
The spirit shall be in? oh! noble acts
Not seldom lag after adventurous words,
And songs in praise of it; and wine and song
Have this in common, something that inspires,
And nothing that sustains: therefore the more,
Like two frail girls that clasp each other's waists,
Each staying each up the hillside, till both
Are stopt for lack of breath, or fall together.
And wine and song may symbolize each other.
Wine pour'd into the heart lifts up like song;
Song flowing from the heart exalts like wine.
And now for graver matter from the Troas.
Letters this day have reach'd us of much moment;
Proud Athens, like a kraken from the deep,
Is clutching with long arms the capes and isles,
Hungry for all Ionia; and bears down
Upon Sigeium with an armed host,
Led by one Phrynon, who hath won a crown
Sometime beneath Olympus at the games;
And like a little Agamemnon comes
To sweep into his net that famous shore,
And stamp his heel on our forefathers' dust.
I have a thought, to sweep him into mine.
I think that ye have known me from my youth;
No boaster I—unless this be a boast—
And, if I am, then let me pride myself
In boasting that I ever loved to shield
The weak against the proud.”—He turn'd and said—
“Alcæus!” and there play'd upon his lip
A dubious smile—“Alcæus! I have heard
Thee sing, and strike the strings to noble words;
And noble deeds are then most surely done,
When all the soul is drunk with sounds divine;
And now there shall be proof of me and thee.
For hark!” he said, and rose with lips comprest,
And forehead wrinkled with a sudden frown;
“Hearest thou not the tread of armed men?
'Tis Myrsilus himself; who, though he be,—
I shame to say it,—of my class the people,
Yet is the poor man's enemy, and the foe
Of all just men. What I am known to be
I may proclaim, without self-flatteries.
I am the friend of Honour, and the Gods,
And, being such, the foe of Myrsilus.
And, if thou and thy kin are of the nobles,
I'll sooner join thee in opposing him,
The adversary of order, and of man,
Than gain a doubtful triumph of mine own
By siding with him; and in winning lose
My self-approval, and uphold dishonour.
And Myrsilus inherits from his sire,
And grandsire, taints of falsehood: some remember
The latter with the hod upon his head
In the hot sun; and many a tale of bricks
He counted through the weary hours of noon;
And, had he done no more, he might have lived
And died forgotten, but without reproach.
But, as the snake first grovels in the dust,
Then springs, and bites, he pilfer'd from the stores
Of others; and by little and by little
Piled bricks enough to build himself a house;
Then bought a patch of land, and made a garden
Of potherbs; and, as still the city grew,
He sold it to the Archon; and so gain'd
Enough to buy a brickyard for himself:
Then from his kilns whole streets were builded up.
And at his death the father of this tyrant
Inherited wherewith to make them his.
Then avarice seized him, and he piled up gold
As once his sire had stones; and this his son
Now trowels gold, as his forefathers lime,
And wastes instead of spares. So Time brings round
The winter, spring, and summer; after that
The whole year flies away in wither'd leaves;
And that small seed of lies, sown early, breeds
The crop of crimes to be hereafter reap'd
In blood. And now, methinks, his hour is come;
The Gods have will'd it so, if ye be men!”