University of Virginia Library

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!”