University of Virginia Library

Then once more, to the wonder of us all,
That fisher, whom the guard had borne away,
Came back into our midst; and Myrsilus,
Whose mere astonishment broke through all fears;
“What! do I see thee yet again, old man;
Did I not bid them bind thee, bear thee off,
And chain thee?” “True,” he answer'd, “true, my lord;
But I remember now what I forgot—
Pardon the folly of a weak old man—
Thou gavest me the tablets and the ring.”—
“Then hand them back,” cried Myrsilus in wrath.
“Not so, my lord; saving this company,
I will read out the written characters.”—
“What! is it so, and I too knew it not?”
Mutter'd the tyrant to his secret soul;
“He reads, he reads my words!” And then aloud;
“Take him away; I tell ye he is mad.”
Truly it seem'd that fisherman had lost
The wavering reason that his woes had left;
He laugh'd a phrenzied laugh, he laugh'd aloud,
And for a moment all the multitude
Stood open-mouth'd with awe. Then, swift as sight,
He cast off from him the unsightly cap,
And sheepskin, his white hair, and hoary beard,
And stood forth there, the dark-eyed Pittacus.
A moment there was silence, and he said;
“I have thrown off the mask, O Myrsilus;
And now I counsel thee to do the same.
Unmask thee, masker; be for once a man;
And show thyself for what I know thou art,
A murderer; now let thy face put on
The image of thine heart! shift off the load
Of lies, and rise up evil as thou art!
Be what thou art, not seem what thou art not.
That change from twilight into blackest night
Will make thee grand by contrast; let the fox
Turn on the dogs, and, though he be a villain,
That moment makes him equal with his foes.
Oh! ape no more the march of majesty;
Nor mock the voice of Law; nor noble scorns
That burst from honest lips; oh! own thyself
A man the foe of men, a cheat, a traitor,
A public scourge for one who wields the strength,
That should subdue the strong, to crush the weak.
This bloody act is thine, as I shall show.
An ill which heap'd upon a thousand ills
Shall weigh thee down to Hell! this ancient house
Is guiltless of the innocent blood that cries
To heaven and earth for vengeance! O my friends,
'Tis not in birth, or customary honours,
Or in their opposites, that men may live
Stainless of sin; the rich man slays the rich,
The poor the poor, and rich and poor each other.
Cast envy from your hearts, and judge this man,
Ye poor, as though he were a fellow-worker,
As once his kin were; better were he now.
Ye rich, remember not that he hath wealth
And power, and honours; we are here as men,
With hearts that tremble to the selfsame motions.
And, being of the people, not in vain,
Not without reason, do I raise my voice
For these, tho' they be nobles. O my friends;
I think men know me for the friend of truth,
And justice; even more a friend of those
Than to the people; I may then be heard
Without suspicion; this I testify,
That I too, by the help of Nemesis,
Was present with mine ears at this man's counsels.
I think ye can divine without more words,
My friends, who is the horseman that escaped.
First, to the city after the affray
That horseman came not; but reenter'd then
His house upon the hill, whose terraced front
O'erhangs the hollow way, full well I know.
One day I rested in a hamlet nigh
Where the slain youth had dwelt, where now laments
His childless weeping mother all alone.
Late the same night the evil deed was done,
I was returning from an upland farm,
Whither, as is my wont, I had repair'd
On household matters, with my slave behind me.
It chanced that, being aweary of our walk,
We sat awhile to rest us by the way
On a stone seat hard by a spring, that gush'd
Under a marble arch within the wall.
Here, while we sat in darkness, tongues were heard
Of some in converse on the other side,
Where was a pillar'd terrace that o'erhung
The hollow way below; and whether 'twas
The stillness of the hour, or echo flung
Back from the arch we knew not; but the words,
Though whisper'd, fell distinctly on the sense
As though they were outspoken; and one said:
‘Here may we safely commune; for, thank heaven,
Night hath no ears, and her ten thousand eyes
Pierce not the dark; I trust not my own walls,
And fear my slaves be watching; oh there's nought
Like the deep, still, and irresponsive air,
For drowning secrets, as the ocean drinks
The babbling rills. My purpose I have fix'd;
They spoil'd my sport, and I am not myself,
If I do not avenge me.—Vengeance, vengeance
Is justice to myself! I know them too;
Altho' the dusk hour hid their faces from me:
I heard their names spoken to one another,
Alcæus, Citharus, Antimenidas,
Ev'n as they snatch'd the damsel from my arms.
And for the fisher's daughter they have won
They shall lose one still fairer; I will seize
The bride of Citharus newly-wed, and charge him
With my own deed; for if I am not foremost
In laying it to him, there may be peril
From chances unforeseen unto myself.
Such must not be; meanwhile it shall be known
In all the land, Alcæus, and his brothers
Have done this thing; doubt not I will have vengeance,
O night, for unto thee alone we speak.'
Then paused they in their work, and laugh'd aloud.
And under shelter of it I pass'd off,
And out of hearing; and again, it chanced,
That in that interval came by the way
Other three toward the city—in the gloom
Their forms were scarce discern'd—but their own tongues
Quickly made known they were the very men
Whose names were utter'd by the whispering voice
Upon the terrace overhead; they stood
A space; one pluck'd the other by the robe,
Gazing into the deep night without fear,
And said, ‘A strange night's work, O brother, this;
A bridal turn'd into a funeral;
A young bride rescued, and a bridegroom slain.
Alcœus, we have left undone a deed
Whose lack outweighs all good that we have done.
The girl is safe, the boy will speak no more;
The horseman is escaped, and we did ill
To spare his accursed life!’

Once more, my friends,
Give ear; have patience while I tell ye all.
The second day about the second hour
After the sunset, ere the moon was up,
About a furlong from the city gate,
We met this woeful fisherman, and he said;
‘I have seen Myrsilus; he hath given me hope
Of justice, ay, of vengeance, which shall fall
Upon the murderers of my only child,
This very night; he bade me to return
In twenty minutes, ere the moon was up;
For he had need of me in some grave matter.
But I am weary, and my heart is faint.
I fear to take upon me his behest,
Lest my wits wander; then I must go back
Quickly, and bear the answer; I am worn
With grief, and haply may forget it all.’
‘Be of good courage, O my friend,’ I said;
‘And give me now thy sheepskin, and thy cap,
And take mine, and this mantle; and bide me here
Yet for a little while; and whatsoe'er
He bids me do that will I do for thee.’
And so he gave me them. Then I withdrew;
And in the shadows, ere the moon was up,
I gain'd the portal of the council-chamber,
And spoke the doorkeeper, and he went in.
I heard him say, ‘A fisher stands without
Waiting thy bidding.’ Myrsilus arose,
And came with hurried step into the night;
And look'd as one whose outer sense is blind,
Because the inner eye is turn'd on thoughts
So all-possessing, that the Actual
Is hid as in a dream. He look'd on me,
And knew me not; the wandering of his mind
Help'd out the shadows of the portico
That made my aspect doubtful, as he spoke
With hurried breath, ‘Take these,’ and gave me then
A packet, and a ring for token of him,
To bear to a great palace past the walls
And western gate; and, as he turned away,
He waved his hand, and cried, ‘Haste with all speed,
I may not tarry with thee, and come back
Quickly, and bear the answer to me here.’
I hasten'd thro' the dark, and found a nook,
Where hung a little lamp beside a shrine—
For the moon was not yet—that gave me light
To read the writing, and the answer to it;
Which, friends and countrymen, I pray ye hear.
‘My friend, I send thee this by a blind man;
For such a fool as reads not hath no eyes.
Give heed unto it; for the game we play
Is chancey as a die; and, if I fall,
Thou, and the rest will follow, and our doom
Is death, or banishment; so we must throw
Another cast for life, and its delights.
I tell thee this, that thou mayst hasten thee,
Ere evil come, to gather all our friends,
And meet the worst within the city walls!
So to withstand the craft of Pittacus
Betimes, who is, I fear me, hatching treason.
Haply thou wilt say, ‘Why not forgo
Thy purpose?’ Oh dream not that I will lose
My vengeance, if I lose not throne and life.—
For vengeance, and security are one—
And it is dear to me, and shall not fail,
If your tongue, skill, and prowess fail me not.
So be thou present with a chosen band
Ere midnight, station'd on the garden side
Of the house of Caicus, beneath the wall;
And at my signal rise and enter in;
So they shall be taken, as hunted beasts,
None shall escape me; if I crush the heads
O' the serpents, their long bodies will but writhe
And die; and now the time, or all is lost.
So, when I blow a trumpet from within,
Know it to be my call, and scale the wall.’
My friends, if I may make a little boast,
I have some little skill in counterfeit.
And from my boyhood I could mock with ease
The voices, and the gestures of my friends,
The written characters of other men,
Judging that thro' the selfsame outward forms
I could behold something of their within.
So, having read the tablet, on my own
I wrote in the known hand of Myrsilus,
Not that ye heard this moment, but my words
Which he shall hear—‘O Sir, I write in haste.
The isle is stirr'd because of our misdeed
Yest'reven; fly, while there is room; for know
That Pittacus hath gain'd the soldiery,
And blown into a flame the public wrath
By windy wording of a private grief.
Such aid as thou and all thy men might bring
Would be as nought; but fly to the mainland,
And join the cohort that awaits thee there,
And seek a hiding place for me and thee.’
Thus having writ, I hasten'd to the gate,
And knock'd; and from the shadows stretch'd my hand,
Delivering up the writing to the slave,
Who bore it to his master; who came forth
Suddenly, silently, and smote his brow,
And without speech or sign gave back the ring,
And shut the gate, and barr'd, and bolted it.
Then wrote I on my tablets a reply
As from my lord, and thus—‘Sire, thy behests
I have received together with the ring,
Which, with this answer, in a linen cloth
For better surety I have folded up.
Fear not that I will fail thee; I counsel too,
For sake of caution, double not thy guard;
Lest any should divine the deeper scheme
That masks behind this byplay—to seize on
The chiefs of the old faction hostile to us—
And so some might escape thee, and make off,
And bring together faithful followers;
And 'mid the turmoil of the gathering war
The bold might dare to jostle thee aside,
And step into thy place, as thieves break through
On stormy nights; for I myself will lead
An armed cohort ready for the war;
And hold their palace on the garden side
While thou art nearing by the city way.’
So I return'd unto the council-chamber,
And knock'd, and gave the writing to the guard;
Who bore it in to Myrsilus, who rose
From among the Elders, and I heard him say,
‘Who is the messenger?’ The answer too,
‘'Tis a poor fisherman in sheepskin clad,
With russet cap torn something at the edge.’
‘'Tis well,’ said Myrsilus, ‘let him depart.’
The lamplight from the inner hall shot forth
Into the night, and show'd the woollen cloak,
And russet cap torn somewhat at the edge:
And then I hasted back into the night.
And now, in very proofs of all my words,
See. here the leaf out of his tablets torn
Scrawl'd in his lawless character; see here
His signet-ring which I have held till now.
And once again see here the dagger dropt
Out of the tyrant's hand that evil night,
Which the three brothers in their homeward way
Found glittering in the moonlight: these may serve
To bring home to a ruler and a judge
The bloody guilt he would adjudge to others;
And leave him to be judged by all men here.”
“And yet”—the brothers spoke with one consent
Advancing to the side of Pittacus—
“And yet these tokens are not proof to us
More than the surety of our hearts and eyes.
O tyrant, dost thou think we knew thee not,
Tho' muffled in thy mantle, and thy voice
Carefully hush'd? We saw that cruel eye
Burning with evil; we were near at hand
Behind the young man as he strove against thee,
Yet not so near as to give aid to him.
And, had it not been for a coward's arm,
While rescuing his love he would have slain thee,
Maugre this dagger with its golden haft
Studded with gems.” Then Pittacus again—
“We have borne patiently the guileful arts
Of this rare mummer; but the web of lies,
That he hath ravell'd with a hellish craft
To net the innocent, hath snared himself,
A man whom foolish men have lifted up
By strength of folly o'er their naked heads,
That he might make them anvils for his hammer.
O tyrant, hear not me but thine own soul,
The sleepless witness that within thee burns
Like Ætna, ere thou diest, as thou must,
Judged righteously by thine own judgment, dealt
Unrighteously to guiltless men. I charge thee,
Tell one truth ere thou diest, that thou wert born
A liar, and a liar thou hast lived.
And then the sword that waves above thy head
Shall fall upon it; but, ere that be done,
I bid thee in the name of all good men
To come down from the throne; what doest thou there?”
“My will,” he shouted; and the marble walls
Flung back his last word from its shields and helms;
And judgment fell upon him, not from man,
Nor sword, nor spear, but from the Gods themselves.
And with his eyes on fire he started up,
As tho' to combat with his single strength
The whole assembly; and his arm was raised
As tho' to lighten on them; then it fell,
The glaring eyes grew fix'd, his tongue was stay'd.
For lo! from forth the shadows where it hid,
A sudden spectre clad in funeral white
Made one step forward; and with lifted hand
And pointed finger shriek'd, “He is the man!”
Then strode into the middle of the hall,
Thro' men aghast with awe, they knew not why.
And Myrsilus, who deem'd that she was dead,
Thought that he saw her spirit come for him.
And, from his high place on the cloth of gold,
Prone, as a blinded Polypheme, he roll'd,
And from his mouth his lava-flood of life
Stream'd o'er the marble floor; and his black locks
Flow'd o'er his nerveless arm, and mingled with it.
And that which had been rumour'd now befell.
For when she saw the justice of the Gods,
And the fall'n tyrant, like the tallest pine,
By lightning crazed, she for a moment turn'd
Her blue eyes upward, and with folded palms
Stood, as a peerless image, and then fell.
For mingling passions, like confused streams
Master'd her tender life, a too frail bark
Caught by a whirlpool, till it disappear'd.
So lay the guileless victim, side by side
With her tormentor; he forthwith to pass
To his own place amid the evil ghosts;
She to leave far behind the woeful earth,
Whence, lovely flower, she sprang, but to be dash'd
Earthward again by cruel winds, ere Time
Spread forth her leaves, to shed new life around.
And by the Elysian tuneful springs she lies,
In fadeless paradises of the blest,
With him she loved, not dead; but gone before,
To lay for her beside those waters clear
Green plots alive with songs of happy birds,
And kiss'd with golden air of hopeful dawns,
And the sweet souls of ever-changing flowers.