University of Virginia Library

Nigh twenty years had the Messenian folk
Striven to free them from the Spartan yoke,
And fought in godlike wise, yet all in vain;
For as bright days amid the year's sure wane
At end of autumn had their victories been,
And 'twixt the bay boughs had their wise ones seen
The shadow of the end a-drawing nigh:
After each battle won must they ask why
Their fields grew narrower: helpful man on man
Failed from their triumph: ably plotted plan,
Great hearted strenuous stroke, mere winds and waves
Made nought before their foemen; their own graves
Their own swords dug; in their most glorious fields
The foes, once beaten, hung their fallen shields;
For ever in this woefullest of wars
Against them in their courses fought the stars.

So is Messenia now a Spartan farm;
Scarce are their men indeed grudged lying warm
In winter, or the shade in summer days,
Or corn or wine, so that their hands may raise
Fat crops to block the Spartan market-place;
Their women surely may grow fair of face
And delicate of limb that they may be
Well praised by men fresh come from over sea
When in the Spartan feast they pour the wine;
Their craftsmen still may fashion ivory fine
And unstained marble into Gods, to stand
With Spartan bay leaves decking head and hand;
Their poets yet in thin sweet voice may sing,
So they will quite forget the axes' ring
Amidst the battle-song: nay sometimes still
Their men-at-arms may show their wonted skill
Amid the Spartan spears—'gainst Spartan foes,
Where nought there is to gain and all to lose.

Ah evil days! for surely may ye wot
That such as erewhile had cast in their lot
With King Aristodemus, Euphaes,
Damis, all dead and deathless memories,
In joys of slaves would have but small delight.
For them no morn of May was e'er so bright,
No eve of June so soft, that they forgat
Oaths sworn long time agone, while their king sat
Smiling with hope of battle, in his tent,
Whereto the fresh wind, laden with [the] scent
Of trodden grass, bore with it therewithal
The tumult of the far off foeman's call:
For them all eyes of women seemed grown sad,
All songs within them a lamenting had,
All children's glee reproached them with the day
When these too needs must learn what weight there lay
Upon all life in that sad land of theirs.

So passed over the land the heavy years,
Wherein none looked on daughter or fair wife
With any joy, and none but fools deemed life
To have much hope in it; but ye must know
That there were some who bode not the last blow
But fled away when hope was quite outworn;
One house amid these, ere the folk forlorn
And leaderless and 'wildered at the last
Ithome's war-beat gates wide open cast,
Since fate compelled them not to bide the end,
Into Arcadia made a shift to wend,
Since in that land dwelt others of their kin;
So they were counted worthy folk therein,
And there in honour did their old folk die,
Their young folk grow to eld, while longingly
They thought and told of the great hapless war.
Amid these days of restlessness and care,
Twenty-three years after Ithome's fall,
Unto the exiles latest wed of all
A child was born named Aristomenes,
Who grew up little caring folk to please
And little loved of all; dull in the school,
Careless but rough in boys' games, half a fool
Half dangerous folk deemed him; as he grew
Amid the fellowship of those poor few
Sons of the exiles of Ithome, they
Would mock him often, and yet day by day
Grew more to fear, casting, all the same,
Upon his shoulders more than half the blame
Of their wild deeds; for certes most of these
In that fair land were as a north-east breeze
Amid a poppy-field—so oft enow
He learned that birch twigs in Arcadia grow
Nor heeded much the knowledge: for the rest
Not over big he was, but deep of chest,
Long-armed beyond most lads, swift-foot and light,
Well-knit and lithe, full-lipped, with eyen bright
And grey as a hawk's; and ever would he be
In his attire rough and slovenly;
Silent he was and patient of all jeers
And hating feasts. So unto nineteen years
Did he attain, still deemed of all, as one
By whom would nought of any note be done;
For no least deed e'en of their rioting
Had he once led, or counselled anything;
Though he had oft been trusty instrument
To carry out some pushing fool's intent.

Now at this tide oft whiles would it befall
That these same youths would cross the mountain wall
Into Ætolia and thenceforth would take
Such things as folk not too much moan would make
Over the loss of; but on such-like days
Would Aristomenes no least voice raise
For or against; whiles would he seem to lack
Courage indeed, yea and would oft hold back
When there was most to do. Of this it came
That of these deeds was somewhat too much fame,
And for a while it scarce was good to bide
At the city for these youths, who wandering wide
Fared so that at the last it fell, their way
By the head-waters of Alpheus lay,
And high amid the goat-browsed hills they were
Mid which the homesteads were but small and rare.
So on a night with certain shepherd-folk
They guested, and arising when day broke
Fell to their food in glee: nineteen of these
Messenian youths with Aristomenes
And four Arcadian shepherds—ye may wot
That every one of them some arms had got
And were rough players for their years; sixteen
Of summers had the youngest of them seen,
The eldest three and twenty.

Now they fell
To asking these same shepherd-folk to tell
About the land south of the mountain ridge,
Where goat and thorn-bush looked like fly and midge
From the rough vale wherein they breakfasted.
Laconia lay beyond, the shepherds said,
The springs of the Eurotas rose up there
On the other side; a country good and fair
For folk, they said, and grinned, if only one
Were sprung from Hercules of yore agone.

All laughed thereat save Aristomenes,
Who by the porridge-pot was on his knees,
The steam wherefrom now well nigh hid his face.
But presently he rose up in his place,
Stammering and blushing e'en as he would speak
But found the words a long way off to seek:

“Lo I have heard,” quoth he, “my grandsire tell,
How these folk, these same thieves upon him fell
And had away ten horses from his field,
And from his house nine brass bowls, a gilt shield
Given to Pallas, and two handmaids fair:
Too many years agone to find them there
Did that befall; yet since we needs this tide
Must be away from our own country side,
Good pastime should I find it for my part
To bring him somewhat thence to glad his heart
Instead of these when we go back again:
Then might he deem he had not lived in vain,
If I—if his son's son should grow to be
All unafraid the light of spears to see.”

Loud they laughed out; his grandsire, sooth to say,
Had been but doting for this many a day,
Remembering nought that in his time went on,
Forgetting nought of old fields lost and won:
So they were merry, mocking him a while
Who paid no heed a space, but with a smile
And grey eyes staring dreamily, looked out
Onto the misty mountain; till at last
As they beheld him, o'er them all was cast
A sense of something going to befall,
Nor did they laugh more, when around on all
He turned, and in their midst three paces made,
And in a changed voice grave and solemn said:
“Ye laugh; but I shall laugh not till it comes,
The day that sees us in our ancient homes,
Or till I am a-dying; if ye deem
My grandsire dozes through a wavering dream
Yet has he held the sword, and good methinks
It is for one who into grey eld sinks
To mind the great life that has passed away
Rather than little matters of today,
When we, being smitten, durst not e'en cry out.”

They looked at one another as in doubt
If this were even he, Aristomenes,
And their hearts swelled; for few amidst of these
Knew aught of fear, only too far away
And great had Sparta seemed until today.
And therewithal he spake again and said:

“A fool ye deem me, and my words ill-weighed,
And the life good enow ye live in yet:
So may it be, and ye may well forget
If so ye will, for life lasts no great while
Nor will it skill if we lived base or vile,
Once we are dead: but are ye then so safe?
What if the Spartans one day 'gin to chafe
At this small heart of the old land living free,
Or seeming free, anigh them? Certainly
Ye are not soft or tame, well ye wot
If the Arcadians love you much or not,
Or if they fear Laconia: sooth to say
Our friends' spears even now may block the way
Behind us; at the worst of all, a space
Of merry days shall pass ere Sparta raise
Her force against us—nay now, I behold
No faint-hearts here but sturdy men and bold,
And my heart tells me whatso comes at last
That many an hour in fair hope shall be past,
And many an eve of victory shall we know;
And many a time our mere names whispered low
Down in wind-gathering hollows of the hills
Shall quell our foes, e'en as the thunder stills
The babble of the summer afternoon—
O fair Gods, lead us unto battle soon!”

He felt their gathering voices as he went
With great strides leading o'er the heathery bent,
Sword clashing against shield, till suddenly
Their shout went echoing up the valley high
Beat back from hill to hill as they arose
As men the God drives blind against their foes,
And recking nought, swift followed after him,
Watched by the shepherds till they grew all dim
In shifting haze of morning; to their sheep,
Their well-known day of toil, their dreamless sleep
These turned, half scornful, yet half longing still
For something more their empty lives to fill.

On toiled the sons of the exiles up the steep,
And early that same night were laid to sleep
Far down the southern slope; then with the day
Rose up and gazed adown, and there it lay,
The land that bred their tyrants; homestead fair,
Pasture and wood and cornland gathered there
About the hid Eurotas: orderly
And rich seemed all; and these were young to die,
Yet young to think of dying or of fear,
Or what the slow revenge of time might bear.

So downward went the youths, till the slopes grew
Wooded and tilled, and here and there a few
Of early-stirring folk they met, who fled
As though Arcadian hill-thieves they did dread;
But none made question to them, till at noon,
They passed an oak-wood heavy with the June,
And came upon a great man's house, whereby
There stood the shrine of some divinity:
Plenteous the place was, orchard, garden-close,
Rick-yard and barn spread round, and high o'er those
The pillared house, through whose court-gates flung wide
Came sound of folk at meal in hot noontide.
Great looked the place and lordly, the young men
Gazed each on each, and certainly by then
The morn's vague rashness had grown somewhat dull;
Poor seemed they in a place so plentiful,
Beardless and light-limbed by the ponderous gate.
But in their leader did the heart wax great,
Fair visions passed before him, as he said,
Like one who knew their thoughts:

“Let nought be weighed,
But all be dared today!—time later on,
When with the Gods' help great things we have won
Will we be wise: not hard now to be brave,
For in each Spartan house good friends we have,
If not our kin, yet foes of our kin's foes;
And this shall be no woeful day to those—
Men torn from home and fair life, having nought
Save the one hope to vengeance to be brought.
No words, but follow swift unto the hall!”

Into the court they passed then; down did fall
The brazen jar from off a maiden's head,
And flashed in the hot sun; a boy who led
A horse from hall to stable stopped and stared,
And durst not flee, while restless, unafeared,
The lustred doves before their swift feet brushed,
The peacock 'twixt the close-set yew-stems pushed;
Nought looked like war, as all doors round about
The band beset. But tumult and great doubt
Rose in the hall, when in the doorway there
Stood Aristomenes, his golden hair
Bright with the sun, and through the locks of it
Might men behold the noonday sunbeams flit
From spear to spear behind; great fear fell then
Upon those half-armed and unwary men;
Till over all his loud clear voice was heard.

“Men in this hall, be ye no more afeard
Than if the Gods, who sent us here, were come!
Behold, we have a will to get us home
Unto Messenia; from the Arcadian land
We come last, bearing little wealth in hand,
For ye Laconian folk our stewards are made
This many a year: so when ye down have laid
The increase of our own store, harmless we
Will go our ways; who yet this side the sea,
Yea in our fathers' fields, have mind to dwell;
Moreover on this day methinks 'twere well,
If here abide perchance folk of our kin,
Or strangers, who have found it hard to win
From out this house, that with this company
They now should wend more fields of Greece to see.
—Nay let your weapons be!—we are enough
To slay all here, if once the play wax rough;
Take life, and meet us on another day!
And whoso goeth to Sparta, let him say
That Aristomenes his eyes have seen,
Wending his way to what of old hath been
A happy land, that either he may live
Some joy to folk down-trodden there to give,
Or at the least die not without good fame!
—Now, master of this house, speak forth thy name,
And once more, if here be Messenian folk
Or strangers bowed down 'neath the Spartan yoke,
Now let them come with us, either to die
As the Gods meant them, or live happily!”

A sullen hush, mid scowl of angry brows
And clenching of hard hands; and then uprose
Glad clamour from the many bondmen there,
'Gainst whom the Spartans not a stroke might dare;
Then spake the master of the house:

“O youth,
Beardless, unknown thou art; and yet in sooth
One good day hast thou won in thy life-days,
While I, Cleombrotus, must lose the praise
That once I had, of being victorious—
—But you, scourged slaves, get forth from this my house
Where no more meat ye gorge from this day forth.
Dogs bought with money! beasts of little worth,
Dragged from our fee-farm of Messenia, go,
Lest ye tomorn the stocks and whip-cord know!—
—Take them, bold youth, and blame thyself, when they
From the first clash of steel shall flee away.
But for my wealth, if thou indeed take all
Thou takest not more than the Gods one day shall;
Lo thou, my daughter! wilt thou take her then?
One day I deem she shall bear warlike men
To fail at last, and come to misery!”

And as he spake he drew forth from his knee
A growing maiden, some twelve winters old,
Who with great eyes the stranger did behold,
Trembling, and clinging to her father's knees,
Who smiled upon her. Aristomenes
Would fain have spoken, and a threatening sound
Rose from the slaves who gathered close around;
But the lord cried:

“Thou hast begun a war
Knowing but little who thy foemen are;
And if thou thinkest thou hast gained great things
This day from me, the seed and friend of kings,
Yet shalt thou think ere thou hast gained the end
How many joys thou from the world didst send,
—My joy the first, and thine perchance the last.”
Therewith back to the wall behind he cast
His right hand suddenly, and caught adown
A hunting-knife, thin-bladed, sharp and brown,
And to his own heart thrust it with sure stroke,
And fell down dead and silent; from the folk
A mingled murmur rose, and pale and wan
The little one stood gazing on the man
Greater than was the greatest man she knew.
But Aristomenes unto him drew,
Smiling, but pale and somewhat sick at heart,
And said:

“In brave wise has he played his part,
Yet better had he lived to hinder ours!
But go, ye freed Messenians, to the bowers
Where arms are stored, and raiment and good grain,
And gather from the home-fields the best gain
Of neat and sheep and horses, nor delay
Our setting forth three hours; because this day
I fain would tread on the Messenian soil.
But here shall sit these Spartans free from toil
Till we are on our way.”

So here and there
Ransacked the slaves just freed, of whom there were
Some thirty men, but the Messenians stayed
Guarding the sullen home-folk: the young maid
Stood by her mother and some women, late
Come from their chambers in most sad estate,
And she wept too; but mid her sobs, no less
Gazed on the strange and new-born stateliness
Of the rough-clad Messenian, as he passed
To and fro through the hall.

And so at last
In the very hottest of that day of June,
While the great brazen trumpet's clattering tune
And clash of arms broke through the drowsy hum
Of scarce-seen things of summer, did they come
Into the courtyard, armed now gloriously,
All save their leader; therewith could they see
Out in the highway waggons tilted o'er,
The victuals and the goodly things that bore,
And further on steeds, sheep and lowing neat.
Forth went they joyous; yet with lingering feet
Out of the hall passed Aristomenes
Half sad at heart, the very last of these,
And as he passed the sun-scorched threshold o'er
Still were the maiden's eyes upon the door,
And she forgat to weep till he was gone.

Bright on the temple now the hot sun shone
As through the gates the little army went;
And Aristomenes with fresh intent
Cried out to halt, and asked one of the stead
Who dwelt therein; who with a glad face said
It was the God of War; then did they take
A black bull for the hopeful omen's sake,
And as they might they sacrificed him there.
Well dight the pillared shrine was, and most fair;
And just before the image of the God
There hung upon a fair-wrought brazen rod
A goodly helm bedight with silver wings,
A mail-coat wrought as for the best of kings,
And a great shield, thereon an eagle made
Whose wings outspread the golden ground did shade.
Then told a homeman how these arms were won
At Stenyclerus in the days agone,
In that last fight when the Messenians broke
And fled away a feeble hopeless folk.
So therewithal cried Aristomenes:

“O thou great God, if thou wilt give me these,
Somewhat I deem I yet may give to thee;
Yet will I wear them not, until I see
My foemen's backs, when sevenfold more than mine
I count them.”

Either the June sun did shine
Brighter than erst, or else the altar fire
Red flickering in the white sun shot up higher,
Or Ares' face gleamed, answering the face
Of Aristomenes, who from its place
Took down that gear, and bore it to a wain
And cast it in. Then sang the horn again,
Men leaped to saddle, creaked the wain-wheels, lowed
The sullen herd, and from the thirsty road
Into the green trees rolled the cloud of dust
As westward went that handful, in fair trust
Of Aristomenes, new breathed upon
By that old spirit that great fields had won—
—And he in trust that Fate would make no end
Till o'er the world some tale his name should send.