University of Virginia Library

But war was hurtling in the peaceful air
That shone down on their wreaths, and bridal vests
And merrymakings; and an eager host
Was gathering, and the foremost men made haste
To cleanse the rusty stains from helm, and shield
And cherish'd sword: and I too, shut within
My place of arms, a hall of marbles wrought
With skill of primest art, and hung around
High as the roof with trophies of old feuds
And wars in times of the primeval kings,
Made ready. If the world in which I am,
This glad new world of hope, and endless life,
This spirit-land, whither all mortals flow,
And ye must follow into higher state,
Had not begotten in me other strength,
And passions, other than all earthly moods,
How could I venture to remember now
What was my deepest shame; my flight in war,
My back turn'd to the javelins of the foe,
My shield cast from me, and my broken sword?
But, as a traveller in a mountain-land
Stands wondering at the Morn that hath not dawn'd
Yet in the valleys—hush'd the winds, serene
The sun-illumin'd summit—but at times
The towers of the dim city far below
Are half revealed to his down-gazing eye,
Its voices soften'd to a sound like sighs,
We doubt if such things were, or are but dreams.
And in the Past, the memory of our Prime,
Seen from the light of our immortal years,
Shines like a phantasm with an eerie light,
Rather than real; and we see ourselves
In the fresh strength of youth, and wing'd with hopes;
As though we look'd upon a pictured thing
With hues and forms imagined more than true.
And we can mock the passions that we felt,
And coldly handle burning fire; and try
By sharpest instruments, and strictest measures
Our cherish'd purposes, and lawless wills,
Unruly as the lion of the wild
With sinews knit for onset. Else in vain
Should I essay to drag up into light
That prideful morn that went before my shame;
When I was arming in my house, and thou
O Melanippus, who art with me here,
In answer to the farewell song I sent thee
Didst enter with a song; and with thee came
Thy brothers; and behind, the sunny head
Of Atthis, with young violets in her robe
That fill'd the place with sweetness. There I stood,
My choicest helm just set on my young locks,
That then were dark as Pluto's when he rose
Up thro' the flowers of Enna; and was musing
In pleasant hesitation on those walls
Hung with my polish'd treasures, which I loved
To look on better than a golden lyre;
And in my folly rather cared to hear
The iron echoes of the clashing arms
Tost from the roof and marbles of the hall,
Than the best music drawn from silver strings;
Than voices lauding at a feast of friends;
Than mine own songs borne to my idle ear
From tongues of strangers, and who knew me not.
I laugh to think of it; how there I stood
In love with Death, with every pulse alive;
As one may wait with folded arms, and watch
The hush'd and harmless lightnings broidering
The cloudy mantle of a summer night,
Ere yet the storm awakens. There were swords
Glancing back to me many a morning sun,
Or bloodred once again in evening glow,
That had been jagg'd in battle; casques, and shields,
And aged corselets, whence the bloody rust
Of days of action, and of nights of brawl,
Was scour'd away, until as fresh as new
They shone, save dints and scrawls, that I had seen
So long, so lovingly, that I myself
Grew vain of those sad tokens, and half thought
That I had done the deeds. And that same thought
Was not all vanity, but, like a husk,
It hid the kernel of a valiant heart,
That has been tried since then. But I forget
That I am bound to tell of my dishonour;
And this I do with unimpassion'd heart,
As one from a far sunlit mountaintop
May look down on the tempests, and may hear them.
Well—as the red leaves of a full-blown rose,
Hid in the white folds of a virgin's robe,
Caught by a brisk wind from the sea, flit off,
The laughter and the voices scatter'd all
My fond imaginations; but they fell
Upon the sharp thorns of their cruel mirth.
“Look here is our Achilles, who was wont
To make his voice a treble for our sakes
While singing with the girls; and lo! at last,
Tired of our pastimes, he would be a man,
And change at last the distaff to a spear;
Come, let us help him to put on his arms.
O sweet, softspoken Pyrrha, who, beneath
Thy girlish garb, hast great Pelides' soul,
O tender-hearted Pyrrha, pine no more.(1)
Put not thy faith in rhythms of love and peace,
Tho' many-footed, as a bridal dance
Timing a soft epithalamial air;
But be content with two feet and a march.”
“Fail not to hang thy harp upon thy back;”
Another cried 'twixt laughter and disdain,
“Like a true minstrel; and so it may chance
That in thy flight an arrow may be turn'd.”
“Ha! ha!” said Atthis, “get that helmet shaped
Into a drinking vessel ere thou part,
And of thy stylus make a lance's head;
So it may drive into some tender heart
Thy dreaming spirit, and so lull to sleep
Thine adversary like a poppy-head.”
“What have we here? a song as I'm alive—
A merry drinking song—hark! how it runs—
And thou hast drunk at morn, and noon, and even:
Not in the sun, but in the blissful shade
Of the broad leaves of yon full-clustering vine,
That sheds soft twilight all the summer long
Upon the sidewalk of the garden there.
Thy great deeds ever follow'd on thy cups,
Which follow'd in their turn; what were those deeds
But a new song in honour of the same?”
And then they took three spears down from the wall,
And, leaning them together, at the top
They set a helmet; and beneath it threw
A crimson mantle, till it look'd from far
Most high-heroical; again they laugh'd;
And round about it join'd their hands, and sang
A Pyrrhic measure; and they bad it dance,
And flung ripe cherries at it, till it stream'd
With their sweet blood, and look'd like Ares' self,
Dreadful to see, impossible to die!
Well—“Girls may flout us for we cannot fight them,”
At last I cried half anger'd; for their scorn
Jarr'd both my self-love, and my sadder mood;
There's nought so cruel as a merry maid;
Solid with solid measures, force with force;
Mad boys will ride a horse to death, and find
Diversion in destruction; flay live eels;
Stick gilded flies on pins; and do to death
Strengths less than theirs; but Mockery is a maid;
Oh! strengthless beauty loves to wound the spirit!
And in her wanton humours talks as though
Her heart were but a bubble fill'd with wind;
Or thistlehead borne by the winds away;
Or, as an infant with a bunch of flowers
Will take delight to shed them leaf by leaf,
Will pluck out pity in their thirst for power.
But when I turn'd to look on thee, my Sappho,
I saw thee bending o'er that song of mine;
Thy lips were smiling, but thy soft deep eyes
Were dim with tears; and with that sympathy
I felt me comforted, as tho' thy hand
Were laid upon my heart, and thou couldst hear
Its eddying motions beating on each other,
Loves, prides, ambitions, hopes, regrets; and most
That apprehension, like a frore wind, searching
The crevices between, that I perchance
Might no more see those whom I daily saw,
Never more hear the voices that I loved,
Thine more than all; and if I knew that they,
Whose quenchless mirth was as a fire of thorns;
Whose life, untried of any sorrow yet,
Fear'd Death no more, than do the waving flowers
The hands that gather them; that they would mourn me,
Struck down in a far land; Oh! when I knew
That many a fair girl brave in her delight
Remembering me her lost and early friend,
Would shrink from that first sorrow, faint, unarm'd,
And weaker than the wounded heart of age,
The while it prest down all rebellious pride,
Left me as helpless as a weary child,
Whose angers burst in tears; I follow'd her
Into the garden, and I yearned unto her;
The light fell softly thro' the vines, and knit
Gold threads with her dark hair; but she look'd back
Once only, and with a pale unearthly smile
She waved me from her, as though it were in vain
To weave sweet words, and play with pleasant dreams,
While the red cloud was looming o'er the land;
And by to-morrow morn men should forget
All but the one great thought that they are men;
I turn'd away, and sought the house with sighs.