University of Virginia Library

I

The winds are sleeping on the Lesbian bays;
And scarce the silver of the tideless sea
Lisps on the golden sands. A morn of Spring,
Ægean May, such as we dream of now,
Trembled in light and music o'er the land;
And melted into sunshine every cloud
That peep'd across the azure deep, or plumed
The mountain crests. The little isles are drown'd
In gleamy haze, that after noon shall paint
Their beauty on the waters; shores that shine
With cities, breezy headlands crown'd with towers;
But nearer the still purple of the deep
Pictured with all their hues the garden bowers
Glooming above the carven terraces,
Whose leaves blown back by the soft ocean breath
Softly returned. On sunny roofs were ranged
Many a fair pictured vase, and marble urn,
Burning with disks of breathing flowers that lean'd
Their large leaves; and from open chambers flow'd
Clear voices, sometimes converse, sometimes mirth;
Or flash of fiery song, as tho' the sun
In that swift heart had turned itself to sound.
The fisher that went forth before the sun
Sleeps in the shadow of his bark, or streams
His nets along the beach, well satisfied,
While his young boy goes singing by his side.
Here, in the quiet of a windless cove,
The stately argosy from farthest isles,
Egyptian wharf, or mighty moles of Tyre,
Stays with all hands astir to gather back
Its weary wings; and hark! there comes a cry
From homesick hearts, as the great anchor falls.
And where the champaign with its wavy hills,
Its goodly orchards curtain'd with the vine,
And carpeted with harvest, slopes toward
The city gate—amid the dusty cloud,
Tost up from trampling hoof and chariot wheel,
To the crimson mantle, and the starry helm,
Of one that thrusts aside the stream of men,
And cries with note of warning—to the band
Of market girls that bear aloft fresh fruits,
Fresh flowers; to dames that bring their homely urns
Fill'd from the fountain hard against the gate,
Upon whose plashing steps, Cythera stooping
Within the hollow of a wreathen pearl
That tilts her up just risen amid the foam
More than all mortal beauty, marvellous form,
Rains on the marble conch eternal dew.
The old wives on the carven wonder lean
Their wither'd arms, the while the pitcher fills;
And laughing damsels listen to the sound
Of island ditties, and forget to fill;
And the barefooted children shout and gibe
All in the sunlight and the dew of morn:
And over steep, and shore, and mount, and vale,
Hovers a murmur, like a low-toned song,
Sent up from quivering leaves, and moaning wave,
And thro' the silvery light, and azure calm
Soars, like a hymn of joy. Not far away
There is a cape, that dips its verdurous fringe
Into the waves, and from amid the trees
That crest it I can see the gracious front
Of a fair home, its threshold hid with vines
Of ancient growth, and pale-eyed jessamine,
Its lattices flung open to the morn.
But who are these that by the curving path
Move down toward the shore? one is a form
Tall, and of that soft aspect which they wear
Who drink into their veins the unclouded suns,
And in their dusky foreheads seem to change them
To moonlight. Her large eyes and crimson lip
Burn'd with the fire which through her tawny cheek
Lighten'd but seldom; those dark dewy orbs
Quiver'd with arrows of the spirit fast
As fireflies in the gloom. The other lean'd
Her frail old age upon the younger arm;
And yet not feeble, for the restless light
That ever trembled in the young girl's eyes
Seem'd drawn from deeper fountains in her own;
And neither years, nor sorrows of the world,
Shadows of coming death, nor many tears,
Had quench'd those lamps that burn'd beneath her brows
As tho' they saw thro' far millennial shades
Of cycles down unto the end of all.

II

And Sappho stood, and linger'd for a while,
Shading her brows to look upon the shore,
The piled city, and the purple hills.
And with a sigh that seem'd to wing her soul
Back to the dawn of Youth, thro' joy and tears
Commingling, like the dews and light that lay
On land and sea betwixt her and the sun,
Sweetly she said; “It is another morn;
And yet I live, tho' many days like these
I cannot hope to breathe; yet all the more
The blessed hours that give me rest from pain
Are openings into Heaven, thro' which I see
The lovely hopes, and phantasies of Youth,
Waft down to me from the blue arch of day,
Melodious as the skylark's sundrown'd song,
And radiant as his earthward-fluttering wing.
Yet dreams, however fair, are only dreams,
Tho' from the Unseen, where the Immortals are,
And they are flown, they look back for a moment.
Ah! can they raise the stricken flower of Life,
And bring back Youth? oh! tell me not of bliss
Born of Imagination, the great eagle
Whose eyes may dare to look upon the sun
And are not blind; oh! tell me not of Fame,
Although its outspread wings may hide the earth,
And with their shadows touch the walls of Time.
Tell me not of those moments in our lives,
Which, like the troubled seas that flash with light,
Mix glory and despair, but leave the heart
Still as the deeps from which the storm is pass'd,
And not a wave is heard; for in my soul
The pæans of old triumphs faintly heard,
The voices of departed joys, loves, hopes,
Power, honours, exultations, are but ghosts,
And, like thin ghosts that vanish in the sun,
Charm not so much as that diviner spell,
That from the heart of Nature speaks to ours.
Now, as I breathe the spirits from the deep,
And see these shores that first I saw, the hills,
The azure isles, the selfsame pulse of old
Thrills me again, and tho' the arm of Death
Daily advances its cold shadow o'er me
Nigher and nigher, moments like to these
The first I felt, the last I hope to feel;
Such moments, O dear girl, make it appear
As tho' to die were to be born again.
Ah, lovely land, perchance in days to come,
When I am dead, and thunder-bearing change
Hath left, of all this proud Time in full sail,
A crazy wreck, some lonely, listening Muse
Shall mark thee thro' the cloud of Ages flown,
As I, behind the veil of many years,
Behold my proper life; and of my songs,
Faint echoes of the fiery life within,
A few sad notes shall tremble, like the light
That strikes the zenith when the sun is down.”
With that she stay'd midway between the shore
And that vine-mantled home, a little space
Of musing and of calm; then with fond hand,
Tenderly laid upon the sunny brow
Of that fair one, she said—“My little Kleis;
Tho' thou art taller than thy mother is,
So call'd because she was the silver key
That should unlock my heart of hearts; my Kleis,
Oh let me look into thy face awhile,
If so I can recall the thing I was
When thy few years were mine; yes, in thine eyes
I see the stars of mirth, the lamp of thought.
On thy smooth brow the free winds from the seas
Have laid their cool wings, night and morn, until
Spirits, less pure than Honour, Hope, and Love,
Find no rest there; but kinder Fates than mine,
Under the links of graver sympathies,
Have chain'd the God of Fancy in thy soul;
So that his darings shall not lift thee up
Above the lights and shadows of thine home,
Its cares, its consolations, and its joys,
The tender memories of the parted year,
Hope of to-morrow's sunshine, and a time
Of ample harvests, and fair vintage days,
And songs when toil is o'er. Thou shalt not feel
Swift passions toss thee, like midsummer storms,
That snatch the green leaf from the virgin vine;
No, nor those thoughts, like Autumn winds and rain,
That rend the naked boughs, and strew the leaves,
Or weep them off in silence to the ground.
The great soul of thy grandsire, now at peace,
Descending thro' thy mother's into thine,
Tempers within thy heart the throbs of mine,
Its glories, and its anguish. Come with me;
Yonder he sleeps, within an urn he sleeps,
Lull'd by the music of an endless dirge,
Upon yon slope that dips into the blue
Its green the soonest in the days of Spring.
The hyacinths cluster there, as though athirst
To drink the azure seas; the anemone,
And violet tremble, and four whispering planes
Make an immortal temple o'er his dust.
Not far apart he rests, but just so far
As makes the thunder of the waves below
A pleasant murmur, a deep harmony,
Wedding the treble of the surf that wails
Among the rocks, and shells, and the soft sighings
Of the broad leaves that rustle over him.
Come thither, Kleis, with me; come hear that hymn
Sung to the spirit of a noble man,
Who wrought in act what I in many a song
Have mock'd, like echoes in a narrow place.

III

Thither I bore his urn, ten years ago,
By moonlight, sadly claspt unto my heart;
And I could hear my sighs, for every wind
Was still; it was a dreaming Autumn night
Nigh unto Winter, in the latter days;
And the full moon rode stately up the seas
Of purple, caught at intervals thro' rifts
Of sable cloud; and then the illumined Earth
Smiled on me a funereal welcome stern,
And sorrowful; and from the city rose,
Thro' the pale hush of night, sounds that to me
Were sadder than a banquet skeleton,
Of festal jubilee, of harp and voice,
Unto my widow'd heart disconsolate
Like shadows of the Dead, fantastic ghosts
Seen pale and cold far over Lethe's stream.”
Just then they rounded a thyme-breathing hill,
Infolding to a valley gay with flowers,
And mossy-green and cool, for it drank in
The spirits of the seas, and multiplied
Its sighs, its lamentations, and its thunders,
With manifold echoes; nothing fill'd it now
But an unsleeping murmur, holy-sweet,
Much like the weird tongue of the midnight silence,
Muttering to wakeful ears that wait for Death.
And halfway 'twixt it and the yellow beach
A little temple, open to the sea,
Stood under shelter of four whispering planes.
They enter'd by two marble steps, and heard
The melancholy music of the waters
Wax loud, as in the hollows of a shell.
Upon a pedestal beneath the dome
Rested an urn of gracious mould, and round it
The doubling echoes loved to swell and fall,
An inarticulate utterance, as of grief
Made musical with love. And “Here,” she whisper'd;
“Here do I joy to linger, and to feel
The presence of his Shade; here, oft and oft,
I have held converse with Elysian dreams,
And heard the voices of the Gods go by
In melody; here have I wept unseen,
Alone, and sung my songs unheard, and drawn
From Nature something of her spirit pure.
Hither the Hamadryads have come down
Out of their arching coverts, and cool grots,
And talk'd with Nereus; here the darksome steeds
Of the Sea-king have joy'd to plant their hoofs,
After swift travel o'er the snowy crests
Of roaring seas; and the surf-slinging wheels
Have rested, scattering off their pearly rain,
While Tritons wound their rosy conchs, and startled
The winding solitudes, and mountainheads,
And gave wild welcome to the Woodnymphs there.
Here have I sat forgetting, and forgot,
Morn, noon, and even; and on summernights
Have mark'd the ripplets twinkle in the moon.
Here have I woven passionate songs, and sung them
With loud clear voice unto a symphony
Of the sea-music, sweet as Summer, shaking
His timbrel in the valleys; desolate
As Winter, when the first storm-winged winds
Rush out thro' closing portals of the West,
And take the Ocean Giants by the hair.

IV

Methinks the Summerday when I was born
Flows back to me with its felicities,
Oft as I look upon this pleasant land,
And morning sea. Methinks the days between,
With all their hues and shadows, like vain clouds
That shatter into atoms in the light,
Melt off, and leave my vision free to Heaven;
Heaven, or that Earth that seems to breathe of it
Whereon our eyes first open. Oh! I wake;
'Tis Morn! the low winds 'twixt my lattice bars
Plain silver-sweet; and soon a balmy gust
Hath thrown them back, far over the treetops,
That with a whispering sound, like sighing ghost,
Answer the wailing waters swinging soft,
And make their shapeless motions in the dusk
Of twilight. My dim eyes, but half unclosed,
Over whose lids the plumes of some sweet dream
Are hovering still, follow the purple plain
Of the great Deep; along the Oceanfloor
Tapestries of gorgeous tissue are let down,
Which my half-waking fancy seems to tread
Right to the gate of Day. 'Tis morn, 'tis morn!
And herald Winds are strowing for the Sun
The golden road, whereon his wheels shall roll
Far off along the East! the God leaps up
In strength renew'd! I hide mine eyes from him!
And all the thin-wing'd phantoms of grey Night
Fly forth from mine illumined orbs; hark! hark!
The waves begin to sing, the winds to blow;
And from the vines into my chamber climbing,
And from the green glooms of the gardenwalks,
And from the forests on the mountainside,
Goes up the anthem of the Morn! awake!
For I am waking! I am singing; sing!
And with a jubilant gay smile the shores
And capes flash out, and temples by the sea!

V

Ah! sad Old Age, that, like the stem, survives
Leaf, flower, and fruit; Old Age, that not alone
Quenches the Soul's bright signals in the eye,
Pulls down the heart's warm banners in the cheek;
But, in the heart itself and in the soul,
Leaves only memories, that, like winter winds,
Howl thro' the roofless halls, and desolate courts
Of sometime Temples; memories, wither'd leaves
Of Summer roses; pale discrowned Kings;
Thin-voiced ghosts. Yet will I not lament
That I have spoken with the Dead in life;
That I have seen the Teian crown'd with flowers,
Changed with the wild Alcæus glorious words;
That I have kiss'd Erinna, and on the shores
Of Himera talk'd with grave Stesichorus.
What if the grey sea part us in this world,
Or Acheron in the Shades? they cannot part
Our souls, which blissful thoughts, and golden words,
Have link'd for ever. I will not lament
That I have tasted the good things of Time,
Tho' their remember'd sweetness seems like sorrow.
This mystic Life is as a soundless sea,
The tempests shatter it, the thunders shade;
And inarticulate voices from the clouds
Roll over it, and the winds run riot on it;
Yet are these passing moments heavenly-fair,
Breathings of Spring, Midsummer glories, hues
Of Autumn, trembling showers of light, and smiles
Of moonshine dimpling; and, when storms have ceased,
Hope, like the halcyon, sings; and I have lived
Through all, and glass'd within me every change.
I will not murmur. Yet, oh! could it be,
That I might see once more before I die,
But one of those, whose songs, like vesper airs
That flutter among harpstrings, keep my soul
A trembling with the sympathies of old.
If I could touch the hand of one I loved
Just as mine eyes grew dim, that bliss would be
More full of hope in Death, than pleasant dreams,
That kindle in the brains of drowning men.
Better the twilight of a day of June
Than noontides of December without sun.
Better to die for love, so that we lie
Upon the breast of Hope, than live for ever
Beneath the starless void of loveless thoughts
And phantasies that darken to despair.”

VI

She spoke; and with the passion of her heart
Her aged cheek was flushed, her eye was bright;
And soon the tears that she imagined shone
In her upturned eyes. And while she stood
Full of unutterable tenderness,
Wistfully gazing o'er the sheeny sea,
As tho' she thought of that unfathom'd deep
Deeper than the deep sea, that must be broken
Ere those she thought of could be render'd up—
Lo there! a bark at anchor in a bay,
Doubling itself with all its cordage clear,
And motions in the blue; and two or three,
Into a shoreward shallop stepping light,
Sway'd with the surf toward the strand; and she
Look'd idly on, and as she look'd, she sigh'd.
They stood together by the ripple's edge,
Mother and daughter, and they heard the keel
Gride 'mid the shells and sand, and one came forth,
Leaning a youthful shoulder to the hand
Of an old man, a weary man and sad;
Yet more with toil and sorrow than with years,
As feebly he stept down upon the shore.
And when he felt his feet upon the earth,
His brow he shaded with a trembling hand;
But underneath they saw some stealthy drops
Glitter and fall; but they were quickly exhaled
Amid the fire of his upgazing eyes,
As roundabout he look'd with such grave love,
As might a child, who had not seen for long
His mother, and now saw that face again
Familiar to his soul, and now restored
To his adoring eyes. So he, his palms
Cross'd on his staff, his face a little raised,
Round to the mountains turn'd, the woods, the streams
Glancing afar, and underneath them all
The marble city gleaming by the sea.
And dropping on his knee, he said: “Great Gods,
I thank ye, oh! I thank ye for this sight,
More than if ye had spared me half the ills,
That in my homeless heart, and vexed frame
Have housed since last I left this lovely isle.
Ye from that altar have inhaled the smoke
Of my continual sighs: have seen the flame
Of wasted passions, and have daily heard
The murmurs of my soul-consuming care.
Spare me henceforth, and be content with that
My life hath offered up of grief and pain;
And suffer me to rest a little here
Where I was born, until the day I die.
If I have been rebellious; if I blamed
Your hard behests, this moment is to me
A bliss, that like a flower amid the snow,
Springs up from mine affliction and my tears;
For which I bless ye; 'tis a moment made
More than much joy by contrast of my sorrows;
I thank ye, oh! I thank ye. Home, my Home!
If thou wert not, sweet Island, what thou art,
Fairer than fairest; if thou wert a rock
Barren of all things but the surfweed cold,
And tortured by the storms, now, well I know,
Thou wouldst be dearer to me than the blest
Hesperides, or, in great Babylon,
The Imperial Gardens that ascend to Heaven
By steps, that seem each like a happy isle.
For, as the day comes back in sweeter dreams;
As we remember a beloved face
Most kindly when afar; as barren crags
In the blue air look blissful as the sky;
With every imperfection thou wouldst be
The Elysium where my heart was free of ills,
Whither it turns to look upon itself
In days when effluence of diviner spirit
Went from it, like the exhalations pure
Breathed from the flowers at dawn. But oh! thou art
Most beautiful; no Poet's fancy thou,
No Patriot's idol, but a cradle meet
For birth of Gods, and for diviner men!
Now as I see thee set with mountain towers,
Like many crowns, the lovely Queen o' the seas,
I feel the ancient spirit of the clime
Lift up my heart like wings; the breath I draw
From thy deep valleys, and thy breezy hills,
Seems like flown Youth relapsing thro' my veins,
Impossible to die; and all my soul,
A harp to Nature's tender cunning, breathes
Rapture, and at her bidding seems to sing!
Oh! if my living love for thee might be
The measure of my glory after death,
Thy young men and thy maidens would forget
No song that I have sung, as from my heart
No aspect of thy beauty hath been lost,
My native isle; and Lethe's very self
Shall only wash the bitter from my heart,
And leave my love the purer. Even now
I have forgot my poverty, and cares,
Anguish, and agony, and the hissing tongues
Of evil Fortune, as mine aged eyes
Follow once more the curving of thy shores;
As the omnisonous seas, whose nearer waves
Are thunder, till far off, and farther still,
They die into a sweet monotony
Much like a mournful song. Oh! it is thou,
My Mother, and thou only that canst lull
Asleep disastrous memories, with thy touch,
Thy magic, and the music of thy tongue.”

VII

Sappho stood leaning forward, like a child
Who hears far music, and would catch the song,
Her fond eyes overclouded, and her heart
Visibly stirr'd: they caught her ere she fell.
And while she lay in trance, the old man pass'd,
And look'd with a strange meaning on her face.
A moment more knowledge, as lightning, shook
His soul, and quiver'd o'er his limbs, and joy
Moved in his unaccustom'd heart like pain;
And with a cry that ran along the shore
He claspt her in those weary arms; he kiss'd
Her pale cold brow; he laid his heart near hers,
And breathed low loving words into her ear.
Whether it was the sound of that great cry,
Or those low-breathed words, she woke, and saw
Him kneeling by her, and she dimly smiled,
As the last glimmer of a wintry sun,
And faintly said—“Speak to me, I am faint;
I may not speak, though fain I would; for now
Life fights with Death within me; speak, but spare me;
Else shall I die, and my o'ertasked spirit
With its excess of feeling cease to feel!”
He soothed, he raised her up, and with his arm,
Staying her as a tender brother might,
Till she could freely go, into her ear
He dropt such tokens of old time, dear words,
Forgotten memories, snatches of sweet song.
He brought back sunbright mornings, jocund evens
Drown'd long ago, fleet rivulets, in the sea.
Out of grey corners of the Past he raked
Such buried dreams as lighten'd forth, when stirr'd,
Like diamonds in the dark, such sparkish mirth
Of Wits, that once had laugh'd at feasts, and now
Seem'd in his echo, to laugh o'er again,
And change the sun into a golden lamp
Over a banquet-table. Oh! she listen'd
And thought she heard the music in her ears
Of festal hymns, and shouts of jubilee;
And thro' sweet melodies, the noise of storms,
Thunders of battle, sound of civil jars
Rise from oblivion; as a morning mist,
That vanish'd in the glory of noonday,
Out of the hollow darknesses beneath
That once were bowery valleys, soars again
And floating round the desert peaks of snow
Takes colours from the sunset. As he spoke,
All her old heart, a lovely ruin touch'd
With mossy green, put forth a shoot of life
Kin to the sprays of Youth; she smiled; her cheek
Mantled with sudden rose that made her seem
To him a moment as in days of prime,
That vital bloom illumining her face.
He thought he saw her as she stood before him,
Such as she was in the young April morns,
When she ran out upon the tufted capes
Over the sea, dancing upon the thyme,
And violets, with a timbrel in her hand,
Her loose locks streaming landward like a Nymph
Come down to charm a seagod. And they turn'd
To one another, laughter in their eyes;
And those two faces lighted from within
Seem'd as two ancient lamps of cunning mould
Lit for a farewell festival. He said;—
“Old friend, as I look down into thine eyes,
Methinks soft plumes from the flown wings of Time
Fall back upon my heart; for I have been
A wanderer, and a guest at many hearths,
And heard strange tongues, and pined on desert shores,
And rock'd on the wild seas; from mountaintops
Have look'd on rare new lands, and slept beneath
The curtain of dread forests, and beheld
The glory of the islands. I have been
A restless bird, that flies from Spring to Spring,
In eager search of what I never found,
Joy, when the hearth is darken'd, and the Gods
That keep the house are scatter'd. Oh! this heart
Is rich with many pageants, but no peace;
And all the hollow of departed Time
Seems to my backward vision like the sea,
Shower'd o'er with splendours from the gorgeous clouds
Of even, after sunset, and my Fancy,
A stately temple set through all its aisles
With hues and forms of beauty. But my soul,
That thirsted for the Unattainable,
Knowledge on knowledge piling art on art,
Fares as the poor man that hath stored up wealth,
And, when the wither'd hand of Time presents
The cup he craved, he cannot taste the wine.
I have seen all things; I have drunk of Life,
The water and the wine; but in the crowd
Of memories that o'ergrew my heart, and shed
Their blossoms off untimely, still one thought
Is changeless there, the holy sense of Home,
An evergreen that bears no purple flowers;
Yet evermore, tho' torn and shower'd with tears,
Sweeter than the wild roses. Oft I said,
‘I'll lull me with the poisons of despair,
Till my dead life become a living death,
And feels, on earth, the eternal sleep come on.’
Sometimes I thought ‘When Fate hath will'd, 'tis best
To bow the neck and make the best of Ill.’
'Twas vain; for under all good thoughts, or ill,
That earthquake of the heart, the fiery thirst
Of change, like everburning sulphur, toil'd.
My will hath been the sceptre of my Fate,
An evil glory glanced from the midheart
Of the red star of War; thwart influences
Sway'd me, and call them by what names ye will,
Pleasure, or Glory, or Ambition; mean
Disquiet, fatal to the Poet's heart;
Not like the tempest of a summernight,
That leaves a lovelier world at dawn; but fierce
As the hot blast that withers at midnoon;
And, as the rude hand of an aimless child,
Jars the sweet music of a lyre well-tuned.

VIII

Then all the mystery dawn'd upon my heart,
Solemn as moon-lit silence broke with hymns,
Of those, that from the dust and coil of things
Standing apart, with shadows of old years
Whisper, or gaze as from an inland peak
O'er the vast kingdoms of the days to come,
Hid in pale glories like a midnight plain;
Of those who listen to the charmed tongues
Of the Pierides, from laurel walks
Peeping with amaranth-woven hair, and eyes,
That glance across the twilight, as the stars
That never set. I sigh'd, and pray'd for peace,
To keep my Fancy like a vestal lamp
Unshaken of the winds; for eyes, to see
But Her; for ears that should be deaf as sleep
To every pulse of change, and hear no sound
But her still utterance; for that holy calm,
That o'er my heart, as on a sunny isle
Wall'd in with mighty rocks that flows within
With clear sweet rivulets, set with moss and flowers,
Should rest like Summer, though all things beyond
Should rock the endless tempest, and the winds
Should whirl the waters to the thunderclouds.
I yearn'd to sit in such sweet solitude,
And make the music of an inner life
Soar o'er the clash of arms, and the shrill cries
Of worldly Passions, and the witching tongues
Of Sirens, holding forth the cup of Life,
And purple Pleasures. Idle were those thoughts;
Tho' rosy-bright with promise as the Morn.
There is no bliss on earth so true as Hope,
Tho' she be false as rainbows; and her wings,
Swift sails that follow in the wake of Day,
Must never rest, or see the sun go down.”

IX

Thus as he spoke, she stood, as one who hears
A melody, breathed to her in a dream,
With waking ears, and sees the vision true.
And with her folded palms, and earnest eyes,
She seem'd as one who utter'd in a prayer
A blessing, or thanksgiving: and she said—
“Speak on, oh! speak; thou canst not tire mine ears.
Such words I never hoped to hear from thee.
Such thoughts have ransom'd thy sad heart from death,
And set the desert of thine Age with buds
And hues of Spring; as when the tender hand
Of Autumn lays for the white feet of Death
Young flowers, and April green; and roses glow,
And hyacinths peep from out the dead oakleaves.
So was it in the days, when thou and I
Strove with each other. I was fain to taunt
Thy boyhood into prowess, in thine eyes
Flashing the silver arrows of my song.
And thou, my rival in the joust of Arts,
Didst make me blush for my rose-wreathed lyre,
With such proud answers, as the sound of steel
Ringing on brass, or trumpet with the lute.
Ah! then thy brow was smooth, and thy dark hair
Cluster'd around the palace of thy thought,
Like Pallas' marble temple in the shade.
Thy breath was as the spirit of the seas,
Through all the inland valleys streaming life,
Stirring the little lilies and the heads
Of the dark pines into a sombre joy;
And bearing with it, from the Infinite
Of Youth and Fancy, music like the sound
Of many waters. We heard the tread of men
To battle, and the neighing of the steeds,
The burning axles, and the chariotwheels
Flashing amid the dust, with the blown hair
Of warriors leaning forward on the foe.
In sweeter notes we heard the songs at eve,
The Pæan, and the sacrificial hymn;
And laurell'd captains in their iron sat,
Or beat the earth with armed heel, or drain'd
The red cup, listening to the thrilling strings.
Again the notes of freedom stir thy tongue,
As when together, that sweet morn of June
We sail'd forth gaily for Arion's bay.
Gaily with garlands of fresh-gather'd flowers
We hung the prow; and, as it clave the foam,
And flung it back on the wine-colour'd sea,
Scattering the purple with a rain of pearl,
We sang together what Arion sang
When Music vanquish'd Fate; we sang the World,
With all its shows, its tumults, and its pride,
Laid like the stormy crests of rolling seas
Under the dark hand of Oblivion;
Yet leaving the poor Poet, with his harp,
Safe, as of old Arion on the sands.”

X

They pass'd by haunts which they had loved and scorn'd,
First loved in childhood ere the pride of years—
Tho' but a few more added to the few—
Trod underfoot their broken toys; then scorn'd,
When flattering hopes, like sunbeams cast before,
Outstripp'd them, swifter than their little strength;
As tho' their firstborn fancies had not been
First flights most apt to knit fresh-plumed wings
For eagle darings. Now they turn'd again
To their first loves, and laugh'd to think of all
Their after prides, now seen as vanities,
Which memory now could scarcely follow up;
While every little bliss of infancy
Lit up again, as on the eastern hills
The setting sun casts back a loving smile.
Here was the mountain brook that sought the sea,
Where in a backstream they had thought to swim
Their shallop fashion'd with an earnest care,
And borne down gravely in their little arms,
But carrying too much sail, so that a gust,
After two voyages around the pool,
Laid it on its beam-ends, and the main stream
Caught it, and whirl'd it into the great sea,
Deaf to their cries and groans. Here was the reach
Of smooth sand, where the old man once had run
A race with his dead brother, and had left
The little Citharus ill at ease, and vex'd
With a self-scorn, when Sappho came to him,
Winsome and playful; “Let us try together,”
She whisper'd, “and I wage that I shall win”—
Tho' well she knew that his must be the palm—
But he avenged himself on her, poor child,
Muttering, “Go to, a girl is but a fool!”
“See,” said Alcæus, as they pass'd along,
“There was the schoolhouse, in whose little span
The soul of Homer lived, and fired again
The hearts of children, mine beyond them all.
And when I heard his music roll, I seem'd
Expanded unto Godlike strength, and dream'd
Of shouts, and fluttering manes, and wheels of war,
And starry-helm'd Olympians, frowning o'er
A thundercloud, or lightening thro' the dust;
While the shrill clamours of the rest at play,
Fill'd all the space beneath the awning vine
That shadow'd us, with twinkling of its leaves
Chequering the little court: till all at once,
While musing thus of arms, and foughten fields,
I grew Achilles to myself, and frown'd;
And held my head so high, that others laugh'd,
And gibed, and vex'd me with quick taunts; till one,
A pigmy cousin, felt my angry palm,
But render'd overmeasure, with such speed,
That my long limbs undipt in Styx, were proved
Not proof against Thersites; and at last
I came to strife with one who was my friend,
And barter'd love for glory. Oh! I stood,
One foot in triumph staid upon the neck
Of fall'n Patroclus, till a grey-hair'd man,
Like sudden Deity, came down upon me;
And with a cloudy brow, but gentle words—
Alas! they were the very words I loved,
The sounds of that weird harp, that, oft, and oft,
Have moved me unto tears—I blench'd with shame,
And hung my head; he show'd me what I knew,
The great Pelides striving for his friend,
Not striving with him; and I wept with shame.”

XI

Then Sappho, parting from him, sought her home.
And after some few days they met again;
Said Sappho to him; “Hast thou seen once more
Thy brother and his mate?” He answer'd her:
“At length I sought my old ancestral home
Slowly, and softly, as though I paused to hear,
From the old haunts and dear familiar ways,
The tongues of kindred and of friends, and dreamt—
So potent was the magic of the past—
To see again the faces, and the forms
Crossing the paths, or peeping from the doors,
Of those who long ago were only dust.
Was Citharus there whom I had left at home
To keep the house?” Then Sappho said, “Alas!
If thou hast seen him, and canst truly say
He lives, 'tis but that living death when hopes
And memories fail together; and the smile
That flickers o'er his face is but the joy
Of the caged bird that sings to see the sun,
And turns to sadness when he sees it not.
And when he sees thee now 'twill be, as though
He saw thee not; such is the mortal man.”
Alcæus said, “I knew by letters writ
At long, long intervals, and only read
After long years—so aimless were my ways,
So restless were my motions,—that no child
Was born to him—and so I had no fear
Of meeting at the gate unwelcome looks
Of those who knew me not: still less that he,
Whom I remember but a lisping babe,
Who look'd upon me from my mother's arms,
And knew me not, should look upon me now
With the same eyes unconscious as at first;
That I should see him seated by the gate
And know him not. Was this the little one
With blue eyes and with curly locks, who heard
No sound until I shouted in his ear?
Who made a sign that he was not the man
I sought, that his was not a home of mine?
Whose snow white hairs shook in the wind; whose hand
Trembled with fear that I should do him ill?
I made him hear my name; he shook his head.
I show'd him an old mark upon my wrist,
Dealt by a flint flung from his careless hand,
And when he saw the red blood from the wound
He wept with fear. He gazed with steadfast eyes—
Well had he known that mark in other days—
Then sigh'd, as tho' the childish trouble stirr'd
His aged heart again; in vain; at last
Baffled and sad I sang into his ear
A simple ditty I had sung to him
When he was but a babe, and I a boy,
Who threw him up, and caught him ere he fell,
And laugh'd him into laughter: then at last
He seem'd to wake up, and he reach'd his arms,
And fell upon my neck, and spoke my name;
And all my great age did not hide from his
That something of the boyhood that had been;
And memories in a moment kindled up,
As from a spark among the sapless leaves,
And chaff of the last Autumn days, a fire
That runs along the ground. While we embraced
His aged mate came forth; she was not changed
In aught that makes true beauty beautiful.
Her tender, loving spirit beam'd the more
Through her worn aspect, ev'n as when unworn
That would have shone forth all the lovelier through
A beggar's weeds; even as a summer rose
Is all the dearer seen at wintertide;
Come with me thither, come with me again.”

XII

Sappho went with him; and they pass'd across
The outer court into the inner house,
And met the aged inmates at the door.
They stood within the armoury again,
Four aged forms—the last of those who heard
The voice of Pittacus that bridal night—
They stood, like spectres after all those years,
Rather than living, on the very spot
Where Myrsilus had fallen; and once more
Their tongues were heard within the armed walls,
That glitter'd, as of old, with sword and shield;
For not a speck of rust was suffer'd there
So watchful was the housewife he had left.
Yet not more careful to keep fair his home
For his return, if ever that should be,
Than the fond brother, faithful, as of old,
To send by trusty hands the stored wealth
Of thrifty years, whenever it was known
Thro' merchants passing to and fro, or friends
He chanced to meet, that he had fix'd his home
In mainland city, or island for a while.

XIII

Far into the calm moonlight night they sat
Together, and remember'd the old life;
Then Sappho spoke unto her aged friend;—
“Thou hast not told me of the lands afar,
Thy cares, and perils, and long wanderings.
The thoughts and acts that in thy memory seem
Pictures half hidden by the dust of years,
And seen in dusky halls at close of day,
To me would be as paintings, bright and new;
I pray thee tell me of thy past and thee.”
Alcæus paused awhile, then spoke again:
“O Sappho, ere I speak to thee of that,
Pardon me, if I fain would learn from thee
A few clear words, that would be as a light
In a dark corner of this heart, that still
Was dark, whatever momentary joy
Cross'd my wayfarings; ay might be as no
To my worn heart;—but, as the eye is fond
To pierce the shadows, where imagined shapes
Lie crouching—so my soul desires to know,
Though knowledge might be nothing to me now.
O Sappho, now that we are met again
In our old age, like two who might embrace
Across an open tomb, what need to hide
The secrets of our hearts, as in the days
When pride and fear go hand in hand, and shun
The daylight? For 'tis moonlight with us now:
'Tis memory only. Oh! I will confess
I loved thee once as lovers love; and now,
As men may love who first have loved as they;
A love as sweet as summernight, with stars
After the sun of morn, not less divine
But more serene: thou knowest how I strove
Against the foremost Lesbian, him who was
In peace or war the noblest man of all,
As though he was a traitor and a foe?
Dost thou remember the ill-fated hours
Beneath thy roof, when sick and sad I lay
Long days and nights oblivious, and ye thought
The lack of speech was loss of hearing too,
And freely spoke of me? Did I not hear
What pierced me worse than the Athenian sword,
Than any poison'd shaft, than death itself,
And would have brought the doom which then I craved,
Had it struck sooner? That thy love had been
Given to another, never could be mine?
Whether it were the voice that reach'd me then,
Or my o'erfever'd brain, or envious thoughts
Of one who was my master, jealous fear
Possess'd me that the treasure I desired
Was given to him, the man who spoke with thee,
Ev'n Pittacus; 'twas well I was too weak
To slay him that same moment! And when youth,
Like the strong swimmer's arm that cleaves the surge,
Had rescued me, and I rose up again,
He was the moveless star that none can reach;
He was the honour'd ruler of the realm,
The centre circled by the love of all;
And what was I? Disown'd by her I loved,
Despised by him I hated; for my heart
Bore this man's pity, and his kindliness,
As weights that sank me deeper in despair.
Long after I repented; and my scorn
Wreak'd itself on myself alone; meanwhile
How could I rival one worthy of aught
Thro' worth of soul, or be avenged on one
Who vanquish'd ill with good? So I resolved
To work against his power, that in my turn
I might wreak pardon on him; if he fell,
He should take mercy: well, thou know'st the rest.
How many days, and weeks, and months of guile
I practised to win o'er the noblest men
Of Lesbos, luring them by subtle speech,
And wilful masking of the simple truth,
To deem the stoutest heart and wisest head
Of all our countrymen a slave to lust
Of lucre; one whose instincts fitted him
Better to chaffer o'er a sheep or steer,
Or price a bunch of potherbs, jar of wine,
Than handle kingly matters; one whose arts
Lowborn and base dishonour'd lofty station.
But most I sought to kindle and to fan
The fiery heats of pride; for in the blaze
Of that unruly passion man is blind,
Swerves from his constant motions, and disowns
The fixed conclusions of habitual reason,
Nor sees the heavenborn light of his own soul,
More than the dazzled eye the shape of things.
I shamed them by reproaches and reproofs,
And flatteries of their old nobility,
To gnash their teeth against him; till they all
With one consent made me their chief of war;
Till, from a whisper'd breath of slander, grew
A thundercloud that shook the isle. By stealth
The arm'd retainers of my house and theirs
Grew to a host; we thought he knew not of it;
And in our madness risk'd our all. We met:
And one long day the valleys and the hills
Echoed the warcry; but wise Pittacus
Had mapp'd the conflict in his chamber, ere
The bands encounter'd; and his skill forestall'd
Our hasty motions; few were wounded, fewer
Slain, and the day was his. When it was done,
He sent a herald who spoke fair the crowd
Of the discomfited, and with brief words,
Kind arts, and promises of grace drew off
The disaffected, or who seem'd as such,
Because they did the bidding of their lords.
And we were taken, and disarm'd; the end
Came, not by death, or chains, but in a voice
So mild, dispassionate, deliberate,
It seem'd to speak to us of things to come,
As tho' they were the past; so long had he
Foreseen the issue of those words of his,
Spoken in thine ear when I was lying low
In the next chamber wounded, and perchance,
Ye thought, not like to live. ‘Depart,’ he said;
‘I thirst not for the blood of men, who once
Were friends, nor seal ye as my foes by death.
We shall not meet again, except it be
Among the shadows of the dead; and then,
When all is memory only, ye will think
I was not what ye deem'd me, and once more
We may be friends’: and turning unto me,
With this last word; ‘Alcæus, know thyself;
Till this, the greatest work that man can do,
Be done, all other tasks are vain’: and then
He lift us to the scorn of our own souls,
And to that bitter thought that all was lost.”

XIV

Then after a long silence Sappho spoke;—
“I marvel that within thy memory dwell
Words that I have forgotten many a year.
Yet it is well that thou canst mind me of them.
And, if the words come back to me, the truth
Shall not be hidden from thee, aged friend;
For if wild fancies have possess'd thy soul
It must bring peace.” Alcæus answer'd her:
“When the two voices in the chamber ceased
Softly I heard him rise up and pass out,
And thou wert left alone; after a while
Thou saidst ‘How could I tell him what I felt?
Tho', when he gives me to another thus,
'Twere time to unfold my secret. Oh! 'tis past.
My lonely rapture shall not be unveil'd,
But casketed, like some too precious gem,
Which to be seen might tempt untoward hands
To rudely handle it; oh! all is past.
I know not, now he is no longer here,
I know not if he were a God or man
So glorious more than others; if I spoke,
Pittacus would but wonder, or deride;
Yet not deride, for he is mercy's self.
Or ply such counsel as would make me feel
For ever after lesser than myself;
And I could never meet him, or behold
In those calm eyes the thought that I am mad
To say such words.’ I heard thee say such words.
And tho' Death stands between us and that man,
And beckons us to follow, still this heart
Oft as it hearkens the remember'd sound
Echoes the deathful throb that shook me then!”
He ceased; and Sappho, with a smile, as sad
As the last glimmer of a wintry sun:—
“There are some moments in this life of ours
When the Gods pour into the heart of man
Phantasy, that like to fiery wine
Dazzles the sense, until it sees all things
Thro' golden ethers; and so wings the soul,
That, what the eye looks on, the spirit lifts
Into a very heaven; and so this world,
The old familiar nature, clothes itself
With sudden and great light; this weary life,
This grey monotony of daily acts,
Changes, as mountains under shadowing cloud,
That flood with warmth and music in the sun.
And so the spells of that enchantment strong
Transform the shapes and aspects of mere men
To semblance of the Gods. And thus it was,
One day, with me, as I went forth at morn
Along the shore, rejoicing in my youth,
And singing to myself, as tho' that joy,
Fearless and strong, were immortality.
Like the great sun undimm'd at dawn, but doom'd
To drown in sudden thunders, that same hour
My joy was changed to sorrow; that same hour
Came lightnings out against me, and I saw,
Or thought I saw, a son of the high Gods
Step on the sands, who held me in his thrall,
Till I went mad: 'tis o'er, I know no more;
Ev'n memory fails me; I should strive in vain
To tell thee more than this; between that day
And this the Furies hover'd, and cast down
Great darkness on me, and have hid from me
The glory of it, like a misty sun
Whose half is blotted out. Ah me! I know not,
I know not now, if what I tell to thee
Have so much actual in it as might serve
For something of a stem round which might climb
The leaves and tendrils of the eager vine
Of phantasy; substantial truth enough
To feed the quick flame of a poet's love;
Or whether it were not in very sooth
One of those clearer visions of the night,
That haunt us strangely, ev'n at noon of day,
And after many years, until they seem
Familiar as the story of our lives.
I know not now; and so can speak to thee—
If this were actual reality—
As though I sang unto thee a true tale
So wreathed with fancies I forget the facts;
If it were not, as though I told a dream
Told me so well I deem it living-true.
And those far words, my own forgotten words,
Burning, as 'twere some lamp within a tomb,
Deep in thy memory, tho' not in mine,
Old friend, were utter'd without thought of him,
By me, unworthy of him, our first man;
Utter'd of that fair vision, god or man,
Or phantom only; thou hast heard my tale.”
And, as she told him that weird tale of love—
Not all, but the one fragment that still shone
Like a star through a cleft of cloud—she spoke
In low sad tones dispassionate, as though
She brought out toys or pictures she had loved
In infancy, and clapt her hands to see,
And show'd them now unto another child.
And, sooth to say, that wanderer full of woes
Had leant his ear, like to a very child
To listen to her voice. Sometimes she paused,
And seem'd to hearken, as tho' she might hear
Some whisper; hid her eyes behind her hand,
As tho' she might wake up some vision lost.
And then she shook her grey locks, and she sigh'd,
As one who cannot charm back into life
Ashes and dust that once were beautiful.
How strange it seem'd to him, how mournful-strange!
He wonder'd now to look upon himself,
So changed since she had spoken: where was he,
Lash'd by the Furies over sea and land,
Believing his own madness to be true,
As Sappho her love-dream? And where was he,
The guiltless sage, who had provoked the wrath,
That burnt through a whole life? And what was now
The worth of truth itself to them, whose steps,
So far down in the valley of grey Death,
Can never turn again? “Ah me!” he thought;
“Sure, if the Gods that rule o'er mortal life
Have pity for our sorrows, and our sins,
Methinks they might forgive the yearning prayer,
‘O! to live over some few years again,
That I might sail in sunlight, and soft air,
My bark flung on the rocks thro' mist and cloud!’”
Once more she spoke: “See, I have told thee all
That I have power to tell, scant though it be.
For fear, or shame, that might have stay'd me once,
Are vanish'd, as a meteor of the dawn;
And I am old, and nothing shakes me now;
And we are nigh to darkness evermore,
When all the voices of this evil world
Will be less than the falling of a leaf;
And other hopes, and other cares have held
My heart long years, and that more constant flame,
That kindles from a little spark at first,
But burns for ever; not the fiery sword
That cleaves the heart, and when it passes out
Leaves ashes only. These two loves at last—
Differing, as stormy morn, and peaceful even—
Are memories only; neither now can stab
Thy heart with jealous hate; and he, the wise
Who, while he lived, dealt thee imagined wrong,
Waits thee among the shadows; all are gone.
And we may join together with one voice,
To honour him who was the first of men,
Although he was not loved by me or thee.
And he, the patient and strong-hearted man,
I learnt to cherish with that better love,
That is the perfect flower of womanhood,
That links less sense to sense than soul to soul,
He too is gone for ever! Even Kleis,
My little Kleis that was, is far away
From her own land with dear ones of her own,
All but this girl, her first-born, who, like her,
In beauty and in sweetness minds me of her,
Young Kleis, Kleis of my Kleis, who brings back to me
My Kleis when she was young. She too will part,
Ere I part from her, for her sire will come,
And bear her from me, if she wed not one
Of our own countrymen, and make her home
Among us:” “Fear not,” then Alcæus said;
“O Sappho, surely she shall wed the boy,
My brother's heir; for I have mark'd them both;
And ere their tongues gave utterance to their hopes,
Their hearts flew thro' their eyes; I saw the sign.
And if I saw not, still am I a seer,
And see what shall be, if I have not seen.
For, if they love not now, yet shall they love;
And, if they love now, they shall love the more.
For he is valiant as his father was,
And bears his mother's image on his face;
And she hath the rare beauty of a Muse;
Her eyes inherit the deep love of thine,
Her virgin voice the music of thy songs.
So our lost loves that wander'd far apart,
And never found a resting-place on earth,
At last shall meet together in these two,
Their kindred hearts shall be a home to ours.”

XV

Again they met by moonlight, he and she,
The aged minstrels, and discoursed again
Of the old days: again Alcæus said;—
“I promised thee the story of my past
Since last I saw thee; but 'tis little worth,
When separate from the motions of my soul,
The ceaseless ebb and flow of hopes and fears,
Prides and regrets. So, after those last words
Of Pittacus, all just and merciful,
I stood, as one who finds himself alone
In utter darkness, after the last flash
Of stormy night. Next day at break of dawn
I pass'd aboard, my hand before my eyes,
As one who would not bear the sun of heaven
To mock at his despair, and childish tears.
Once more, once more, O Sappho, the white sail
Flies in the wind, the billow from the prow.
The shores and mountains of my native isle
Vanish behind, seen dimly thro' my tears.
Once more my wild hopes have been wither'd up;
Once more my pride hath broke its eagle wing,
Our glory drags its plumage in the dust.
My friends in evil fortune—the best men
And noblest in the land—are here with me;
And to forget myself and my despair
I stand with folded arms to look on them,
And make a mournful pastime for my soul
In noting the strange humours and diverse
Aspects of one despair. Some loth to leave
Their loves, and their delights, and bid farewell
To their souls' idols, weep and curse by turns.
Some peer with dark eyes into the dark sea,
As though, once underneath the sunlit waves,
At least they would be nearer the loved land
Whence they are driven, and feel no sense of pain.
Some drown all bitter thoughts in biting jests;
And some with golden flagons of Methymna,
Like the sweet blood out of their island's heart,
Would fain light up brief sunshine in their own;
And stay that Lesbian nectar on their tongues
With tender joy, as tho' they thus prolong'd
The blissful savour of the happy days
Sped in the happy valleys, whence it came,
Which they shall taste no more. And every drop
Brings back some living picture to their hearts
Of its green vineyards, lawns, and waving hills,
And takes them back unto the past of youth;
And fancy, love, and glory, feast and song,
Stand on the grey cloud of adversity,
An Iris of all colours. I am still,
Because my lips refuse to utter half
The fulness of my heart. Then suddenly
I seem'd to lose all sense of outward things;
The voices, and the faces of the rest
Were hidden from me, as tho' sleep had veil'd
The sea, and sky, and islands; with a cry
I stretch'd my hands, as tho' my well-loved friend,
My Melanippus stood before me there,
And I spoke to him then: ‘O days of youth!
O days of promise! I shall see no more,
And thou, O early friend, whose gentle heart
Was ever faithful to thy poor Alcæus,
Tho' little worth that love; on whom I lean'd
In grief and joy; who ever gav'st me back,
For spleens, regrets, remorses, raptures, fears,
Those quiet words of counsel, and of comfort,
Refreshing to this fever'd heart of mine
As evergreen, and ever-fragrant leaves,
When all the crimson roses of the year
Are fall'n and scatter'd; tho' we met not oft.
I joy'd in tumult, and the fiery speed
Of rapturous moments; but, whene'er we met,
Thine eyes were as the ever-fixed stars,
Which bring us into deeper meditations,
When the great sun is sunken in the west,
Than all the proud magnificence of noon.
Thy words were as the virgin spring, whose voice,
That still small voice, lives in the wilderness.
O Melanippus, how fill up the dark
Of being without hope—that frozen calm
Which is not peace—my tablets I will take,
And write, as on a pale cold sepulchre,
The evil records of those latter days
Of passions and of pains, which, gone and fled,
Seem, in this twilight of confused thoughts,
And purposeless despondency, as strange
As the remembrance of a stormy morn
In the hush'd gloom of even. Long ago
I told thee of my envy and my pride;
And pour'd my lawless thoughts into thine ears,
Receiving back the wisdom of the just
For answer; and the earnest love of one,
Who sought my honour as a part of his.
Oh! that I had but listen'd to those words
Patiently! oh! that I had never striven,
Rebellious as a fierce and thirsty flame,
Against the solid adamant of truth.
Oh! would that I had listen'd and obey'd,
For now I should not be a wanderer!
Till when? and where? Alas! my heart is blind,
As are my weeping eyes! O friend, I know not,
And cannot paint, the future ev'n in dream;
Whilst thou perchance, out of thy mountain home,
Green refuge blest, and thro' the bloomed boughs
Of thy rose-laurels blowing softly, seest
This parting sail with every moment less.
Ah! if thou breathest hopeless sighs for me,
My follies and my frenzies, still forget not
One who forgets not thee, my Melanippus.
It may betide, my friend, that this lorn scroll
May never reach thine eyes; but if it do,
Thou wilt be sure that I have blotted out
All puny fears, all lean self-loves, reserves;
And only see myself as I am seen.
Once more, O friend of youth, once more farewell,
Perchance for ever; exiled I depart
Weigh'd down less by the arrows of my foes
Than by my own dishonour; how is shame,
The ignominy of self-damning thoughts,
To be removed for ever? Will great deeds
Wash out the stains of wilful guilt? Can honour
Atone for shame? The Future for the Past?
Alas! where may I flee, where shall great deeds
Henceforth be done? My own dear land shall see me
No more for ever, or listen to my voice,
Or hear ev'n of my deeds. And strength of arm,
Or might of spirit, put forth in the sight
Of strangers, when already years have writ
Their pictures, and their shadows on the heart,
Ev'n could we put them forth, when that sad heart
Burns low with wasted efforts, and the arm
Is wither'd with the pitiless frosts of Time,
Are but as flickering fires blown on by winds
Of Winter, not the noonday glory, welcom'd
By glad eyes, and a thousand happy hearts
And living tongues of well-beloved friends.
Ah me! 'tis only solitary tears
Can cleanse the heart gnaw'd by remorseful pains,
Till Death, that comes to all, comes doubly welcome
Unto its weariness. And even now
Methinks this heart is dead; no future passion
Shall fill its hollow calm, no rapturous moment
Expand it as of old, and lift it up
Above the evil day, and passing cloud.
Ev'n hope, the star that follows the sunk sun,
Shall set, and leave it in the gloomy hush
Of apathy's cold night. Alas! alas!
For he, who fights with justice and the just,
Fights with the Gods, who turn his strength, and counsels
Against himself, and make him his own fate.
This have I done; and envy, like a dream,
That starts the troubled dreamer from his bed,
Led me with shut eyes, and with naked feet
O'er perilous ridges, over starless roofs,
And when I wake, I find that I am fallen
And creep away, wounded and wondering.
My eyes are open'd, and the Fates have drawn
The curtains of my soul, and shown me there
Dark mystery within of prides and hates,
So that from mine own presence I recoil
As from an outward horror! O my friend;
Time, whose swift plumes are never swift enough
To youth, and hot ambition, when we lie
Under a load of our own evil deeds,
Seems all too slow, as to a wounded man,
Whose racked moments are alive with pain,
And in their agony dilate and grow
To days, and months, and years; yet even then
I pray him still to linger in his flight
That I may feel once more some touch of peace,
Ere I go down unto the twilight shores,
Where wretched ghosts are wailing. Let me live
Till I have wept enough to cleanse away
The bitterness that eats into my heart;
Or until memory, in the deeps of age,
Loses the shape and substance of midlife,
And only o'er the torrent of those years
Sees the green shores of Youth. And then come death,
And not till then; that I may not lament,
Whatever penal fines await me then,
That I have died too soon. I warr'd in vain;
I warr'd against the Gods. I warr'd with Right,
And that just man, whom the according tongues
Of a whole people throned and look'd unto,
As to a fixed sun; I have done ill.
But he shall never hear that I have named him
Henceforth with slanderous words, or breath of scorn,
Or made his virtues look like hunchback'd dwarfs
In the thwart lens of envy; twisted words
Of wisdom, till they seem'd as foolishness.
But, in whatever lands henceforth I tread,
Though he may hear no more of me, my voice
Shall pay him back the debt of gratitude,
The sumless debt of gratitude for life;
That men may know that better men than I,
Proud restless heart, grow under Lesbian suns.
One man at least is there, who in his soul
Together binds together all men's virtues,
Knowledge, and fancy, modesty, and strength,
Love without fear, and wisdom without scorn.
This, Melanippus, might seem strange to thee,
And thou wouldst say; Is our Alcæus mad;
Or hath some great enchantment wrought this change
On pride, and fury, and the thirst of power?
Strange it may seem, but it is even true.
Yes, I am changed; but not the thought alone
Of wasted years, and disappointed hopes,
Ambitions quench'd, humiliations borne,
And boastful strength turn'd into impotence,
Have made me thus. No, friend, thou know'st enough
Of sad Alcæus, to know this at least,
That, as a raging flame will hiss and roar
Against the pouring clouds, and burst again
To tenfold fierceness after, so with me,
Disaster, suffering, wounded vanities,
And public scorn, ev'n retributions just,
Kindled but to a more concentred heat
This savage heart of mine. Bear with me, Sappho.
Stript naked, and become a common mark,
I should the more defy the vulgar eyes
Of little hates; and, coil'd up in disdain,
Die as the scorpion pierced with its own sting;
But never yield to natures less than mine.
Than mine! What was it work'd this wondrous change?
Thou art my friend; to thee I may confess,
'Twas not the arms, nor arts of Pittacus,
Nor common voice of men, nor common sense,
That might not stint the honour due to him;
'Twas not his power that conquer'd this ill soul.
No! no! 'twas something they had never dream'd,
Stronger than thunderbolt, or adamant,
An old familiar word, a homely virtue,
And little thought of in this fiery time;
'Twas kindness, lovingkindness!’ Thus I wail'd,
And murmur'd, seeking shadowy silence most,
As though apart I spoke unto my friend,
As though he heard me, and could answer me.
But when I look'd up in the light again,
I saw no more the fair home of my friend;
The mountains lay beneath the purple sea.