The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell

This little tragedy shaped itself in my mind from the suggestion of two or three words in a note to a Greek Author, as I remembered them, afterwards; a poem “by a boy” (without a name) was mentioned as having come down from earlier times. The Reader is to set the time three thousand years back.

[_]

The Title is an earlier (and shorter) one than that with which it was first printed: the Poem is the same.

I.

A youth lay near the fair gulf's fringéd shore;
The noise of Corinth scarcely came so far;
But landward sounds, that, when the day is o'er,
Tell where blest homes and ended labors are.
On the broad bay, behind,
Lugged by the lazy wind,
A freighted ship drew on, towards the evening-star.

II.

The little waters, as the daylight waned,
Lagged up the beach, prattling with shell and stone;

The eastern sky was all with sunset stained,
Where the two heads of that great mountain shone.
Lower, each vale and glade
Drew in, to deeper shade,
The eye of him that gazed from that far shore alone.

III.

Still lay, bright-hued, in air, both far and wide,
All crumbled rays the sun had thrown away;
And, floating thick on the night's dewy tide,
Came smells more sweet than scents of burning day;
And then a voice,—as fair
As all the best things there,—
Scarce startling him; old, gentle, sweet, and sad as they:—

IV.

“Thou musest of the gifts that, yonder, wait
Those whom the Gods do choose with far-off ken:

Castalia's spell, and the rich, dreamy freight
Laid on Sleep's shore, for favored sons of men.
I sought one sacred gift:—
Ah! Time's waves, strong and swift,
Have swept bright looks and hopes, that made my world glad, then.

V.

“Beside a pool, where, still, two olives meet,
Threescore years since, some Delphian children played:
We built our little mole and launched our fleet,
And then along the rippling margin strayed
Watching the voyage o'er,
Till, at the farther shore,
Our galleys, one by one, on the safe strand were laid.

VI.

“Mine, ever mine, was foremost in the race,
Till, tired, our little maidens sat them down,

Whispered apart,—then sang:—one, with bright face,
Said, ‘Let our poet wear a Pythian crown!’
They wove the dark-leaved beech,
Each helping, hindering each,
Then, in child's triumph, all turned homeward to the town.

VII.

“On huge Parnassus hung a wondrous cloud,—
We children marked it,—much like yon fair show;
Again Alcestis spoke, but scarce aloud,
‘At times the mighty Shades do gather so.
(So did my mother say;)
They come not in the day,
But in still night, to walk the high woods to and fro:’

VIII.

“Shades of the great old Greeks and Barbarous men,
Whoe'er on earth had loosed some mighty song:
At times by night they wandered here, and then
What poet found the haunt of the dread throng

On that far mountain-height,
Ere dawn was lost in light,
That once, plucked fadeless flowers that to their realm belong.

IX.

“My heart beat quickly, as we gazed and walked,
For they had all praised my own childish rhyme;
Evadne, too, my sister, while we talked,
Turned her full eyes, as if I, child, might climb
Up to that haunted land;
Alcestis pressed my hand
As if she felt my heart throb at the very time.

X.

“I lost our Pythian garland in the road,
While we walked thoughtfully, and sometimes spake.
The wondrous cloud with the last sunlight glowed,
As yon cloud lately:—might not we awake,—
We three,—from early rest,
And on the mountain's breast,
Climb with fresh, hopeful hearts, high ere the day could break?

XI.

“Out of glad day, through the fair porch of eve,
Our playmates passed into the halls of sleep.
I listened long, for the great town to leave
Its noise and watchfulness, and long rest keep.
Then faltered forth, to gain
The great god's awful fane,
Scared by each far, lone cry, and the far, conscious deep.

XII.

“I shrank before the columns cloaked with shade,
And, shuddering, felt a fanning of great wings:
I dared not that chill presence to invade,
Dim with dread forms of gods and godlike kings.
I gasped my childish prayer:
I had no garland there
To offer, as men vow their gifts and glorious things.

XIII.

“Ere that fair night had reached her highest bound,
We met and grasped each other's trembling hand;

With faltering whispers scaled the fearful ground,
Three children where dread rocks and huge trees stand.
On high the broad moon rolled;
And her rays, white and cold,
From darkness, here and there, scarce won the doubtful land.

XIV.

“We kept a torrent's course, and, trembling still,
Went on and on, starting and stopping oft:
Sometimes we sat and wept, as children will,
And my cheek felt Evadne's, wet and soft:
‘Home!’ she would gently say,
“Nay!’ said Alcestis, ‘nay!’
And still we clambered on, through the dread woods, aloft.

XV.

“Hours, hours went on, and cold and darkness grew:
Still, weary and afraid, we clambered fast,
And dawn began to gray the night's deep blue:
We gained the upper woods!—The way was past!

Now need we only seek
Where the two echoes speak,
Above, below, at once, to find the flowers that last.

XVI.

“Our voices faltered, when we strove to sing:
We feared the trees, the rocks, the quivering gloom:
At length we dared our little hymn to fling
Through the thin air, where shadowy horrors loom.
Lo! at the earliest sound,
The mystic spot was found,
And there a high, smooth cliff, crowned with undying bloom.

XVII.

“Great characters upon the rock's high face
Slowly we saw, in the dim dawning light;
‘Men that were Makers,’ far up we could trace,
And then their names that had the Maker's might;

We thought not what great hand
Had made those names to stand:
We thought that at the foot a boy's name we might write.

XVIII.

“So, with weak hand, I sought to print the stone,
The little maidens sitting at my side.
‘First,’ said Alcestis, ‘make the flowers thine own!’
‘Nay,’ said Evadne, with a sister's pride,
‘Let our young poet's name
Stand on this roll of fame!’
So I, with hurrying hand, my weary labor plied.

XIX.

“Slowly the dawning grew, and slowly I
Now wrought, now rested; but Alcestis still
Said, ‘Gather first the blooms that hang on high!
Day will be here ere thou this task fulfil:
Yon peak sees it afar,
And yonder shrinking star;
First gain the fadeless flowers, then work here at thy will.’

XX.

“Four letters rudely in the stone were wrought,
And could be read, ‘A Boy,’ but yet no name.
‘See,’ said Alcestis, ‘how the peak has caught
Already daylight: soon 't will be a-flame.
It is not yet too late!
Mount where the bright flowers wait:
Flowers that, when thou art dead, will ever be the same!’

XXI.

“I tried the cliff, and climbed: my hands were sore,
And I was tired: yet I strained up the height.
The little maidens shouted, ‘Yet once more!’
I tried: I tried: I could not reach them quite.
And ah! behold on high,
Ah! all across the sky,
The day was come, at last, and dawn was lost in light.

XXII.

“My tears burst forth: in vain my sister said,
‘They are still there!’—I knew it was in vain.

It was too late.—Alcestis hung her head.
Sadly I came down to the earth, again.
‘Home!’ said Alcestis, now:
Evadne kissed my brow;
And, by our torrent's course, we toiled down to the plain.”

[XXIII.]

The little waters trickled down the beach,
And landward sounds fell, faintly, to their rest.
The dews were heavy, and that sad, soft speech
Had ceased, just when the ear had liked it best.
The young man was alone,
And great cool night was thrown
Over wide earth and sea, from far east to far west.

June 16–20, 1858.

Of Corinth.

Mount Parnassus.

Whoever drank of the water, might drink the divine spirit also.

He that slept upon Parnassus, in waking found his mind possessed by poetic inspiration, or was possessed by madness.

The city of Delphi, where was the great temple of Apollo, stood upon the mountain, a mile or more from the foot.

‘ΑΝΔΡΕΣ ΠΟΙΗΤΑΙ’ it may be read.

‘ΠΑΙΣ’—but as yet no name, it may be read.

University of Virginia Library

THE DELPHIAN CHILDREN

AND THEIR LOST HOPE.

I.

II.