 | Timoleon |  |
Scene I.
—A Street in Corinth.Timoleon.
[Pacing up and down with an air of perplexity.]
I am Timoleon the Corinthian, this
Corinth, my native city, blest of heaven,
In that no foreign arm her fort profanes
With hostile occupation, nor—worse ill,
Since harder to be quelled—exhausts her life
The intestine sore of home-bred tyranny;
Therefore abroad much dreaded, therefore too
Much loved of all her children, of none more
Than me, who have known and loved her from a child.
Yes, yonder proud pile is the citadel,
Acrocorinthus southward on sheer rock,
High o'er the sister-seas. I am not mad,
2
No, nor yet risen a pale perturbèd shade,
To scare the living, from the uncharnelled dead;
These are the same broad hands have slain or sayed
In rout and onset many a friend or foe:
Why, then, what ails me?—Let me say it again,
I am Timoleon, this my native Corinth,
These all my neighbours, wont to greet me fair
With kind ‘good morrow,’ and chat i' th' market-place,
As free folk will, of politics and war,
Then sigh for our poor sister Syracuse,
And call God's curse on tyrants. Now all's changed
In a night, as though some foul usurping dream,
That morning should have murdered, braved it out
Into broad day, and clothed the waking world
Of substance with its lying livery.
God wot, I am not Dionysius,
To flay to-morrow whom I feast to-day,
And trim the scale of State too high for men
By sinking manhood to below the beasts:
And yet my friends, when I would question them
What all this turmoil argues, rush me past
With chalky faces, seeming not to hear.
Why, were the pest on them from door to door
So fierce as erst on Athens, when the dead
Ousted the quick and rotted as they fell,
3
The plague that lowers upon us, a black cloud
Of treachery, whose big drops are bristling spears,
They would not yet deal so with an old friend,
To lock the secret from me. I must know
The truth—what makes us strangers; and indeed
Hither there speeds who from his face should seem
Bursting with eager news—my brother's kinsman,
Æschylus! Now pray heaven he prove not dumb!
Æschylus.
Timoleon here!—a loiterer!—hast not heard?
Timoleon.
No, nor can guess, unless the Gods have struck
Corinth with general madness, or transformed
Me to the body of a beast, that none
Of my old friends should know me; but since thou
Still tak'st me for a man, cease gaping, speak;
Solve me the riddle.
Æschylus.
Hast thou not heard—thy brother—
The chief men slain—riots in the citadel,
Tyrant of Corinth?—Now canst understand?
Timoleon.
Thy words pass through mine ears, and stun my brain,
But leave no record of intelligence.
4
Thus fares the seaman when he strikes, but soon
Recovering sense gets heart to shout for aid,
Or thrust from shore, or bale the settling ship,
So heaven may help him at his pinch.
Timoleon.
Say'st thou
Tyrant? Timophanes!—My mother's son!
Æschylus.
My sister's husband! At the dead of night,
When all good citizens were fast in sleep,
Damn'd treason was awake, ay and abroad;
With those four hundred mercenaries, men
Kept by the State in his command to watch
'Gainst outward wiles, he murdered in their beds,
Unable to suspect a fall so deep,
The chief of those who named him; then at dawn,
High on the shoulders of the cut-throat crew,
Was trumpeted forth despot.—Whither now?
Push not the event so fast: there is much need
We were deliberate in what's left to do.
Timoleon.
I go to entreat him, and, despite himself,
Win him to virtue and his saner mind:
May be 'tis not too late; the thought of power
5
He surfeits of his sin: experience breeds
Hate in one moment of a life's desire.
Try we persuasion first; perchance even now
He knows how barren and how bleak it is
To stand unlov'd, unhonour'd, and alone
Upon the frozen tops of sovereignty.
Æschylus.
First shall the rain wash cool red Etna's throat,
Ere mild words melt a tyrant in his ire.
Timoleon.
Nay, he will hear me: thou rememberest how,
That dreadful day, six hours of fighting o'er,
Our weaker wing fell back before the weight
Of Argos and Cleonæ: he was down
Among the horse-hoofs, blinded with his blood,
And stunned with blows; a score of troopers rushed
With lowering spears to make an end of him,
When I, from out the foot-men, seeing it, ran,
Bestrode his body, and bore him safe away,
Myself, too, sorely wounded, and my targe
Thick-planted with a copse of quivering steel—
I shall prevail with him for that day's sake.
Æschylus.
And if thou failest, then?
6
O Æschylus!
He was my brother, my own mother's son!
But if his heart relent not—come away.
Chorus.
With trembling steps from out the neighbour-street,
Consumed with fear as with a fire,
Hurrying I heard
A sound, a voice, that made my heart to beat,
And both ears tingle with desire,
A glorious word.
But irresistible in man
The inborn lust of power and of oppression
Springs, and takes root, and strikes as deep as hell,
Choking each pure and chastened thought,
Each holier passion,
That in the meek submissive mind doth dwell
By prayer and sober vigilance unwrought:
As some vast yew in a dark mountain-dell,
Alone since years began,
Immovable, immutable,
Inexorable, in overweening pride
Spares not to spurn aside,
Starved from the kind earth's womb,
Each dwarfish flower that sickens at its feet
In uncongenial gloom,
7
From morning-tide till even-tide,
Of bitter skies or sweet,
Of sun, or rain, or equal airs that fan,
Or shine, or fall,
Alike on all.
Yea, ev'n though at his birth he may inherit,
Through fate's mysterious plan,
The flower of all the earth for his possession,
Riches beside, and wisdom, ay and merit,
Beauty and wit to please,
Yet be content with these,
Except his power be throned for men to fear it,
His robe be edged with hate for him to wear it,
He neither will nor can.
So was it with the ancient stock
Of Sisyphus and Cypselus,
That of Æolian, this of Dorian strain;
The Dionysian vulture ravins thus
Upon the well-loved isle,
Our home, we left erewhile
Across the main:
Now in a strange land lights the curse on us,
Ne'er to be lifted from our necks again,
Unless the tyrant shall be taught
By some insuperable shock,
8
Warned by the everlasting pain
Of Sisyphus to set his pride at naught,
Nor give to lewd desires too loose a rein.
Oh! that in the deep there were,
Or above the starry skies,
Refuge for the wanderer
Out of sight of all men's eyes!
Far away from all men's voices,
In some silent paradise
Broken by no ruder noises
Than the low melodious singing
Of the nymph as she arises
From the fountain ever springing
At our feet, while far above
In blue ether softly winging
Floats the Cytherean dove;
Where the minstrel to his lyre
Tells no harsher tale than love,
And no heart with fiercer fire
Burns, nor lights with emulation
Of immoderate desire.
Never king from all creation
Reigned there, nor the lord of war
Fell like night upon the nation
Scared with thunders of his car;
9
Pass there, nor the lips that are
Lovers of delirious laughter
O'er the wine-cup's mad excess,
But such cheer as earth's glad daughter
Brings the reaping-folk to bless,
After sojourn long returning
From dark Hades, none the less
Fills each heart with tender yearning,
With sedate and holy pleasure
Hated of the undiscerning;
Where no lust of hoarded treasure
Tempts the sailor o'er the seas
To forsake love, home, and leisure,
For the stormy Cyclades,
Of past ills insatiate,
Till a darker chance than these
Finds him, and he learns too late
Wisdom when he comes to die,
And his house stands desolate.
Whoso keeps before his eye
Sober aims, and in his mind
Blest contentment, him will I
Praise, whatever Fates be kind,
Whatso cruel; but, for me,
Careless what men lose or find,
10
Where nor pride nor passion is,
Nor delight, nor misery,
Nor friend's curse, nor traitor's kiss,
Nor hearts sick with vain devotion,
Nor the vain desire of bliss,
And, all hope and all emotion
Ended, as is surely best,
Under earth, beyond the ocean,
Somewhere, somewhere to find rest.
1st Semichorus.
Hark! did ye hear a sound of lamentation
Float hither on the south wind tremulously?
2nd Semichorus.
Again! and louder! as the acclamation
Of them that shout for new-born liberty!
1st Semichorus.
A wail of cities, as when earth is shaken,
And the sea trembles and the mountains sway!
2nd Semichorus.
A cry of captains, when the towers are taken,
And men ride onward to divide the prey!
1st Semichorus.
Ah! did ye hear a dirge of many voices,
As when they mourn around a dead man's bier?
11
Nay, as the bridegroom with his friends rejoices,
And the mirth deepens, as the bride draws near.
1st Semichorus.
Hark yet! a voice of weeping and of cursing
Red-handed deeds of death-deserving wrong!
2nd Semichorus.
Nay, but a nation its great acts rehearsing,
With praises and solemnity of song.
1st Semichorus.
Chill trembling holds me, as when night-clouds thicken,
And no star pricks the horror of the sky.
2nd Semichorus.
Mine eye grows brighter, as the faint hills quicken
Rejoicing that the dawn is by-and-by.
[Enter Orthagoras.
1st Semichorus.
Say, prophet, what dark tidings hast thou brought,
What dire forebodings big with misery?
2nd Semichorus.
What present comfort of deliverance wrought,
And what glad promise of good days to be?
Orthagoras.
Ye ask not vainly, since one day brings forth
A double birth of twin-born hope and fear.
12
Pray all the right may prosper; but do thou
Unriddle the dark tenor of thy speech.
Orthagoras.
Ladies, have heart, and let the gods be praised;
Uprooted lies the new-blown tyranny.
Chorus.
How sayest thou? sown and withered in a night!
By man's hand vanquished, or the mightier Fates?
Orthagoras.
By swift award of following destiny,
As one blood-guilty pays the murderer's debt.
Chorus.
How stricken? or who the executioners?
Prithee, forbear not, but set forth the tale.
Orthagoras.
He fell heart-pierced by a triple blow;
For I, with his bride's brother, Æschylus,
And his own blood, Timoleon, now sole son
Of Demariste, childless otherwise,
Nay childless at this hour, could curses kill,
We three went forth without much hope indeed,
But since Timoleon's love would have it so,
Making assay to bow the tyrant's pride
By stern expostulation. At the foot
Of his new home, the citadel, he met us,
Guarded on either side, in front, behind,
From all foes outward; from his inmost self,
Worst foe of all, unguarded, and the fangs
Of that coiled serpent fattening at his heart.
Timoleon first went forward, with grave eye
Greeting the tyrant; we, some steps withdrawn,
Paused while the brothers met, but spake no word.
Thrice he importuned him with tears and prayers,
That would have moved a multitude, whose eyes
Had never wept before; first by that oath
Sworn to the State: ‘the State is dead,’ laughed he,
“There is no restitution in the grave.”
Next by the loved knees and reverèd head
Of their one mother, and one common blood
Betwixt them twain, a twin fraternal strength
From birth to manhood, never broke till now:—
He stood as one stone-deaf, or as a man
That hears strange language in an alien tongue.
Last he conjured him by the strong compulsion
Of his once rescued life, by that dear debt
Of intense toil and battle-agony,
And blood poured forth like water, to requicken
The stamped-out life of Corinth, and wash clean
Her stainèd honour: otherwise he stood
There to reclaim his gift, adjust the odds
Even to the uttermost inexorably.
This was a summons he could understand;
For the boar-swine at bay, no longer man,
Hissed out defiance 'twixt clenched teeth, and foamed
Infatuate, as the Furies drove him on.
‘How, fool!’ he shouted, ‘think'st thou to outface,
Outbrave, and overbear me by the weight
Of one life's vantage? Should I spare thee now
Unscathed for this, the paltry debt is paid
A hundred times and over; but have care,
Mouth me no more thy curs'd remembrances
Henceforth: new fashions come with the new day.’
For I, with his bride's brother, Æschylus,
And his own blood, Timoleon, now sole son
Of Demariste, childless otherwise,
Nay childless at this hour, could curses kill,
We three went forth without much hope indeed,
But since Timoleon's love would have it so,
Making assay to bow the tyrant's pride
By stern expostulation. At the foot
13
Guarded on either side, in front, behind,
From all foes outward; from his inmost self,
Worst foe of all, unguarded, and the fangs
Of that coiled serpent fattening at his heart.
Timoleon first went forward, with grave eye
Greeting the tyrant; we, some steps withdrawn,
Paused while the brothers met, but spake no word.
Thrice he importuned him with tears and prayers,
That would have moved a multitude, whose eyes
Had never wept before; first by that oath
Sworn to the State: ‘the State is dead,’ laughed he,
“There is no restitution in the grave.”
Next by the loved knees and reverèd head
Of their one mother, and one common blood
Betwixt them twain, a twin fraternal strength
From birth to manhood, never broke till now:—
He stood as one stone-deaf, or as a man
That hears strange language in an alien tongue.
Last he conjured him by the strong compulsion
Of his once rescued life, by that dear debt
Of intense toil and battle-agony,
And blood poured forth like water, to requicken
The stamped-out life of Corinth, and wash clean
Her stainèd honour: otherwise he stood
There to reclaim his gift, adjust the odds
14
This was a summons he could understand;
For the boar-swine at bay, no longer man,
Hissed out defiance 'twixt clenched teeth, and foamed
Infatuate, as the Furies drove him on.
‘How, fool!’ he shouted, ‘think'st thou to outface,
Outbrave, and overbear me by the weight
Of one life's vantage? Should I spare thee now
Unscathed for this, the paltry debt is paid
A hundred times and over; but have care,
Mouth me no more thy curs'd remembrances
Henceforth: new fashions come with the new day.’
Then stood Timoleon with averted eyes,
Silent a space and praying: at last he cried,
‘Traitor! thy blood be on no head but thine;
The hour is come: to Corinth I devote
The life, would heaven I had not lived to save.’
So, ere the guards could aid him, he was dead;
For we three closed upon him, who speechless, blind,
Trembling with rage intolerable, fell
Dead, as a bull is butchered, heavy as he
And helpless; while the huddling herd behind
Stood stupid, gazing on Timoleon.
Then, as bewitched by Circe's sovereign spell
Or pale Medea's midnight sorceries,
Each at the mute commandment of his eye
Confounded, no word spoken, with one clang
Dropped spear and buckler, all the savage soul
Tamed in them, and the wordy tumult lulled.
Silent a space and praying: at last he cried,
‘Traitor! thy blood be on no head but thine;
The hour is come: to Corinth I devote
The life, would heaven I had not lived to save.’
So, ere the guards could aid him, he was dead;
For we three closed upon him, who speechless, blind,
Trembling with rage intolerable, fell
Dead, as a bull is butchered, heavy as he
And helpless; while the huddling herd behind
Stood stupid, gazing on Timoleon.
Then, as bewitched by Circe's sovereign spell
Or pale Medea's midnight sorceries,
Each at the mute commandment of his eye
15
Dropped spear and buckler, all the savage soul
Tamed in them, and the wordy tumult lulled.
I know not how the general sort may judge
The fact or him; he is above the cast
Of their conjecture: but should Corinth need,
In some strait pass of fortune, one to guide
Safe for the open, or untwist the knots
And tangles of inextricable war,
Let Corinth look to this man, for by heaven!
I have not known his like. So, fare you well.
The fact or him; he is above the cast
Of their conjecture: but should Corinth need,
In some strait pass of fortune, one to guide
Safe for the open, or untwist the knots
And tangles of inextricable war,
Let Corinth look to this man, for by heaven!
I have not known his like. So, fare you well.
Chorus.
Farewell; but may the gods o'errule the event
To thy forecasting and the hopes of all.
[Exit Orthagoras.
[Enter Demariste.
Demariste.
Sicilian women, have ye seen my son?
The accursed, the abominable, who slew,
Not in fair field an open enemy,
Victorious in the chance of blow for blow,
But with base wile, but as a beast is slain
Caught in the toils, unconquerable else,
A mightier and more honourable man,
His brother, chief of Corinth, flower of men,
The first-fruit of my labour?—Woe is me!
16
Like unfed birds, nor have one word to say?
Oh! brutish, past all utterance! knowing not
The natural human bond of kin to kin!
With his own hand he sought him, with his hand
Slew him, and had no pity. Ah! my son,
First-born of me and goodliest! Have not I—
Ah! yes, how often have I seen, and smiled,
Thee elder in the house, thyself a babe,
With tender uncontrol of tottering feet
Lead him full gently—thy hand clasping his,
His hand that slew thee! Oh! his eye was kind:
With smiling show of smooth hypocrisy
He sought thee out to kill thee: impious!
With fair speech aping virtue, that beside
His blackness blackest midnight should be noon.
Shall I not rail at heaven? what plague have they
From all their storehouse of fanged agonies,
Red-heapèd horrors of the wrath of God,
What curse, what fiery bolt, what barbèd pang
Unlaunched, that I should fear it—that would not fall
Faint as shed feathers from the snow-cloud's wing,
Soft stars of showery coolness wavering down
Upon some scorch'd and thunder-rifted scalp
Of pine in gorges of Edonian hills?
Oh! me! of all the mothers in all the world
17
Borne of my body, and suckled at my breast,
Two fair men-children to my pride, erewhile
A double flower and crown of married days,
First of the fairest am untimely reft,
Cut off in summer's height, nor next can turn
To my sole prop remaining, but must find
A two-edged monster of devouring hate,
More fell than Scylla or that prodigious seed
Sprung from the blood of Uranus and Ge,
Porphyrion and Alcioneus, or what
Of foul abortive shape dread Perseus slew,
Or that Chimæra, or the envenomed folds
Of hyperboreal Ladon,—worse than these,
Yea, than Orestes' self to her that bare him
More bitter, and a deadlier birth to me.
What have ye left me of sweet, the gods and thou?
What fruit of life or labour? Behold, for love
I am filled with loathing, and with despair for hope;
And all my life falls from me, shaken and shed
From these old boughs; my name once honourable
Brought to dishonour—my so fruitful house
A desolation—all the cup of wrath
To the last scalding drop and shameful dregs
Poured on my helpless head! Lo! here I am,
Stripped bare, cut off, cut down, a barren tree,
18
Of all sweet things and bitter, save only this,
Once more to see him that was my bane, once more—
The thrice-defiled, the slayer of all delight—
To see him, and curse him to his face, and die.
Chorus.
Have patience, lady; in cursing is no cure,
Nor in relentless wrath a remedy.
Demariste.
What profit then hath patience, or what part
Honour with infamy, or I with thee?
Chorus.
Not first art thou to suffer, and with mad words
Whet more the edge of thine own suffering.
Demariste.
There is no sharpening of a woe like mine—
One murdered son, and one the murderer.
Chorus.
All healing is of silence and slow time.
Demariste.
Yet shall one curse his bitterest enemy.
Chorus.
Yea, but a mother her own flesh and blood?
19
No blood but poison, and no flesh but stone.
[Enter Timoleon.
Timoleon.
Mother, most sacred of all names, I come
To deprecate thy curses, not to sue
For pardon, howsoe'er to thee I seem
A sinner, and hateful in thine eyes to-day,
Even of all men most hateful, who was once
Thy son, beloved and blameless. Hear me plead,
Mother, nor stiffen my warm limbs to stone
With the cold gaze of unregardful eyes,
And set face frozen in hate, and firm fierce lips
Locked fast from comfortable words, till now
Soft-moulded to all shapes of tender speech.
What shall I say? thou knowest my heart, my hand,
Thou knowest I loved and slew him: knowest thou why?
Nay, for thou shrink'st as from a loathly thing,
And in thy soul unnatural hate is more
Than thy most natural sorrow. As for me,
My blood, one throb of burning agony,
Feels yet no prick of shame: for Corinth's sake,
Because his mind was set on villanies,
And his heart travailed of a deadly thing,
And his hand wrought it; because he took to bride
Power, and gat death to first-born, and with death
Ambition, monstrous enemy of man,
Falsehood, and fraud, and every vice of kings;
Because he widened his desires as hell,
And would not hear entreatment, but waxed vile,
And made his lust insatiate as the sea,
And from a healing and a help became
A common curse to country, home, and kin,—
Because of all these things, for Corinth's sake,
Yea, therefore, mother, for thy sake and mine,
I did not fear to slay him. But oh! ye heavens,
Oh! fates, how crossly have ye drawn the threads
Athwart my web of life, to tangle it!
Not only visiting the contentious man,
Stiff-necked, and insolent of hand and tongue,
Ye smite his heart with blindness, step by step
Lured on to new precipitous heights of sin,
Till he shoot over to some dreadful deep
Through the void yawn of unsustaining air,
But him too who with lowly reverent mind
On life's firm level plants a steadfast foot,
And swerves not from the right, him too ye draw
On to the same red pit, as me ye have drawn,
And for no sin of mine have made my name
An execration, and this guiltless hand
Polluted, even in its most righteous act
Of retribution, with the kindred blood
Of one far dearer than myself to me.
Oh! misery piled on misery mountains high!
Too vast a heft for Atlas, yet all heaped
On the weak pillars of one human heart!
Surely the happiest life is sad enow,
So brief of term, so bitter in event—
So many reefs and currents of the soul,
Opposing passions, contrary desires!
An even course 'twixt either foul extreme
So hard to compass, till the port be won!
But whoso in the quest of worldly gain
Makes shipwreck, or, for pleasure voyaging,
Upon some unforeseen calamitous rock
Falls foundered, losing all, though him the world
Count miserable, yet did he never seek
The highest, and hath not lost it; and e'en he
Full oft, with life escaping, timely warned,
May shape new aims, refit his shattered bark,
And, bound on some more moderate just emprise,
Pluck golden vantage from adversity.
But I have no such hope, not having fallen
Through mine own fault or folly, who never yet
In all the journey of my days divorced
Discretion from my steps, nor hurled at heaven
Great swelling words of arrogance, nor strained
Between uplifted lips to take and taste
The high-hung fruits of honour: and yet behold me
Sunk down more hopelessly in deeper mire,
And suffering deadlier defeat than he!
Are the gods just that plague their worshippers,
And for lip-service and the bended knee,
And life-long adoration of pure hearts,
Alike to guiltless and to guilty mete
One measure of life to all, one dole of death?
Or do they move by paths fortuitous,
Or bond-slaves to inexorable law
Leave men perforce to perish?—Black thought, away!
Duty is best, though hell come after it,
And heaven is far, and no man knows the end.
Out on my weak lamentings, making vile
The serene air of silent suffering!
Unworthy of me! unworthy of a man,
Who still hath striven before all aims to find
His sole advancement in the general good!
Whoso to fatherland himself hath given,
What need hath he of lowlier happiness
Or lesser loves beside it? or what sorrow
Can shake him from that service, to disown
For narrower ties his heart's allegiance?
To deprecate thy curses, not to sue
For pardon, howsoe'er to thee I seem
A sinner, and hateful in thine eyes to-day,
Even of all men most hateful, who was once
Thy son, beloved and blameless. Hear me plead,
Mother, nor stiffen my warm limbs to stone
With the cold gaze of unregardful eyes,
And set face frozen in hate, and firm fierce lips
Locked fast from comfortable words, till now
Soft-moulded to all shapes of tender speech.
What shall I say? thou knowest my heart, my hand,
Thou knowest I loved and slew him: knowest thou why?
Nay, for thou shrink'st as from a loathly thing,
And in thy soul unnatural hate is more
Than thy most natural sorrow. As for me,
My blood, one throb of burning agony,
Feels yet no prick of shame: for Corinth's sake,
Because his mind was set on villanies,
And his heart travailed of a deadly thing,
And his hand wrought it; because he took to bride
Power, and gat death to first-born, and with death
20
Falsehood, and fraud, and every vice of kings;
Because he widened his desires as hell,
And would not hear entreatment, but waxed vile,
And made his lust insatiate as the sea,
And from a healing and a help became
A common curse to country, home, and kin,—
Because of all these things, for Corinth's sake,
Yea, therefore, mother, for thy sake and mine,
I did not fear to slay him. But oh! ye heavens,
Oh! fates, how crossly have ye drawn the threads
Athwart my web of life, to tangle it!
Not only visiting the contentious man,
Stiff-necked, and insolent of hand and tongue,
Ye smite his heart with blindness, step by step
Lured on to new precipitous heights of sin,
Till he shoot over to some dreadful deep
Through the void yawn of unsustaining air,
But him too who with lowly reverent mind
On life's firm level plants a steadfast foot,
And swerves not from the right, him too ye draw
On to the same red pit, as me ye have drawn,
And for no sin of mine have made my name
An execration, and this guiltless hand
Polluted, even in its most righteous act
Of retribution, with the kindred blood
21
Oh! misery piled on misery mountains high!
Too vast a heft for Atlas, yet all heaped
On the weak pillars of one human heart!
Surely the happiest life is sad enow,
So brief of term, so bitter in event—
So many reefs and currents of the soul,
Opposing passions, contrary desires!
An even course 'twixt either foul extreme
So hard to compass, till the port be won!
But whoso in the quest of worldly gain
Makes shipwreck, or, for pleasure voyaging,
Upon some unforeseen calamitous rock
Falls foundered, losing all, though him the world
Count miserable, yet did he never seek
The highest, and hath not lost it; and e'en he
Full oft, with life escaping, timely warned,
May shape new aims, refit his shattered bark,
And, bound on some more moderate just emprise,
Pluck golden vantage from adversity.
But I have no such hope, not having fallen
Through mine own fault or folly, who never yet
In all the journey of my days divorced
Discretion from my steps, nor hurled at heaven
Great swelling words of arrogance, nor strained
Between uplifted lips to take and taste
22
Sunk down more hopelessly in deeper mire,
And suffering deadlier defeat than he!
Are the gods just that plague their worshippers,
And for lip-service and the bended knee,
And life-long adoration of pure hearts,
Alike to guiltless and to guilty mete
One measure of life to all, one dole of death?
Or do they move by paths fortuitous,
Or bond-slaves to inexorable law
Leave men perforce to perish?—Black thought, away!
Duty is best, though hell come after it,
And heaven is far, and no man knows the end.
Out on my weak lamentings, making vile
The serene air of silent suffering!
Unworthy of me! unworthy of a man,
Who still hath striven before all aims to find
His sole advancement in the general good!
Whoso to fatherland himself hath given,
What need hath he of lowlier happiness
Or lesser loves beside it? or what sorrow
Can shake him from that service, to disown
For narrower ties his heart's allegiance?
Mother, let not these red and tear-scarred eyes
Deceive thee: do not herein think to read
Weak traces of repentance; I rejoice
That I had strength to do it, had strength to leap
At once, not girl-like on the awful edge
Hang shuddering, but as some storm-fed stream
Spills in an instant over with one bound,
Clear from the cliff: yea, mother, I rejoice;
It was the dark necessity, not the deed,
That rent my soul asunder—yet, ah! yet,
If any power could change me or compel,
Check my impetuous current, turn my tide,
And hurl me back rebellious on myself,
Mother, thy curse would do it; if any prayers
Move me, thy face beseeching; if any thought,
Surely the thought of thy past tenderness
And love of old time. Nay, what idle words!
Thou knowest how I have held thee all my days
Dearest of all things living, and after thee
Him, and have deemed my life a common thing,—
If therewith I might serve you or save from shame,
So set my heart to you-ward: now all this
Is nothing, and lo! some god has sent a cloud
To rest between us, and darkened our delight,
That whatso' wave of fate roll in, at least
We have done with happiness, we two I think
For ever. Let us bid farewell to joy
Now dead and buried; yet, if thou judge me right,
We need not part from honour, but take her home
To be our chiefest and most cherished guest
On the empty throne of pleasure; and she shall bring
Fair peace, that is her fellow; and we may live
To comfort each the other; and Corinth too,
Our country, with her favour shall almost
Make light the burden of impending hours,
And with her benediction, when we die,
Console us, who have suffered for her sake.
Deceive thee: do not herein think to read
Weak traces of repentance; I rejoice
23
At once, not girl-like on the awful edge
Hang shuddering, but as some storm-fed stream
Spills in an instant over with one bound,
Clear from the cliff: yea, mother, I rejoice;
It was the dark necessity, not the deed,
That rent my soul asunder—yet, ah! yet,
If any power could change me or compel,
Check my impetuous current, turn my tide,
And hurl me back rebellious on myself,
Mother, thy curse would do it; if any prayers
Move me, thy face beseeching; if any thought,
Surely the thought of thy past tenderness
And love of old time. Nay, what idle words!
Thou knowest how I have held thee all my days
Dearest of all things living, and after thee
Him, and have deemed my life a common thing,—
If therewith I might serve you or save from shame,
So set my heart to you-ward: now all this
Is nothing, and lo! some god has sent a cloud
To rest between us, and darkened our delight,
That whatso' wave of fate roll in, at least
We have done with happiness, we two I think
For ever. Let us bid farewell to joy
Now dead and buried; yet, if thou judge me right,
We need not part from honour, but take her home
24
On the empty throne of pleasure; and she shall bring
Fair peace, that is her fellow; and we may live
To comfort each the other; and Corinth too,
Our country, with her favour shall almost
Make light the burden of impending hours,
And with her benediction, when we die,
Console us, who have suffered for her sake.
Demariste.
Snake! thou art subtle-tongued, but yet I know
What venom, for all the musical sweet hiss,
Lurks in thy lying and detested mouth.
Think'st thou to lure me too with honied words,
Monster! fresh-taught by thy most hideous act,
Then shut me in the dark of horrid jaws,
One more unnatural victim? Out, vile worm!
Crawl hence, lest my foot crush thee in thy slime!
Nay, an' thou wilt have answer, thou shalt hear:
O virtuous, all, professing hypocrite!
O spider, hanging from thy dustythreads,
To snare the unwary with fine sophistries!
O specious pseudo-patriot, robed in fair
Tyrannicidal cloak of fratricide!
Most tender cut-throat, who couldst scarcely kill
Thine only brother, so wondrous deep the love
Thou barest him! have thou thy meed of me.
25
Yea, to all kindred of humanity,
Cruel as a beast, flint-hearted, in thy wrath
Most deadly, because thou mad'st thyself a sword
Sheathed in dissimulation, sharp with hate,
To pierce thy brother, and thy lips gaped for him
And hot tongue thirsted till it drank his blood,
Therefore behold! I, Demariste, I
The womb that bare thee and the breasts that reared,
The hands that nursed thee on my knees, the lips
That sang above thee sleeping, or hushed thy cry
With low sweet murmur of fond foolish words,
I and all these in me do here revoke
Each tender office, and bid thee take instead
A mother's malediction: be thou cursed,
As now thou art hated, as all springs of love
Are dried between us, and all sweet memories
Past like the shadow of a bird in heaven.
[Exit Demariste.
1st Semichorus.
Lo, women's love for strength is as the sea,
And as vexed waters inconsolable.
2nd Semichorus.
But their wrath kindled is as raging fire
Before them, and men's hearts stubble and dry wood.
26
I pray you, friends, be pitiful to her,
That hath much need of pity, and be not harsh
Or hasty of judgment upon her and me,
As though we had sinned of our own wilfulness
Each against other. But these things are not so.
Believe me of her whom late ye heard so ourst,
So stormy of speech, proud and implacable,
No woman once more gentle, no voice more mild,
Eyes full of meekness yoked with majesty,
Fondness with grave restraint. That was not she
Lightening and thundering in our eyes and ears;
Whom sorrow hath severed from herself, till lo!
Even as her love was once, so now her hate.
But witness, O ye gods! I have not moved
Of my own will to grieve her, that no power
Less than omnipotent necessity
Had spurred me to that deed. I do not boast
The filial piety of past days—no more
Than merest acts of duty: nay, despite
Most bitter curses I am still constrained
To love her; such a debt of tender care,
But half-remembered and requited never,
Even over and above the natural bond,
Man owes to her that bare him.
That hath much need of pity, and be not harsh
Or hasty of judgment upon her and me,
As though we had sinned of our own wilfulness
Each against other. But these things are not so.
Believe me of her whom late ye heard so ourst,
So stormy of speech, proud and implacable,
No woman once more gentle, no voice more mild,
Eyes full of meekness yoked with majesty,
Fondness with grave restraint. That was not she
Lightening and thundering in our eyes and ears;
Whom sorrow hath severed from herself, till lo!
Even as her love was once, so now her hate.
But witness, O ye gods! I have not moved
Of my own will to grieve her, that no power
Less than omnipotent necessity
Had spurred me to that deed. I do not boast
The filial piety of past days—no more
Than merest acts of duty: nay, despite
Most bitter curses I am still constrained
To love her; such a debt of tender care,
But half-remembered and requited never,
Even over and above the natural bond,
Man owes to her that bare him.
Now I go
Hence with my griefs upon me: nevermore,
Corinth, in thy dear streets shall I be seen
Among the eager crowds that throng thy quays,
On traffic bent or pleasure—never more
Go forth, loved city, when the trumpet sounds
To onset from thy walls, and the sun strikes
On spear and helmet; but far hence, alone,
Girt with intolerable woes I bend
My steps, an exile, with one hope, to be
Forgotten, oh! how blest, might I forget!
And so farewell, and of your courtesy
Pray you be pitiful to her and me.
27
Corinth, in thy dear streets shall I be seen
Among the eager crowds that throng thy quays,
On traffic bent or pleasure—never more
Go forth, loved city, when the trumpet sounds
To onset from thy walls, and the sun strikes
On spear and helmet; but far hence, alone,
Girt with intolerable woes I bend
My steps, an exile, with one hope, to be
Forgotten, oh! how blest, might I forget!
And so farewell, and of your courtesy
Pray you be pitiful to her and me.
[Exit Timoleon.
Chorus.
O dark, strange, swift,
Unfathomable mystery,
Thought-baffling, sight-outsoaring,
Of life's vicissitude!
Past man's imagination
The endless alternation,
Wherewith light mortals drift
In helpless misery
From good to ill—from ill again to good,
Over the waves of Fate,
And think to find for their imploring
Some quiet anchorage,
Safe from the tempest's rage,
When these abate,
Or on dry land a refuge from its roaring.
Unfathomable mystery,
Thought-baffling, sight-outsoaring,
Of life's vicissitude!
Past man's imagination
The endless alternation,
Wherewith light mortals drift
In helpless misery
From good to ill—from ill again to good,
Over the waves of Fate,
And think to find for their imploring
28
Safe from the tempest's rage,
When these abate,
Or on dry land a refuge from its roaring.
Alack! for who shall turn a page
Of that sealed book voluminous,
Which lies
Within the shadowy lap of Destiny,
And marks the term of each of us,—
Stern chronicler of hours and days,—
And who 'neath Fortune's foot shall prostrate lie,
And who shall rise
Uncrushed by her rude buffetings,
Superior to all praise?
Of that sealed book voluminous,
Which lies
Within the shadowy lap of Destiny,
And marks the term of each of us,—
Stern chronicler of hours and days,—
And who 'neath Fortune's foot shall prostrate lie,
And who shall rise
Uncrushed by her rude buffetings,
Superior to all praise?
There is no revelation of these things
From heaven, nor any end descried
Far off to earth's perplexity,
Nor any law to walk thereby,
Nor any light to guide:
The fierce brunt of outrageous opposites
Alarms on every side,
And with strange contraries
Mocks old experience,
Confounds all evidence,
And fools the wisest and most practised sights.
And one that loves himself, and longs to live
Heaped round with golden luxuries,
And lacking time alone to thrive,
Dies on an instant presently;
And one long weary of his breath,
With battle-toil forspent,
Or by cross blows of rudest accident
Crushed utterly,
Cries in his anguish upon death,
And cannot die.
From heaven, nor any end descried
Far off to earth's perplexity,
Nor any law to walk thereby,
Nor any light to guide:
The fierce brunt of outrageous opposites
Alarms on every side,
And with strange contraries
Mocks old experience,
Confounds all evidence,
29
And one that loves himself, and longs to live
Heaped round with golden luxuries,
And lacking time alone to thrive,
Dies on an instant presently;
And one long weary of his breath,
With battle-toil forspent,
Or by cross blows of rudest accident
Crushed utterly,
Cries in his anguish upon death,
And cannot die.
Wherefore 'tis meet
That ye refrain the abundance of your lips
From all vain overflow,
With temperate outcome of sharp words or sweet,
Seeing that the ends of Fate shall no man know;
For loud words lash like whips,
Quick to recoil upon the utterer,
With backward-biting blow.
Bold deeds let no man grudge,
But bold speech, being barren of all men's thanks,
Bears fruit alone of sin:
Right vain it is to judge;
Even as in battle for a bystander
Word-victory is no whit hard to win:
But if one stand amid the ranks,
When the arrow of unseen Fate comes hurtling in,
Who knows if he shall budge?
That ye refrain the abundance of your lips
From all vain overflow,
With temperate outcome of sharp words or sweet,
Seeing that the ends of Fate shall no man know;
For loud words lash like whips,
Quick to recoil upon the utterer,
With backward-biting blow.
Bold deeds let no man grudge,
But bold speech, being barren of all men's thanks,
Bears fruit alone of sin:
Right vain it is to judge;
Even as in battle for a bystander
Word-victory is no whit hard to win:
30
When the arrow of unseen Fate comes hurtling in,
Who knows if he shall budge?
Nathless we are sure, what else soe'er be taken,
And shut from sight,
There is that in all tempests shines unshaken,
A deathless light:
Who in prosperity being meek of spirit,
And clean of hands,
When the storm bursts on him is strong to bear it,
Rock-rooted stands,
And in the hurricane and most fierce commotion,
Of cataract skies,
Dares all its horrors with unquenched devotion,
Unflinching eyes,
Saith to the storm-fiend, ‘Though thy name be legion,
Haste here to dwell,
Howl, and possess you your appointed region,
My heart, your hell:’
To the lithe lightning, “Cease dumb rocks to shiver,
Shoot here, for I
Fear not the emptying of thy fiery quiver,
But fear to lie;”
Who 'gainst all tides of tyrannous aggression,
Strikes manfully,
Naked beneath the strong man's armed oppression,
Ne'er bowed the knee,
Shoots not defiance from proud lips profaning
Heaven's sovereign will,
Over himself and his own heart's complaining
Victorious still,
His name posterity shall set up for token
In doubtful days,
Him with songs sung or of the heart unspoken
Shall all men praise.
And shut from sight,
There is that in all tempests shines unshaken,
A deathless light:
Who in prosperity being meek of spirit,
And clean of hands,
When the storm bursts on him is strong to bear it,
Rock-rooted stands,
And in the hurricane and most fierce commotion,
Of cataract skies,
Dares all its horrors with unquenched devotion,
Unflinching eyes,
Saith to the storm-fiend, ‘Though thy name be legion,
Haste here to dwell,
Howl, and possess you your appointed region,
My heart, your hell:’
To the lithe lightning, “Cease dumb rocks to shiver,
Shoot here, for I
Fear not the emptying of thy fiery quiver,
But fear to lie;”
Who 'gainst all tides of tyrannous aggression,
Strikes manfully,
31
Ne'er bowed the knee,
Shoots not defiance from proud lips profaning
Heaven's sovereign will,
Over himself and his own heart's complaining
Victorious still,
His name posterity shall set up for token
In doubtful days,
Him with songs sung or of the heart unspoken
Shall all men praise.
| Timoleon | |