 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Phaedon.
New shout; chant, rising from ten thousand throats;
Mingled with Bacchic cries, and dancing foot!
Who páss by, tríp all with ecstatic looks!
Cebes.
They a World transfigured see, hymning the Goddess.
Criton.
Socrates,
(returning to himself.)
As many Gods, so many sanctuaries!
Criton.
Following the more part ón, from shrine to shrine;
They linger this day out. Other make haste,
To pluck them herbs, meet for the bodys health;
So those were gathered ás Demeters priests
Allege, with dew-drops hoary ón their leaves.
Cebes.
Figuring wan tears, that dívine Mother shed;
Suing far Echo, of sád Persephones voice.
Criton.
All háving thus dúly accomplished and performed;
And left their several shrines bedecked with flowers:
Will all this mingled multitude, át third morrow;
With merry jest and song, and garlands crowned,
Return inítiate.
Phaedon.
Mén, wives, thrálls and strangers;
What is it all these look for, that flow by us?
Criton.
Holiday, brave garments, humanfellowship;
'Tis better than a fair. Whereto put this:
Pilgrims return, with honour, to their hearths;
Their estimation, ín the market-place,
Increased.
Cebes.
With bodies sanctified and merit;
Gained, gainst lives' ending and dark day of Death.
Socrates.
Can aught the beasts conceive, of human thought?
No more can fleshling wight, of few days' life;
Reach unto, imagine, reason of aright,
The hidden counsel, óf immortal Gods.
As soon a potters amphora might contain;
All billows of yond sea-plains glistering flood.
Phaedon.
How can Mans soul, that labours sore for meat;
Conversing dáily in gúileful market-place;
Attain to righteous life?
Socrates.
Reach heaven our spirits,
May with each breath; and wíth high Gods converse.
Phaedon.
Dark ís thy speech!
Criton.
Speak plainly, O Socrates, to us.
Cebes.
Divinest thou aught of death?
Criton.
'Tis that we ask!
Declare once openly thou, thy very thought.
Socrates.
Flesh born of flesh, must turn again to dust.
Criton.
Shall, quencht the lively spark, that Sélf was in us: . . .
Cebes.
We révert thither, whence we issued forth?
Phaedon.
Or purged thereby, the mist of mortal sense;
And memory of Lifes disease, in Worlds unrest . . .?
Cebes.
Exhale mongst echoes óf Gods Universe?
Criton.
When daweth a day, whereín we ourselves are not;
But ás one of late Winters fallen leaves:
Remaineth there aught, we dream not of, for ús?
Cebes.
Can any interpret, chant Demeters priests
Recite in their rapt mood?
Phaedon.
Shall ferry, on wings of Light,
Our spirits and tower to some celestial coast?
Stands Socrates sílent!
Cebes.
Fállen in sóme new trance.
Criton.
Stands on one sole.
Phaedon.
Like pillar, that bears up
Some noble architrave!
Cebes.
A way he hath;
An ecstasís whích him táketh, whenso the Voice,
Which harbours in his breast, speaks with his spirit.
Criton.
Thus stands wise fowl of great Athena Herself;
As we it, on our drachmas, see impressed.
Cebes.
When mantleth she her wing; as merrily mocks,
In that last Comedy of his; who saw it not?
Our Aristóphanes; whéreat men laughed fast.
Criton.
Clods those, on marble benches; blindborn brood;
Which that day made wise Socrates, their lewd sport!
Mongst the night-watch, so many as I have asked;
Averred, Athenas bird stands seldwise thus.
But Socrates no more minds our trivial talk.
Cebes.
I yesterday heard him cite that Orphic Verse;
Soul to the body is, wherein it doth lodge:
As dream of lyre is, to the chords and wood.
Should both consenting sound of one accord.
Socrates
(returning to himself.)
. . . And live in Faith of Thé Eternal Good .
Who dares impeach His Justice! No man knoweth;
To what intent Gods made and marred the World.
Nor whether Gods made men, or Man made Gods.
New shout; chant, rising from ten thousand throats;
Mingled with Bacchic cries, and dancing foot!
Who páss by, tríp all with ecstatic looks!
Cebes.
They a World transfigured see, hymning the Goddess.
99
Sign ís, that the first pilgrims nigh now strait;
Wherein herôon stands of Orpheus;
Who went down quick to gates of Tartarus.
That wíth his gilded lyres soul-ravishing sound,
Tamed beasts and birds. Even rocks and rooted trees;
Followed, as had they ears, his wavering steps.
Wherein herôon stands of Orpheus;
Who went down quick to gates of Tartarus.
That wíth his gilded lyres soul-ravishing sound,
Tamed beasts and birds. Even rocks and rooted trees;
Followed, as had they ears, his wavering steps.
Where Orpheus stayed, those stood him ranged around.
And do so éven untó this day, remain.
Reported is, that even swift tumbling streams,
Their liquid foot sustained; whose rumbling floods,
Lulled had the measured melodies óf his verse.
And do so éven untó this day, remain.
Reported is, that even swift tumbling streams,
Their liquid foot sustained; whose rumbling floods,
Lulled had the measured melodies óf his verse.
Who in the vaward of this Pilgrimage march.
Wont in that place them, twixt twin cliffs disperse;
Each after their devotion and intent;
Chanting some Orphic canticle ás they wend
Forth, seeking hallows móngst the sacred rocks;
Friends, and companionships, visiting óratories;
Which, éach fratérnity best reputeth of.
Wont in that place them, twixt twin cliffs disperse;
Each after their devotion and intent;
Chanting some Orphic canticle ás they wend
Forth, seeking hallows móngst the sacred rocks;
Friends, and companionships, visiting óratories;
Which, éach fratérnity best reputeth of.
Socrates,
(returning to himself.)
As many Gods, so many sanctuaries!
100
Following the more part ón, from shrine to shrine;
They linger this day out. Other make haste,
To pluck them herbs, meet for the bodys health;
So those were gathered ás Demeters priests
Allege, with dew-drops hoary ón their leaves.
Cebes.
Figuring wan tears, that dívine Mother shed;
Suing far Echo, of sád Persephones voice.
Criton.
All háving thus dúly accomplished and performed;
And left their several shrines bedecked with flowers:
Will all this mingled multitude, át third morrow;
With merry jest and song, and garlands crowned,
Return inítiate.
Phaedon.
Mén, wives, thrálls and strangers;
What is it all these look for, that flow by us?
Criton.
Holiday, brave garments, humanfellowship;
'Tis better than a fair. Whereto put this:
Pilgrims return, with honour, to their hearths;
Their estimation, ín the market-place,
Increased.
Cebes.
With bodies sanctified and merit;
101
Socrates.
Can aught the beasts conceive, of human thought?
No more can fleshling wight, of few days' life;
Reach unto, imagine, reason of aright,
The hidden counsel, óf immortal Gods.
As soon a potters amphora might contain;
All billows of yond sea-plains glistering flood.
Phaedon.
How can Mans soul, that labours sore for meat;
Conversing dáily in gúileful market-place;
Attain to righteous life?
Socrates.
Reach heaven our spirits,
May with each breath; and wíth high Gods converse.
Phaedon.
Dark ís thy speech!
Criton.
Speak plainly, O Socrates, to us.
Cebes.
Divinest thou aught of death?
Criton.
'Tis that we ask!
Declare once openly thou, thy very thought.
Socrates.
Flesh born of flesh, must turn again to dust.
Criton.
Shall, quencht the lively spark, that Sélf was in us: . . .
102
We révert thither, whence we issued forth?
Phaedon.
Or purged thereby, the mist of mortal sense;
And memory of Lifes disease, in Worlds unrest . . .?
Cebes.
Exhale mongst echoes óf Gods Universe?
Criton.
When daweth a day, whereín we ourselves are not;
But ás one of late Winters fallen leaves:
Remaineth there aught, we dream not of, for ús?
Cebes.
Can any interpret, chant Demeters priests
Recite in their rapt mood?
Phaedon.
Shall ferry, on wings of Light,
Our spirits and tower to some celestial coast?
Stands Socrates sílent!
Cebes.
Fállen in sóme new trance.
Criton.
Stands on one sole.
Phaedon.
Like pillar, that bears up
Some noble architrave!
Cebes.
A way he hath;
An ecstasís whích him táketh, whenso the Voice,
Which harbours in his breast, speaks with his spirit.
Criton.
Thus stands wise fowl of great Athena Herself;
103
Cebes.
When mantleth she her wing; as merrily mocks,
In that last Comedy of his; who saw it not?
Our Aristóphanes; whéreat men laughed fast.
Criton.
Clods those, on marble benches; blindborn brood;
Which that day made wise Socrates, their lewd sport!
Mongst the night-watch, so many as I have asked;
Averred, Athenas bird stands seldwise thus.
But Socrates no more minds our trivial talk.
Cebes.
I yesterday heard him cite that Orphic Verse;
Soul to the body is, wherein it doth lodge:
As dream of lyre is, to the chords and wood.
Should both consenting sound of one accord.
Socrates
(returning to himself.)
. . . And live in Faith of Thé Eternal Good .
Who dares impeach His Justice! No man knoweth;
To what intent Gods made and marred the World.
Nor whether Gods made men, or Man made Gods.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |