The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley [i.e. J. B. L. Warren] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
|
 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
Orestes—Chorus
ORESTES
Are ye so joyful that the day begins
CHORUS
Ay, for the light is warm upon our brows;
And each new hour is healer of old woes.
ORESTES
I blame you not. Be glad, old men, be glad.
If ye expect at God's hand some good thing,
Why half the gift already ye have known
In hoping it may come; and if it come not
Ye are no worse because of that sweet lie
Called hope, immortal, a strange god. Why these
Are on the very edges of their graves;
I, in my fullest youth, when most men find
Their life one dream of glory and of love,
Detest the rising of this sacred light,
That gives my kingdom joy. Poor kingship mine—
To be a king ruled by a woman's will,
To be a puppet in a soldier's hand,
To wish upon my people infinite good
And hardly ease one bondsman in a year—
So runs my life. The land is full of blood,
And the boy-king sits by and sees it shed
And may not move a finger. Irony
Of kingship, to whose glory each mean wrong
Lifts up his voice to ease it of its load:
While this same king, a shadow with chained feet
Feels heavy hands a bout its neck, and hears
A low eternal whisper, “Sit thou still;
Bide thou and wait: the glory on thy brow,
Poor mock of kingship, surely is enough.
Thou art a boy, sit still, and we will cope
With this rebellious people in thy name.
Is there no blood upon thy father's grave?
Is there no Atè floating like a dream
About these halls? Her beautiful sad eyes
Are very wakeful, and her phantom hands
Beckon for ever terrible; behind
Her white feet and the refluence of her robe,
She holds the strong hounds of her fury bound,
And one she calleth Sin and Blood his mate.”
O royal halls accursèd with great doom,
O firm pavilions of my warrior sires,
Here was your day; your changes and desires
Flared out above the heavy golden bowls,
Till Atè beckoned each one from his seat
And laid him suddenly silent full of blood.
I fear the silence of your banquet hall:
There is a ghostly lip at every cup
Along the vacant tables, and a scent
Of blood arises from the lees of wine,
And the old stains grow darker on the floor.
O grim dead faces crowded at your feasts,
I am your son, and only on my hands
There is no blood, and ye shall have great scorn
Upon your son, because I am clean of death;
But Zeus hath given me curses of your deeds
Clean as I am, degenerate I endure
The taint of your oppressions, O exult,
If so ye will, and hence derive all joy,
That in your urns ye are terrible to harm.
ORESTES
Are ye so joyful that the day begins
202
Ay, for the light is warm upon our brows;
And each new hour is healer of old woes.
ORESTES
I blame you not. Be glad, old men, be glad.
If ye expect at God's hand some good thing,
Why half the gift already ye have known
In hoping it may come; and if it come not
Ye are no worse because of that sweet lie
Called hope, immortal, a strange god. Why these
Are on the very edges of their graves;
I, in my fullest youth, when most men find
Their life one dream of glory and of love,
Detest the rising of this sacred light,
That gives my kingdom joy. Poor kingship mine—
To be a king ruled by a woman's will,
To be a puppet in a soldier's hand,
To wish upon my people infinite good
And hardly ease one bondsman in a year—
So runs my life. The land is full of blood,
And the boy-king sits by and sees it shed
And may not move a finger. Irony
Of kingship, to whose glory each mean wrong
Lifts up his voice to ease it of its load:
While this same king, a shadow with chained feet
Feels heavy hands a bout its neck, and hears
A low eternal whisper, “Sit thou still;
Bide thou and wait: the glory on thy brow,
Poor mock of kingship, surely is enough.
Thou art a boy, sit still, and we will cope
With this rebellious people in thy name.
Is there no blood upon thy father's grave?
Is there no Atè floating like a dream
About these halls? Her beautiful sad eyes
Are very wakeful, and her phantom hands
Beckon for ever terrible; behind
Her white feet and the refluence of her robe,
She holds the strong hounds of her fury bound,
And one she calleth Sin and Blood his mate.”
O royal halls accursèd with great doom,
O firm pavilions of my warrior sires,
Here was your day; your changes and desires
Flared out above the heavy golden bowls,
203
And laid him suddenly silent full of blood.
I fear the silence of your banquet hall:
There is a ghostly lip at every cup
Along the vacant tables, and a scent
Of blood arises from the lees of wine,
And the old stains grow darker on the floor.
O grim dead faces crowded at your feasts,
I am your son, and only on my hands
There is no blood, and ye shall have great scorn
Upon your son, because I am clean of death;
But Zeus hath given me curses of your deeds
Clean as I am, degenerate I endure
The taint of your oppressions, O exult,
If so ye will, and hence derive all joy,
That in your urns ye are terrible to harm.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |