 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
Dyseris—Orestes—Simus
DYSERIS
And our son
Is he so voiceless, when these men have scorned
His father's ashes, and the general realm
Cracks under my weak hand? No word, my son?
ORESTES
Why should I speak, my mother, or why refrain?
You know I am but shadow of your will.
You will do things after your desire
And not my counsel. Therefore am I dumb
But most obedient. Say, I am a boy:
Call back the envoys, use thy smoothest tongue,
Or blow red-hot defiance down their throats,
How should I care? I can play even and odd.
DYSERIS
So is my care repaid with sullen words,
So is my mother's love held love of power.
Women, I charge you that ye hate your sons,
Leave to the spoiler all their heritage,
Guard nothing for the boy, or he will say
“Thou hast usurped an honour that is mine.”
I tell thee, boy, thy dumb obedient ways
Are rank rebellion. Say, thou wilt be king;
Hath a king then no mother, hath Zeus set
No law of nature binding even these?
Is this fair world one godless, loveless jumble,
Full of strange beasts and evil-lusted things
Wrangling together for a greasy hide?
Nay, in God's name, I will put off this power:
Get me a little wood-lodge, and mope there,
Teaze wool and weep, correct one serving-maid,
And creep down to Larissa once a-year
To get me a new girdle, and taste a cup,
At my son's palace-gate.
SIMUS
By Pallas, queen,
This is an idle contest with thine own.
Let thy son rest; resign ye both the power:
So shall these men have answer of the god
Whose shrine this house has thickened with much gold;
This shall the god remember in our need,
And save us with his wisest oracle.
ORESTES
O mother, there is no oracular voice
So fit to guide a man and keep him noble
As his own spirit. By my father's grave,
By the last clasping, mother, of his hand,
Leave me to sit an hour upon his seat
And give these men their answer. For I know
It is a peaceful god that Simus keeps
To oracle his bidding, a calm god,
Even if a man shall smite him in his face;
Willing of hostage, a poor mild weak god,
Crying to Crannon, ye are great my lords,
Deign, ye great lords, to set your iron heels
Upon our upturned faces.
DYSERIS
Simus, go,
Bring us the god's word, for by this we stand.
Heed not this peevish boyhood. If he rail
Against the gods, how shall he spare his own?
DYSERIS
And our son
Is he so voiceless, when these men have scorned
His father's ashes, and the general realm
Cracks under my weak hand? No word, my son?
ORESTES
Why should I speak, my mother, or why refrain?
You know I am but shadow of your will.
You will do things after your desire
And not my counsel. Therefore am I dumb
But most obedient. Say, I am a boy:
Call back the envoys, use thy smoothest tongue,
Or blow red-hot defiance down their throats,
How should I care? I can play even and odd.
DYSERIS
So is my care repaid with sullen words,
So is my mother's love held love of power.
Women, I charge you that ye hate your sons,
Leave to the spoiler all their heritage,
Guard nothing for the boy, or he will say
“Thou hast usurped an honour that is mine.”
I tell thee, boy, thy dumb obedient ways
Are rank rebellion. Say, thou wilt be king;
207
No law of nature binding even these?
Is this fair world one godless, loveless jumble,
Full of strange beasts and evil-lusted things
Wrangling together for a greasy hide?
Nay, in God's name, I will put off this power:
Get me a little wood-lodge, and mope there,
Teaze wool and weep, correct one serving-maid,
And creep down to Larissa once a-year
To get me a new girdle, and taste a cup,
At my son's palace-gate.
SIMUS
By Pallas, queen,
This is an idle contest with thine own.
Let thy son rest; resign ye both the power:
So shall these men have answer of the god
Whose shrine this house has thickened with much gold;
This shall the god remember in our need,
And save us with his wisest oracle.
ORESTES
O mother, there is no oracular voice
So fit to guide a man and keep him noble
As his own spirit. By my father's grave,
By the last clasping, mother, of his hand,
Leave me to sit an hour upon his seat
And give these men their answer. For I know
It is a peaceful god that Simus keeps
To oracle his bidding, a calm god,
Even if a man shall smite him in his face;
Willing of hostage, a poor mild weak god,
Crying to Crannon, ye are great my lords,
Deign, ye great lords, to set your iron heels
Upon our upturned faces.
DYSERIS
Simus, go,
Bring us the god's word, for by this we stand.
Heed not this peevish boyhood. If he rail
Against the gods, how shall he spare his own?
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |