 | [The lions of Mycenae, in] The Southern Student's Hand-Book of selections for Reading and Oratory |  |
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THE LIONS OF MYCENÆ.
There they rise,
The Lions of Mycenæ—rampant, stern,—
Gigantic triumphs of an elder art
That shames the best of ours;—though Ruin works
Ruthlessly on them, with a mocking smile,
Through lichen and green mosses to persuade
All colors from the rainbow and the sky,
To garnish fondly the gray hurts of Time!
The Lions of Mycenæ—rampant, stern,—
Gigantic triumphs of an elder art
That shames the best of ours;—though Ruin works
Ruthlessly on them, with a mocking smile,
Through lichen and green mosses to persuade
All colors from the rainbow and the sky,
To garnish fondly the gray hurts of Time!
Still stand these famous Lions as of yore,
Guardians of dwellings that no more demand
Protection from without. No foe assails
The City of the Atridæ; nor, within,
Clamor those warrior-hosts that once went forth,
Following the king of men! In vain we seek
The tomb of Agamemnon! Could we find,
We doubtless should behold at dawn of day,
The filial shade of his avenging son,
Close tended by the faithful Pylades;
And hear, from out the sepulchre, the cry
Of sorrowful Electra, with her urn!
Guardians of dwellings that no more demand
Protection from without. No foe assails
The City of the Atridæ; nor, within,
Clamor those warrior-hosts that once went forth,
Following the king of men! In vain we seek
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We doubtless should behold at dawn of day,
The filial shade of his avenging son,
Close tended by the faithful Pylades;
And hear, from out the sepulchre, the cry
Of sorrowful Electra, with her urn!
The tragedy, without a parallel,
Which made this Gate of Lions, and these Courts—
Now shapeless ruins—a dread monument,
Rises to vision as we gaze upon them.
There Clytemnestra comes, the terrible queen,
With horrid hands, still reeking with red gore,—
While yet she pleads for poor humanity,
In fond excuse, for that her husband slew
Her daughter, to “appease the winds of Thrace”:—
That child, o'er all beloved, Iphigenia,
“For whose dear sake she bore a mother's pains!”
Which made this Gate of Lions, and these Courts—
Now shapeless ruins—a dread monument,
Rises to vision as we gaze upon them.
There Clytemnestra comes, the terrible queen,
With horrid hands, still reeking with red gore,—
While yet she pleads for poor humanity,
In fond excuse, for that her husband slew
Her daughter, to “appease the winds of Thrace”:—
That child, o'er all beloved, Iphigenia,
“For whose dear sake she bore a mother's pains!”
The Lady Macbeth of Mycenæ, she
Had but one human sentiment to plead
To justify her passions in her lust;—
Even as the Scottish woman stayed the stroke
By her own hands, for that the destined victim
“Resembled her own father as he slept.
Had but one human sentiment to plead
To justify her passions in her lust;—
Even as the Scottish woman stayed the stroke
By her own hands, for that the destined victim
“Resembled her own father as he slept.
The passions sleep at last! The criminals
Lie in their several dungeons of deep earth,
Resolved to dust, and what is living of them
Gone to their dread account. Another fate
Works on the crumbling Cyclopean walls:
That worst destroyer, Time! As fell his stroke
As that which in his chamber smote the king,
Great Agamemnon!
Lie in their several dungeons of deep earth,
Resolved to dust, and what is living of them
Gone to their dread account. Another fate
Works on the crumbling Cyclopean walls:
That worst destroyer, Time! As fell his stroke
As that which in his chamber smote the king,
Great Agamemnon!
That a tale should live,
While temples perish! That a poet's song
Should keep its echoes fresh for all the hills
That could not keep their cities!—should preserve
The fame of those, thrice honored in their lives,
And at their dying, and in mightiest tombs,
While the tombs perish!
While temples perish! That a poet's song
Should keep its echoes fresh for all the hills
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The fame of those, thrice honored in their lives,
And at their dying, and in mightiest tombs,
While the tombs perish!
What a moral's this!—
That the mere legend of a blind old man,
A beggar, outcast, wanderer—all in one—
A chanter by the sea-side to poor sailors,
Weaving his wanton fancies, skein by skein,
So that no man shall need to weave anew,—
That his mere tale, his name and fame should live,
While cities waste away, and temples blasted
Leave bare the mortal greatness with no tomb!
That the mere legend of a blind old man,
A beggar, outcast, wanderer—all in one—
A chanter by the sea-side to poor sailors,
Weaving his wanton fancies, skein by skein,
So that no man shall need to weave anew,—
That his mere tale, his name and fame should live,
While cities waste away, and temples blasted
Leave bare the mortal greatness with no tomb!
W. GILMORE SIMMS.
| [The lions of Mycenae, in] The Southern Student's Hand-Book of selections for Reading and Oratory | |