 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
141
LA BELLE HÉLÈNE.
I sat in my small loge, five francs' worth,
At the Variétés, unknown, ignored,
And heard, in its mad Parisian mirth,
How the thousand-throated audience roared.
At the Variétés, unknown, ignored,
And heard, in its mad Parisian mirth,
How the thousand-throated audience roared.
With all its volatile rompish glee,
Do I often view that gay play yet,
As when, a wave in the living sea,
I stared at the stage through my good lorgnette.
Do I often view that gay play yet,
As when, a wave in the living sea,
I stared at the stage through my good lorgnette.
It was travesty under its wildest spell,
It was sad Melpomene, grand, serene,
With her stately peplum tucked up well,
To frolic in French à la Colombine.
It was sad Melpomene, grand, serene,
With her stately peplum tucked up well,
To frolic in French à la Colombine.
The Belle Hélène—who has forgotten it?
That mass of incongruous lights and shades—
That making a new French roof to sit
On the Parthenon's haughty colonnades!
That mass of incongruous lights and shades—
That making a new French roof to sit
On the Parthenon's haughty colonnades!
That blending of most antipodal things—
Old reverend Homer stretched on the rack—
Sublime Agamemnon, a king of kings,
Keeping time to the tunes of Offenbach!
Old reverend Homer stretched on the rack—
Sublime Agamemnon, a king of kings,
Keeping time to the tunes of Offenbach!
142
The mighty Achilles made to forget
Both prince and demigod in a trice,
And Calchas, the awful soothsayer, set
To playing at “Goose” with loaded dice!
Both prince and demigod in a trice,
And Calchas, the awful soothsayer, set
To playing at “Goose” with loaded dice!
It is all so droll that my lips, I know,
Give lusty share to the laughter brave;
But my mirth has a mournful thought below,
Like the darkness under a sparkling wave!
Give lusty share to the laughter brave;
But my mirth has a mournful thought below,
Like the darkness under a sparkling wave!
I remember the dead heroic days,
The reckless sin of the Spartan wife,
The black ships thronging the blue sea-ways,
And the ten wild stubborn years of strife!
The reckless sin of the Spartan wife,
The black ships thronging the blue sea-ways,
And the ten wild stubborn years of strife!
I think of how many solemn scenes
In that old majestic story dwell;
Of slaughtered heroes and weeping queens,
Of woful appeal and wailed farewell!
In that old majestic story dwell;
Of slaughtered heroes and weeping queens,
Of woful appeal and wailed farewell!
I see Andromache strive to check
The tears from a soul that sorrow racks,
With one white arm about Hector's neck
And one round the babe, Astyanax.
The tears from a soul that sorrow racks,
With one white arm about Hector's neck
And one round the babe, Astyanax.
I see, at the fatal fearful hour,
Pale Iphigeneia wait to die;
Or Helen stands on the Scæan tower,
And curses life with a bitter sigh.
Pale Iphigeneia wait to die;
Or Helen stands on the Scæan tower,
And curses life with a bitter sigh.
Cassandra, crying her people's doom,
Disdained of those that should heed her most;
Lonely Penelope, at her loom,
On desolate Ithaca's gray coast.
Disdained of those that should heed her most;
Lonely Penelope, at her loom,
On desolate Ithaca's gray coast.
143
And saddest of all, in pathos sweet,
Old white-haired Priam, a suppliant one,
Low-bent at the proud Pelides' feet,
To beg the corpse of his dearest son!
Old white-haired Priam, a suppliant one,
Low-bent at the proud Pelides' feet,
To beg the corpse of his dearest son!
So these and so other legends kept
The feet of memory wandering slow
Near the hearts that throbbed and the eyes that wept
Two thousand shadowy years ago!
The feet of memory wandering slow
Near the hearts that throbbed and the eyes that wept
Two thousand shadowy years ago!
And I said to myself, “Those tricks of song,
Those can-can follies that half appall,
Those odd buffooneries, witty and wrong,
Are sorry ways to remember it all.”
Those can-can follies that half appall,
Those odd buffooneries, witty and wrong,
Are sorry ways to remember it all.”
“And yet,” I mused, “it is surely best
That the meanest weed on a grave should grow
Than that barren sods lie above the rest
Of the crumbling slumberer below!
That the meanest weed on a grave should grow
Than that barren sods lie above the rest
Of the crumbling slumberer below!
“And here on this busy and fickle earth,
It were wiser, doubtless, did one confess
Even such sham memories more of worth
Than voids of utter forgetfulness!”
It were wiser, doubtless, did one confess
Even such sham memories more of worth
Than voids of utter forgetfulness!”
| Fantasy and Passion | |