The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Alexander and Hephestion.
Alex.
My master ofttimes, the wise Stagyrite,
Condemn'd the Passions, branded them as a yoke
Which Action's strenuous sons should scorn to bear,
And chiefly praised the Tragic Muse for this,
That, showing these as monsters, she with fire
Of Pity and Terror cleanses the clear soul
Lifted above all passions. This is Troy!
Dreamland ends here.

Heph.
Alas! how small an urn
Suffices for the earth-o' erstriding dust
Which one time shook the world!

Alex.
Must they too shrink,
Simois, and yon Scamander! Children ford
The flood that drown'd Greek warriors! Here the Sphinx
Makes banquet large: her riddle's hard to read.
That Ten Years' War, what fruit thereof remains?

What empire lives, its witness and its crown?
What shall we say? That those were common men
Made large by mists of Time? Or shall we rather
Conclude them real, and our age a fraud;
Determine that in them old Homer saw
Some greatness hidden from the blinded herd;
Foresaw some far result?

Heph.
Sir, from Achilles
Descendeth not Olympias?

Alex.
Ay.

Heph.
Through her
The spirit of the Strong Ones came on you:
I make my answer thus. The Trojan War
Begins its work decreed—in you begins it:
It finds not end in ashes and a song:
The empire you shall found must stand its witness.
But hush! The Tomb is here: the headstone o'er it
Half lost in brambles!

Alex.
(Anointing the pillar on the grave of Achilles).

Mighty Sire, Achilles!
Lift from the dimness of the dolorous realm
Thy face upon thy son! In it—I see it—
Survives, though sad, the unvanquishable youth;
In it alone. The phantom of a spear
Is all that now can weight that phantom hand
Which awed the Atridæ; and as though chain-bound
Move the swift feet that once outsped thy mother's
Bounding from wave to wave; yet, not the less,
Monarch thou walkest. 'Mid the Strengthless Heads
That, reverent, round thee flock—like thee lamenting,
Despite the embalm'd purpureal airs and gleam
Immeasurable of amaranthine meads,
Lamenting still the strenuous airs of earth,
And blasts from battlefields; like thee detesting

That frustrate, stagnant, ineffectual bourne
Where substance melts to shadow—lift, great king,
Once more from out the gloom a face sun-bright,
Elysium's wonder, on thy son's, and hear him:
To thee this day he consecrates his greatness:
Whate'er malign and intercepting Death
Detracted from thy greatness he concedes thee;
Remands thee from the gulf the deed unborn;
Yields thee, ere won, his victory and his empire:
This is the anointing, this the sacrifice,

Wherewith he crowns thy tomb.

[After a pause.

The night descends.
Hephestion, I depart.

[Hephestion crowns the pillar on the grave of Patroclus, and rejoins Alexander.
Alex.
You tarried:—wherefore?

Heph.
For justice's sake, and friendship's. Is there room
For nothing, then, but greatness on the earth?
I crown'd that other tomb.

Alex.
What tomb?

Heph.
It stood
Close by, the loftier;—greater love had raised it;
Patroclus' tomb.

Alex.
'Tis strange I marked it not.

Heph.
These two were friends.

Alex.
Ay; nor in death divided.

Heph.
Therefore, despite that insolent cynic sect,
The gods have care for things on earth.

Alex.
Hephestion!
That which Patroclus to Achilles was
Art thou to me—my nearest and mine inmost.
In them, not lives alone, but fates were join'd:
Patroclus died; Achilles follow'd soon.

But lo, that glare! Abydos glances forth
Through the olive copse far off. A thousand wrinkles
Even now run up Parmenio's wintry brows
Shaping our battle's scheme. It rests not with him;
Yet be it his in fancy!

University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.—Troy: near the Tomb of Achilles.