 | Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature |  |
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MARSYAS.
A MIGHTY minstrel on a morn of summer
Came to Arcadia, singing songs divine;
And all the people gathered from the pastures,
From dale, and mead, and brambly mountain side,
And from the flowery banks of blue Meander,
From hamlets, and from villages far scattered;
From mill and smithy, mart and portico;
And from the green recess of grove and forest,
Came young and old, the merry and the mournful,
The thoughtful and the thoughtless, high and lowly,
And all to listen to a Poet's song.
Came to Arcadia, singing songs divine;
And all the people gathered from the pastures,
From dale, and mead, and brambly mountain side,
And from the flowery banks of blue Meander,
From hamlets, and from villages far scattered;
From mill and smithy, mart and portico;
And from the green recess of grove and forest,
Came young and old, the merry and the mournful,
The thoughtful and the thoughtless, high and lowly,
And all to listen to a Poet's song.
O song, divinest ever breathed to mortal!
It caused the eye to glow, the pulse to throb,
The brain to reel with beauty and delight;
It moved the barren heart to fruitful tears,
And warmed the coldest blood to martial frenzy,
Waking all passion and all mystery
By touches masterful. 'T was now a storm,
Rousing and chafing the quiescent sea
To wrath sublime and thunderous hills of foam;
And now a whispering breeze 'mid lily flowers,
Breathing sweet odours and delicious calms.
It caused the eye to glow, the pulse to throb,
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It moved the barren heart to fruitful tears,
And warmed the coldest blood to martial frenzy,
Waking all passion and all mystery
By touches masterful. 'T was now a storm,
Rousing and chafing the quiescent sea
To wrath sublime and thunderous hills of foam;
And now a whispering breeze 'mid lily flowers,
Breathing sweet odours and delicious calms.
“The mighty Poet! is he god or man?”
Exclaimed the people. “Is he man or god,
Who sings these songs, and sways us to and fro,
Ev'n as he listeth? If he be a god,
Let us kneel down and give him reverence!
And if he be a man, of men the chief,
Let us intreat him that he be our king:
For lo! his words are wisdom, and his songs
Fill us with thoughts too mighty for our speech,
But clear in his, as planets in the sky.
Lo, he is mighty! Let him be our king!”
Exclaimed the people. “Is he man or god,
Who sings these songs, and sways us to and fro,
Ev'n as he listeth? If he be a god,
Let us kneel down and give him reverence!
And if he be a man, of men the chief,
Let us intreat him that he be our king:
For lo! his words are wisdom, and his songs
Fill us with thoughts too mighty for our speech,
But clear in his, as planets in the sky.
Lo, he is mighty! Let him be our king!”
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And thereat Marsyas—chief of critics he—
Spake to the crowd. “O foolish multitude!
To be so smitten with an idle tune,
Made for his pastime by a shepherd boy!
He hath not studied in the schools of art!
He cannot sing! his words are emptiness!
His lyre is out of tune! and what he saith
Hath been said better fifty times before.
Go, idle boy! Dig gardens, plough the fields,
Or tend the kine, and vex thy soul no more,
Nor us, too busy in a world of care
To give attention to thy songs or thee.”
Spake to the crowd. “O foolish multitude!
To be so smitten with an idle tune,
Made for his pastime by a shepherd boy!
He hath not studied in the schools of art!
He cannot sing! his words are emptiness!
His lyre is out of tune! and what he saith
Hath been said better fifty times before.
Go, idle boy! Dig gardens, plough the fields,
Or tend the kine, and vex thy soul no more,
Nor us, too busy in a world of care
To give attention to thy songs or thee.”
“Thou fool!”;the poet said. “Who made thee judge,
Or gave thee license to let loose thy tongue?
Who judges poets should himself have won
The garland and the crown. Who sounds the deeps
Of mighty natures should have eyes to sean
The lengthening line to which the plummet pends.
Who measures heavenly harmony should hear
The heavenly music in his own true soul.
What hast thou done, presumptuous! or canst do?
Sing, that the people who have ears to hear
And hearts to feel may judge 'twixt thee and me.”
Or gave thee license to let loose thy tongue?
Who judges poets should himself have won
The garland and the crown. Who sounds the deeps
Of mighty natures should have eyes to sean
The lengthening line to which the plummet pends.
Who measures heavenly harmony should hear
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What hast thou done, presumptuous! or canst do?
Sing, that the people who have ears to hear
And hearts to feel may judge 'twixt thee and me.”
Angry and scornful, Marsyas snatched the lyre,
And struck the quivering strings with rude bold hand,
And sang a limping song of Love and Wine,
Misty and harsh, that jangled out of tune,
Soulless as croak of frogs within the marsh,
Or twittering beak of sparrows on a bough.
And all the people laughed. The minstrel's eye
Gleamed fiery wrath; his red lips curled with scorn;
His stature doubled to heroic bulk;
And all his visage brightened with disdain,
And dazzled the beholders as he spake.
And struck the quivering strings with rude bold hand,
And sang a limping song of Love and Wine,
Misty and harsh, that jangled out of tune,
Soulless as croak of frogs within the marsh,
Or twittering beak of sparrows on a bough.
And all the people laughed. The minstrel's eye
Gleamed fiery wrath; his red lips curled with scorn;
His stature doubled to heroic bulk;
And all his visage brightened with disdain,
And dazzled the beholders as he spake.
“And this thing sits in judgment on the gods,
And calls itself a critic! Fool! rash fool!
Know 'tis Apollo's self whom thou hast scorned,
And hear thy fate. Not for a poor revenge
Unworthy of the poet or the god,
But for example to thy kind and craft—
Example to be fresh till end of time—
I flay thy skin from thy presumptuous flesh,
And nail it to a tree to rot or tan,
That gods and men may see the punishment
Of envious churls and disappointed knaves,
Who strive to trample genius in the mire,
And hate the heavenly fire that warms them not!”
And calls itself a critic! Fool! rash fool!
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And hear thy fate. Not for a poor revenge
Unworthy of the poet or the god,
But for example to thy kind and craft—
Example to be fresh till end of time—
I flay thy skin from thy presumptuous flesh,
And nail it to a tree to rot or tan,
That gods and men may see the punishment
Of envious churls and disappointed knaves,
Who strive to trample genius in the mire,
And hate the heavenly fire that warms them not!”
Quick as with lightning flash the deed was done.
The victim raised one agonising shriek,
And then was mute for ever. On the tree
The bleeding trophy hung; and ere the crowd
Could draw one breath for wonderment of awe,
Apollo's place was vacant, and the sky
Shone with a slanting ray of purpled gold,
On which he mounted, swift as light, to Heaven.
The victim raised one agonising shriek,
And then was mute for ever. On the tree
The bleeding trophy hung; and ere the crowd
Could draw one breath for wonderment of awe,
Apollo's place was vacant, and the sky
Shone with a slanting ray of purpled gold,
On which he mounted, swift as light, to Heaven.
| Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature | |