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The In-Gathering

Cimon and Pero: A Chain of Sonnets: Sebastopol etc. By John A. Heraud

Heraud, John A. (1799-1887)

CIMON AND PERO,

THE MYTHOS OF THE PLANT.

SCRIPTURAL PARAPHRASES.

THE ONE AND THE MANY.

PSALM CXXVII.

THE BRIDES OF VENICE.

II.

III.

IV.

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CIMON AND PERO,

AN ANCIENT STORY IN MODERN VERSE.

“PUTARET ALIQUIS HOC CONTRA RERUM NATURAM FACTUM, NISI DILIGERE PARENTES PRIMA NATURÆ LEX ESSET.” Valerius Maximus, 1. 5, c. 4.

“THE STARRY FABLE OF THE MILKY WAY
HATH NOT THY STORY'S PURITY.”
Byron.

I

Sad as dern Eve to moody Mariner,
After a day of rain upon the Sea;
White-headed Cimon heard the Sentencer—
By you who ruled in Argos, once the free,
Death-doomed, though death on him was shading fast—
And, guarded, from the Demiurgi passed.

II

By party hate had Cimon been accused,
Of noble sentiments and angry speech,
On popular Authority abused,
That, where it ought to learn, presumed to teach:
And so the partial Judges sentence spake,
And him condemned unheard, for faction's sake.

III

Stone-hearted men; whom nought to pity moved,
Nor age, nor rank, nor bearing bold yet meek:—
For what in other eyes made him beloved,
They hated him, and wore an iron cheek—
Though the stern Gaoler's felt the big drops roll,
And hard of heart wept for the brave of soul:

IV

For agèd Cimon, and the harsh decree,
That bade his hand perform the doom of death—
“Needs not anticipate his time,” said he,
“By murther, though judicial; soon his breath
Will of itself surcease, of food bereft.”
Hence in his cell untouched was Cimon left.

V

Fair Pero! thou hast sought thy Sire in vain,
For where he used to haunt, he had not spoke.
At length, suspicion flashed on Pero's brain,
How noble manners might the time provoke;
Filial, she found the public prison straight,
And (for 'twas night) crouched down before the gate.

VI

What clamour she could make from time to time
She did assay;—but deaf those portals were:—
The lock was mute,—its wards refused to chime
What had been music to her listening ear:—
So when no hope remained, despair she brooked,
And watched the pitying moon that paler looked.

VII

How long ere Day would break:—“O, laggard Day!
What keeps thee back? Is't Envy? or is't Spite
Small room, methinks, for either. Nay, O, nay!
Thou carèst not for me—forsaken quite!
Why should the horses of the Sun make haste?
Or veilèd Eös, offspring undebased?

VIII

“Freeborn Equestrians! ye do little reck,
Whom armèd heel of rabble Power may spurn,
Or rude Scorn trample on the prostrate neck!
Moreover, ye are heavenly—and do burn
In your immortal glories unconsumed!
Man wastes—dies; and his ashes are inhumed.

IX

“O ye! O ye! ye are sacred from all grief—
Or, were ye not, yet still it were the same!
'Twere to risk all, to render me relief—
Why should for me too-early morning flame?
Let the great World sleep on—while, huntress dear,
Chaste Artemis pursues the Shades of Fear.”

X

Saying these words, she hushed within her heart
Impatient murmurs; till the Hour came on,
That chillest hour, when all the Stars depart,
Save one, Eösphorus, great Eös' son,
Who, with divine indifference, precedes
His Mother's golden chariot and white steeds.

XI

Helius succeeded soon, her radiant brother,
Apparent from the glowing Oriënt:
Bright laughed one Argive hill, and then another;
Next smiled the vales, and rivers dimpling went;
And on the stony step, where Pero sate,
Morn beamed, as if to mock her sad estate.

XII

But she would not be mocked even by the morn,
And answered with like cheer; within her veins
A warmer current flowing, life re-born;
And now the end foreseeing of her pains,
She rose as if from sleep that strength renews,
And smiled through tears, like Eös through the dews.

XIII

So, bold of heart, again she beat the gate,
And, as it chanced, though at such early dawn,
The Gaoler up, she had not long to wait.
Crouching and trembling like a listening fawn,
She heard the key placed in the iron wards,
And therein turn, and turn—until the guards

XIV

Were all unlocked. And so wide open stood
The dreary entrance of the prison house,
To her not dreary in her filial mood;
A temple rather, where her virgin vows
Might be to Zeus appaid, . . pure worshipper;
And that rude Keeper was a priest to her.

XV

Each speechless looked the other in the face,
And were of one another understood;
No words were needed from such maiden grace;
Therefore, by nought save her sweet aspect wooed,
He led her to the cell where Cimon lay—
To her a shrine that veiled a god from day.

XVI

Such to her heart was her majestic Sire,
So truly loved, so faithfully adored,
In like degree; . . as if her heart were fire,
And all in it, still upward tending, soared;
And love were worship, and mere piety;
Like Eros wingèd for his native sky.

XVII

Like Psyche with her lamp, she stood—as meek—
But he on whom she gazed was not the Boy
Of light and flowing locks and rosy cheek—
Hoar Saturn, rather than the young-eyed Joy,
He seemed—in some old cavern slumbering—
So grey his hair—in mien so like a king.

XVIII

The Boy incarnates but a Principle—
This in her heart was living, unabused,
In heavenly abstraction, capable—
And in her countenance is now effused,
Beholding there her father in repose,
Serenely solemnized above all woes.

XIX

Well too might Sage of that grey Man have said,
Heroic person of some Truth divine
Best in such reverend form were symbolèd—
And such he might be—for he gave no sign
Of Pero being by;—the very Sleep,
Perchance, that couched aforetime on the Deep.

XX

And what if Death—that shall at last,—it seems,—
O'er hushèd Night, and her sole progeny,
Laughter and Woe, Change and Sleep's self, and Dreams,
Dread Nemesis, Old Age, and Discord, lie
Brooding with Mother Chaos? Ha! the thought
Has in her aspect alteration wrought.

XXI

So to his silent mouth her pensive lips
She presses tenderly, that she might feel
Whether the breathing Spirit had met eclipse:
That filial kiss might make no vain appeal—
And Cimon on his Daughter's oped his eyes,
Each with mute questions and unspoke replies.

XXII

Words flowed at length, but, in advance, implied
Beginning, and into the midst of things
Ran voluble, as at the height of tide—
“O Father!—awful in thy sufferings—
For if the good must to the bad yield thus—
Less old the gods indeed than Erebus !”

XXIII

“Arraign not Fate,”—said Cimon, loyally
Religious—“eldest of all things is She—
Next Chaos, the pure space, whose energy
Made Earth, and Tartarus and Love to be:
Darkness and Night, her issue, wed each other—
And Night bore Day and Æther to her Brother.

XXIV

“Earth was the Genetrix of Heaven,—to whom
She brought forth children, who the Titans were—
Whereof, old Saturn from his Son met doom,
In vain avoided, empire's destined heir.
Thus even the gods are subject unto Fate,
And taxing them we sin against her state

XXV

“Inviolable, more than forest huge,
Which no known foot hath entered, deep, obscure.
Far from my soul the sceptic's subterfuge!
Not I would pierce the Mystery—but endure.
The last retreat of Science be the first—
Herein is Wisdom—therein thou wert nurst.”

XXVI

“Sage Sire!”—then answered Pero—“sweet from thee,
Divine philosophy's severest lore
Falls on my ear, like starry harmony.
Hence learn I not to question, but adore—
Lo! I submit. The Will of Fate be done—
Change known by Heaven, on Earth may be begun.”

XXVII

Thus each the other cheered, as sitting there,
Discoursing on the dungeon-floor, till stirred
In both keen hunger toward other cheer,
For body, as the interchanging word
Late fed the mind; and Cimon there forlorn
Had needed food, a day and night and morn.

XXVIII

Yet nought thereof spake he, in silence stern
Resolved what malice had imposed to bear;
Till Pero's appetite new-edged, in turn,
By her night-watch and the sharp morning-air,
She said—“But we want food”—then rose and went,
While Cimon mutely smiled at her intent—

XXIX

She went, and asked the Gaoler, as of course,
For bread, or for what else might be their fare,
In that rude home wherein they dwelt perforce:
He heard her with grave looks, a rigid air;
And, with a moving brow, denial made,
And even to bring in nourishment forbade.

XXX

Then she knew all the peril that hung o'er
The life of her belovèd Father dear—
And passed into the cell, and him before
Sate face to face, and looked like sculptured Fear—
But from the resignation of his eye,
She gathered patience great o'er agony.

XXXI

Oh! mightiest force of filial Passion—strong
As Love maternal—strongest of all love—
That, on that face resigned, doth still prolong
Her contemplation, as without remove,
Intense, enquiring of evasion strange—
For that wild fear an ever blest exchange!

XXXII

So long she looked, her eyes seemed fixing—blind—
But not with tears—they wanted that relief:—
Then rose her hands instinctive, undesigned,
Up to that forehead so serene in grief,
And on each side containing it, embraced—
The while her eyes its every wrinkle traced.

XXXIII

At once their founts are touched—they gush—they flow—
And her sweet lips feel motion, and rain down
Kisses with tears upon that face and brow.
Then in her arms enfolded, as a crown,
She cushions on her bosom that grey head,
And clasps it close, a charge of love and dread.

XXXIV

“My child! my child! and I am now thy child,”
Said Cimon; “as thy child, I slumber now
Upon thy breast, as lovingly beguiled,
As on thy mother's, Pero! once didst thou.
O, happy she, who to her grave departed,
A blessèd Wife, no Widow broken-hearted!”

XXXV

“Ah, Father!” she replied, “ah, Father! Father!
Oime! oime! when on her breast I lay,
Fit nutriment my infant lips might gather;
A river there of life had fount and bay,
And there I couched and, at the very spring,
Quaffed milk and honey, without stint or sting.

XXXVI

“Warm was the pillow of her breast to me;
Cold mine to thee, though zealous my desire—
Cold as they fable Charity to be,
Which is itself a well of liquid fire—
The gods have put a thought into my heart,
It must be they—I glow in every part!”

XXXVII

Hereat her simple chiton she removed,
And bared one globe of virgin snow to view—
That he who gave her being so beloved,
As she an infant from her mother drew,
Might draw life's nurture thence, in this extreme
Then Cimon wept,—as at his Daughter's dream.

XXXVIII

He feared that sorrow had to phrenesy
Bewrayed her pious mind. But she did place
The nipple to his gums, and thirstily,
Taught by first nature or of special grace,
He sought to inhale, as prompted by despair,
And appetite grown fierce,—the exhausted air.

XXXIX

Nor backward she to help; her fingers pressed
The juicy swellings of that nervous orb;
But most her Will she passed into her breast,
Most potent to dispose and to absorb,
And to secern, from all parts into one,
The life of all:—O miracle! 'tis done!

XL

O, Miracle! beyond all ever writ—
O, admirable Piety! O, Wonder
Of filial Love! O, Work, past all the wit
Of Nature, yet which she must suffer under,
And aid in its creation! O, the Might,
Glory and Truth of Virtue's inward Light!

XLI

All things that are descend. Flame and all plants,
Though upward growing, still by base and root
To downward centre cling. The Heart still pants
For the Heart under it, in attribute;
Man first loves Woman, . . she reciprocates;
Parental love on children gravitates.

XLII

But the return is tedious, and, though made,
Is never equal, nor is alway sure;
Needs to be fed, excited, or 'twill fade:
Hence Piety we prize as insecure—
Urge as a Duty—as a merit claim—
And crown, if constant to the end, with fame.

XLIII

But Pero's piety was more than this—
A love aspiring as by native right,
And to its source returning unremiss,
Easy in its ascent and exquisite—
In the immunity of spirit, freed
From all save mandates by itself decreed.

XLIV

The Mother of her Sire, and he her Son—
O, Victory of Mind—of Moral Power
O'er natural impediment fordone—
Yet no inversion of her legal dower:
The Law of Nature but o'er Nature rules,
Now and for ever—only now it schools.

XLV

For the Profound itself is the Sublime,
The Height and Depth are both identical:
On the round Earth we stand, and Heavenward climb,
But seek it too beneath us, circling all—
Above and Under are but words!—Away!
Power daunts the soul—she speaks, and we obey.

XLVI

O, Power of Piety! the world shall feel,
And hold in everlasting memory
This high example of thy holy zeal.
Great Power! I bow before thy majesty!
And with new force now turn again to tell,
After such pregnant instance what befell.

XLVII

Thus day by day was Cimon visited
By pious Pero, and thus day by day
Was with her milk as by a mother fed.
And duly as she came and went away,
The Gaoler searched, but found on her no food;
Till grew his wonder to solicitude.

XLVIII

Hence he resolved that, on the morrow, he
Would keep strict watch upon her, and steal in
To Cimon's cell, and learn the mystery.
She came as she was wont—(the wreath to win
Of triumph for her deed!)—and to her Sire
Gave the full breast, quenching his famine's ire.

XLIX

Heedless of all but him, o'er him she bent
Her heavenly face, how happy and how fair!
In loving contemplation reverent.
It was a vision beautiful and rare—
A god had worshipt, had he seen the twain,
And wished him mortal, such renown to gain.

L

She heard not, when the Gaoler oped the door
A little space; and, looking, was amazed,
And, by his wonder led, came them before.
His heart leapt up, his eyes with light were dazed,
A radiance seemed to rainbow them about;—
And, having knelt, he prayed, and then passed out.

LI

Straight with himself awhile he did consult:
It chanced the Senate were in session then,
In grave deliberation difficult;
For strife had grown 'mong democratic men,
They who had doomed to death now feared to slay,
And felt themselves as those who would betray.

LII

Thus Murther raged and Malice—and the strong
Bore down the weak until a stronger came—
So Force was Law, and Violence no wrong.
Bruit being heard in Athens of the same,
The people purified their market-place,
As if all Greece partook of the disgrace.

LIII

Hence Shame appeared in Argos, and men hid
The blushing visage from their neighbours' view,
And the loud demagogue was shunned and child.
Therefore the Senate now had met anew—
And there the Gaoler witnessed at the bar
Of facts surpassing Nature's rule by far.

LIV

No wonder that incredulous they heard—
And would depute a Senator to go
To Cimon's cell, while they thereon conferred:
The tale proved true, ye gods! their tears did flow:
And all unto the spot repaired with speed,
That pious sign—that Miracle to heed.

LV

Then they believed that in the human heart,
Was something noble—regal—nay, divine—
And gave acknowledgement, in generous part,
To them who in that cell had reared a shrine—
And with one voice pronounced old Cimon free,
Themselves first knowing then true Liberty.

LVI

The light of virtue penetrated through,
From Pero's goodness, into souls else dark,
And they perceived its brightness pure and true.
Nor failed they, in the mien of both, to mark
The quiet dignity of conscious rank,
Patient and loving, dutiful and frank.

LVII

Thereafter, in full council they decreed,
An expiation unto Zeus the mild,
A sacrifice for those they made to bleed—
So that the blood, in civil quarrel wild,
Ruthlessly shed, atoned for thus might be;
Blood flowing in the veins of men born free.

LVIII

—Yes!—there are things of beauty—full of beauty
As wassail-cups with wine! So rich our theme
In Power and Piety, in Love and Duty;
Hence hath been hallowed like a prophet's dream.
Ye ancient Hearths! and ye eternal Fires!
Like you, it kindles, elevates, inspires.

Darkness.