University of Virginia Library

I

Once more the shores fly back, the mountains fall,
The waters dance around us; and once more
Thro' throbbing starlit night, and sunny day,
Regrets, and mournful memories were undone,
As cloud-mists by the many-colour'd morn,
By manifold swift change. What time for thought,
When vision after vision struck the sense,
And made of memory such a treasure-house,
So rich with gold and gems, that in their light
No shadows lived? And when the eyesight fail'd
To dive into the distance; and the land
Went down beneath the waters, and we saw
Only the purple deep, and the winds hush'd;
And the sail flapp'd, and the strong rowers took
Their order'd seats, Kerkolas came, and sat
Beside us. And he spoke of the fair lands
That we had glimpsed in coasting; and his words,
Made vital by his earnest truth alone,
Were living pictures; and if aught could be
Awanting to the faithful story told,
My fancy fired, and lit such colours up
That, could he have beheld them, would have made him
Relive a threefold life. For such is art
Poetic, or our nature, if ye will,
That o'er the many sorrows that we bear
Lifts us up for a moment, as the bow
Over the rainy cloud. Yet in good sooth
Far liefer did I listen to the words
Sober, and simple, than if he had wrought
Gold flowers into the tissue of his tale.
For in his truthful utterance I could trace
Heroic will, that would have made one word
Of his, in peril, or perplexity,
Stronger than clamorous threats, and prayers, and sighs;
Stronger than pity pleading through her tears.
Slowly the land of Egypt from the waves
Rose up before us; 'twas at Naucratis
I met again my brother whom I loved.
For I remember'd all our childish days;
And spake such words in secret to him, as
If he forgave not, he cannot forget;
Although he loved not honour; tho' the hours
Dropt thro' the glass too slowly for his thirst
Of passionate delights; tho' for a while
I knew he would not heed me. Yet my hope
Was strong within me that our mother's love
Had sown good seed in a rebellious heart;
My father's voice still echoed in his ears.
And when he wax'd faint with his lawless dance;
And when the flaunting Mænads had gone by,
Miscall'd delights; when he had drunk that cup,
And found the wine had left but bitter lees,
And he was sick and weary, he would hear
The old tongues calling to him, “Turn again,
My son, the mountaintop may still be scaled;
Tho' some are gone before thee, turn again!”

II

But that unconquerable love of home,
That burns ev'n in the hearts of evil men,
At last hath stirr'd us like another youth
Out of that calm, as 'twere of Death, that sleeps
Upon this ancient land of Nile—this land
Of mystery, of magic, and of marvels,
Shadow'd by structures, old as time itself;
Temples that hold the secrets of all knowledge.
Once more I long to see the waters dance
Thro' the beloved isles; the blissful shores
Of Hellas, which the olive mountains shade,
Sparkling with crested cities; where the breath
Of man goes up in voluntary song;
Where the heart lightens with eternal youth,
And sleepless power; and even the lowliest tongue
Pours forth the golden, and the peerless sounds,
By which all other sounds on earth to me
Seem as barbaric gongs, and beaten brass,
After the sweetness of a seven-strung lyre.
So we sail'd forth from the low palmy shore;
And saw the columns of the temples huge
Fall under the dark silent wastes at even;
Like earth-born giants swallow'd up again.
The westwind blew; and in seven days we saw
The towering heights of Cyprus sheening up;
And skirting by Cythera, and by Naxos,
Touch'd sacred Samos, after thirty days
Of prosperous airs. And oh! it seem'd to me,
After that solemn, hush'd, primeval land,
Its darker shadows, and its fiercer lights,
The life of that fair city, joyous, loud,
The stir of the full mart, the sails that flock'd
Into its harbours laden with the world
Like weary birds, or partings full of life,
The songs that fill'd the air, the mirth that rose
Up from the decks, the many-voiced life,
Seem'd after the weird Nile, and mystic gloom
Of its hoar cities, and their templed wastes,
Like waking from a dream of wanderings
'Mid twilight sepulchres, and scatter'd bones
Of the dead giants, in the sunlit air
And breath of morning. Now with each new day
Yet once again my heart was charm'd, and years
Seem'd to flow back; or like a river leaping
From cavernous darkness into light of noon,
Had in such moments unimagined bliss;
I clapp'd my hands, and shouted, Hellas, Hellas!
Beautiful, beautiful!
And it was then,
That Anaktoria yielded to the prayer
Of her Ulysses that she would consent
With me to visit Andros, his own home,
The dwelling of his fathers, dear to him,
As the blue Lesbian bays, and breezy hills,
And viny dales, to me and to my friend.
And so we changed our course; and with it changed
The elements around us; for the winds
Of Autumn were upon us, as we sail'd
Into the narrow pass, of evil fame,
Between Eubœa, and the lesser isle,
Into the strait of Andros; woe betide
Belated fishing boat, or laden bark,
If sudden tempest smite them 'twixt the shores.
And, as we enter'd by the perilous gate;
On the righthand the inhospitable steep
Of gaunt Caphareus, on the left the beach
And fruitful plains of Andros; from the west
Rose up a purple wall of thundercloud
Onward, and upward, and, from dismal peaks
And pinnacles, flung down into the deep
Javelins of fire, that clave the gloomy waste;
And roll'd down in a moment after them
Thunders, the thousandfold triumphant shout,
As of innumerable hosts; that smote
The crags, and drew such angry answers from them,
That the first echoes met the second peal;
And so for ever flung against each other
The awful voices never ceased. We sat,
Shelter'd from winds and waters for a while;
The hand of Anaktoria clasping mine,
And darkness round about us, only broken
By momentary lightnings, seen athwart
Night and the world of waters, shaping to us
The towering surges into very forms
Of angry Titans, showing us withal
The vessel drifting on the shallows fast,
Its head turn'd to the south and east, before
The gathering tempest; and I whisper'd low;—
“O Anaktoria; once I had a dream
Thou knowest well, of drowning in the deep:
Shall death by waters thus fulfil itself,
As 'twere in sight of home?” But she replied;—
“Alas! not we alone, weak women, pass
Away for ever; but the strong man, he
Who but for us might fight against despair,
Challenge the winds and waves, and free himself,
Must perish with us, if he cannot die
To snatch us from the death; for sure he would
If this were possible; but it is vain
To think of it; and sadder still, methinks,”—
And this we utter'd in one voice together,—
“Of all sad things, to think the noblest one
Had ransom'd our frail being with his own!
So let us die together: hark! 'tis nigh!
'Tis on us!” And a shock like earthquake smote
The vessel's keel, and flung us from our seats.
And in a moment, with the roar of floods
And hurricane, death seized on us! We knew
No more; for all was dark to sense and soul,
Ev'n as the night without its lightnings; nought
But a low murmur compass'd us; yet fear
And pain had fled away; if such be death
When it o'ertakes us, better die in youth,
And lapse to such oblivion, than await—
Like the long-suffering oak the frost and hail—
Old age that shreds us piecemeal: but we woke.
Was it a dream? Or had there been a storm,
And wreck and doom? Or had the seagods pass'd,
And laid the waters and the winds? the nymphs
Risen from their twilight chambers, where the blasts,
And tumults, that torment the upper seas,
Are only heard like whispers in a shell,
Or sighings from the woody mountaintops;
And laid us in their pearly coracles,
And borne us sleeping to a place of rest?
For all was silent round us; and the moon
Shone through a vine that rustled near the roof;
And chequer'd Anaktoria's deathpale face
With quivering light and shade. But lo! a light
Of a small lamp held in one aged hand,
And in the other an old silver cup:
One of tall stature, and boon aspect, leant
Tenderly o'er me, and a sweet voice spake:
“I am the mother of Kerkolas, child.
Drink of this wine; for it hath often staid
The doom of the wreck'd seaman, when a night
Like this had flung his bark upon the shoals,
And angry breakers; drink of it and sleep.
No fiery sparkles mingle with the draught;
But essences of wild-flowers, and such balms
As lay the tumult in the blood, and soothe
Thus heart and mind; drink of it; it shall be
That with to-morrow morn new life is thine:
But he”—she said no more but passed away
With soundless foot; yet had that little word,
The last word that she spoke, made sleep in vain.
Those words “but he” which broke off suddenly—
Like a waste land trodden at dead of night
By wandering feet that start back from the edge
Of an abyss—left me in fear and pain.
And clear, as in a mirror, I beheld
The silent image of a dreadful thing;
One stretch'd, as 'twere, in death upon the shore;
So blench'd his brow, and cheeks, so void of light
His sealed eyes; in shadow of a rock
He lies beyond the highest watermark;
And one hand clasps a carkanet I lost
Amid the stormy night. Nearer I gaze;
Ah yes! 'tis he, the brave and true; the one,
Who thought not for himself, till those who clung
About the wreck had saved their lesser lives.
He is the last, and now they call to him.
And now he dives into the roaring sea;
And now the storm, that had not done its worst
When the crew 'scaped to land, grows mightiest,
And, buffeting in vain, he is borne off
He knows not whither; sense and thought are lost;
Sure life itself; so deathly-true it seemed,
That with a cry I raised myself; and yearn'd
To follow my own spirit thro' the night,
That with my outer eyes I might belie
Fantastic terrors. Anaktoria woke,
But, ere she spoke, I heard another sound,
A murmur from without, that slowly wax'd
Into clear utterance; “Gently,” said a voice,
“Gently, O friends, if he be yet alive,
So sore bestead, and wounded; for the sea
That hath not swallow'd us, hath wreak'd itself
In vengeance on him, leaving him to die
Beneath the rock that bruised him, then drew back,
And lacking strength to harm him more, at length
Grew peaceable; gently, my fellowmen,
Lest ye arouse him suddenly, and then
That shock may be a peril unto death.”
I look'd forth in the moonlight; and I heard
Fulfill'd what in my vision I had seen.
Slowly they reach'd the shadows of the house,
And shelter of his home; sadly came forth
The aged mother, scattering hasty tears,
And drying them as quickly—'twas no time
To mourn; she knew not yet if that dread pause
'Twixt life and death would lapse to one or other—
But I could weep for him and her; could weep
For Anaktoria, whose strong spirit bow'd
Before the sorrow of so great a loss;
Yea, weep with them,—or was it for myself?
Myself—I started at the very thought,
And put it by—no more—The morrow morn,
And many morrows after that, the house
Was steep'd in silence, lest a sound, a step
Too rude, a syllable too harshly spoken,
Should be an arrow in the heart we loved.
How shall I tell what loving strife arose
Between me and my friend, each to outdo
The other in the work of piety?
The daily services, the nightly watch
Taken alternately, till the dim eyes
Began to shimmer—as the star of dawn
Before returning daybreak whispers, faint
As the first rustle of the breath of morn
Among the myrtles—usher'd welcome words,
And the self-conscious soul. And when he spoke
It was to answer our unutter'd words
And yearning wish: smiling he said, “I know
All that ye long to learn; the wonder writ
Upon your brows, and burning in your eyes,
Is not altogether for my sake,
And for the dying, and nigh quenched spark
That ye have nursed into a vital flame
By patient lovingkindness; which, full sure,
Except for that, had vanish'd ere its time.
She seeks to know how 'tis that Life and Death
Are reconciled; how 'tis the hungry sea
That snatch'd ye hath repented; how ye drown'd,
And lapsed into oblivion, and the dark,
And yet stand here the light of this old home.
'Twas that the sea that overleapt the bark,
After it grounded, felt not yet the storm
At its full strength, although it swept ye off.
On either hand the shoals were passable
By caution and by struggling; for the space
Of a brief minute ye were overcome.
And while I held thee up, O Sappho, two,
Of all our stalwart oarsmen the two best,
Lifted thee, Lady Anaktoria,
Above the blinding surf.” But here he paused,
And for a while the lifelight in his eyes
Paled as a misty star; no more he seemed
To see or heed our presence; and his voice
Sank to a whisper; but I heard his words
Faint and yet clear; none other heard but me.
“I would not trust thee, O my treasure, O
My Sappho; no, to any hands but mine;
Thou didst not know it, haply wilt not know.
But, whatsoever shall befall us two,
And if this sea shall spare, or spare me not,
Or other seas shall be my sepulchre,
This know I, dear, that I have saved a life
More precious than all others.” Then again
The lifelight lit his eyes, self-conscious thought
Rang in his voice; “When I had yielded up
My precious burthen into other hands,
Again I made for the dismasted wreck;
For there I knew less precious jewels lay,
Yet of great price: but, while I search'd for them,
The winds and sea rose into tameless might;
And in a moment every plank and spar,
Scatter'd and rent, left me more lost than they
Amid the flood blinded and without hope,
The flood that bore me onward without life,
And left me so; until I heard again
Low voices round me; and knew not if I,
A shadow, heard the whispering of the Shades.”
These last words told us only what we knew
From the brave men who found him nigh the rock,
So that I heard them not; for other thoughts
Took hold of me; quickly I call'd to mind
My vision and my anguish; and I thought
There must bè something betwixt him and me
Stronger than space and time, to show me thus
Truth's self upon the blackness of the night.
Was it the last thought that possess'd his soul
Ere he sank down in death—that he had saved
My life, the all to him—and did my soul
Go forth to meet his, and thus all he did
And suffer'd was made visible to me?
I knew not; but the weird experience
Led me to search the inner deeps of Life;
And sound for things till then unseen, unknown,
Or thought of by the wisest of this world.

III

I said the Furies, whose destroying fires
Had scorch'd my frame, had wellnigh wither'd up
All memory of the past; and whatsoe'er
Cross'd me at moments, like a stormy gleam
No sooner seen than darken'd, grew at length
More like a mist, that fancy shapes to life
Than aught of actual; memory of a dream,
Or some lost day remember'd in a dream.
But now in lonely moments I began
To wonder at myself, and started back
From my own musings: was it possible
That the old madness stirr'd within me still?
Were the pale embers, that within me lay,
Rekindling into life? I knew not how;
But all of the old sorrow that remain'd,
By little and by little, with each day
Changed into sweetness; voices of despair
To a new song; from dust of hopeless death
Sprang up spontaneous raptures, as first flowers
From wintry snows; my step grew light again,
My utterance musical; was my flown God,
Or he I took for such, who sway'd me first,
And led me the wild dance I knew not where,
Breathing upon me now? But, when I strove
To raise the wondrous shape I look'd on then,
My eyes were blind; I could not see it more.
But in its stead there pass'd before my sight
Majestic manhood, wise humanity,
Heroic strength and stature, steadfast will,
Patient endurance; all for ever warm'd
By smiles of lovingkindness from a heart,
That, whether in its grief, or in its joy,
Cast light around it as a central sun.
One, not a cunning actor masking guile,
But robed in light of honour; bold of speech,
To whisper truth into the ear of kings;
As one might feel a slumbering lion's teeth,
Or rush unfearing through a burning fire.
And yet his life is full of gentle acts;
Whose virtue, better than all glory, spreads,
Like odour wandering forth from unseen flowers;
Like silver ripplets in a quiet spring;
Like tuneful circles shed from one sweet sound,
Out of the loving centre of his heart,
And wields magnetic influences, strong
For good on earth within his little sphere;
As the great forces that hold up the world!
Ah! surely in that image I beheld,
The while I saw him not, the king of men;
As though I saw his shadow on the wall.
Yet, gazing on the picture, I recoil'd.
For now I knew the radiance from my heart,
That show'd it me, was kindled at his own.
And, though it minded me of my own self
In days before, as lightnings from the east
Shine to the west, I turn'd to whence it sprang,
And saw it was no reflex of the past,
But a new love! Ah me! why was I spared?
Ah! was bright change, and sweet companionship,
That solaced my sad thought, as first spring days
The wintry earth, to end in this again,
Another doom, and hopeless death in life,
Another desolation? Woe is me:
Where shall I fly? I cannot fly from him,
And, if I could, I cannot hide myself.
Methinks, the still cold deeps beneath the sea
Were fitter for this vexed heart of mine;
And to forget for ever, than to live
And look upon the sun through hopeless tears.
Long stood I on the selfsame spot, and clothed
In trouble, as a cloud; as one who, struck
By summer storm, hears not the voice of one
On his righthand, by reason of the wind.
But when the tempest in my heart had lull'd,
Hope spoke again, and in a tongue I knew.
Faint, as a whisper, had I heard it first;
I, and none other; now it came to me,
Clear as a harpstring sounded in the dark.
“I would not trust thee, O my treasure, O
My Sappho; no, to any hands but mine.
Thou didst not know it, haply wilt not know.
But, whatsoever shall befall us two,
And if this sea shall spare, or spare me not,
Or other seas shall be my sepulchre,
This know I, dear, that I have saved a life
More precious than all others.” Mighty Gods!
I cried in my great wonder, “am I sure?
Am I but netted into other toils,
Mark for still sharper arrows, or have ye
Quicken'd the wither'd buds of my first joy,
To make them fullblown blossoms, and a crown
Of glory, and of bliss supreme; and weave
Amid the roses laurel, oak, and palm,
And in the stead of widowhood and woe,
Cross passions, and dissever'd purposes,
Of unrealities, and hopeless dreams,
Love, twofold, sure, and strong, twin hearts in one?
Yet was I changed; as one, who once hath launch'd
A helmless bark into the trackless seas,
Charm'd by the sunshine, and the azure calm;
And spread all sail without or skill, or fear;
A foolish child, unmindful of his fate;
And madly flown against the rising waves
That cast him on a rock: but evermore
He shudders at the terror he hath braved,
And fears though all be still. No more I sought
To dare my peril; now it seem'd indeed
A fatal pastime thus to bathe my sense
In that vain beauty, which, unless the heart
Look through the eyes, and heal the wounds they make,
Is but a mighty, and a cruel king,
That takes us captives without hope of change.
How often now, when I had heard him speak
Of far-off lands, bold ventures, noble acts,
I fled away to wander by the shore!
Not, as of old, to picture forth anew
A living form till it grew twice alive:
But, as a harper out of many notes
Of bass and treble, sweet and strong, upbuilds
Melodious symphony, I strove to link
Brave thoughts and tender, bold and gentle deeds,
Into one fair concent, his noble soul:
And then, although I thought not of his face,
It shone unbid, pure symbol of the whole:
And straight all other beauty seem'd a mask
That show'd no good, or hid the false away.

IV

How long my weak heart might have worn its chain;
How soon the brave man might have arm'd himself
To cast out fear, I know not; but, meanwhile,
Love bore our embassies to willing ears.
For Anaktoria, whose wakeful eyes
Had laugh'd at my vain secrecy, and his;
Much as the fowler marks the simple bird,
That flies away to wile him from her nest,
Then turns unto it by another way,
Heard and gave counsel unto each in turn:
Till doubt, the nightmist, hope, the star of morn,
Both drown'd in cloudless sunrise. For each heart
Wax'd certain of its fellow, as if each
Had been sweet notes that sing in unison;
Albeit not yet the sweet words of the song
Had sounded; and the days were fleeting by.
And, while we dream'd, full many a busy hand
Had stirr'd the echoes with the daily sound
Of clashing anvil, and of driven bolt,
Of plane, and saw, and mallet; and once more
A gallant bark, if not a pleasure-barge,
Rock'd on the waters; and the day was come,
As many a day hath been, and still must be,
Itself a minute picture of all time,
Of sorrow cross'd with joy, of hopes with fears,
Of ever-eager youth, of mournful age,
Of tears, and laughter, welcomes, and farewells.
The breeze was fair; nor loud enough to hush
The tiny wavelets, rippling on the sands,
And tuneful as a song, that seem'd to join
Its music to our voices, as we stood
Under the porch, remurmuring o'er and o'er
The same sweet syllables; and sad, the while
The blithe airs gambol'd with our braidless locks.
And she, the aged mother, stretch'd her arms
Above our heads in silence; and I saw
That far light in her sad uplifted eyes,
That seem'd to reach into eternity.

V

Swiftly the vessel clave the morning sea,
The spring winds, breathing from the balmy isles,
Scarce rippled the blue waters; and the birds
Flew round us, in their way from land to land.
The air was thick with odours as with light;
And far-off headlands, steep'd in azure, mock'd
Themselves, as in a mirror; and he came
Laughing to me, and said;—“Come hither quick,
And I will show thee how, this blissful morn,
Things, that dwell under the dark waters, quit
Their homes, to quaff the warm air; and are fain
To take their pastime like the winged birds.
And then he led me to the peaked prow;
And, leaning o'er, he show'd me silently
A dolphin close along the vessel's side,
Nigh where the seafoam, parted by the keel,
Went by in silver eddies. As it surged
Into the sunlight, a bright rain of gems
Fell from its flanks; and in a moment more
It follow'd the fair treasures, and was lost;
Then came and went, and came and went again,
And, nearer and still nearer to the bark,
The dolphin gambol'd; and I joy'd to see;
Till, in a moment, heedless of all ill,
I overpoised myself in my desire.
I felt that I was falling: Ah! great heavens!
Once more the dream of waters! Oh! what thoughts
Rush'd thro' that moment! in a moment more—
Had I not fallen into seanymphs' arms—
The swift ship had gone over me at once,
And tomb'd me in dark waters, with no dirge
But the seamurmur, and the low sweet wind.
And yet it needed not the bitter cry
That sprang from my despair to bring him near.
That ever-watchful eye, and guardian arm
Were by me, and around, and when I woke
From a short swoon, 'twas on his breast I lay.
But in that interval each of us knew,
Better than words could paint or music peal,
All that lay hidden in the other's heart,
Ray'd from the eyes, and moving on the lips:
Love signalling its own immortal life!
But Anaktoria, bending o'er us both
Stood like a royal Fate, and thus she spake:—
“Surely the life twice saved is due to him
Who hath twice saved it; surely he, who saved
What else were lost, is lord of it for aye;
Who shall gainsay him? Let me speak for both.
And, if I am not just, avenge yourselves.
Take her, Kerkolas, take him, Sappho dear;
And yet I give what is not mine to give;
For thou art his, O Sappho, he is thine.”
We touch'd Miletus on that selfsame day,
And on the morrow morning we were wed.

VI

The hours, the days are fled, the years are gone;
My parents dead, my brothers far away.
I might have haunted the old house alone.
For, of the many friends that once were mine,
The most were fickle, and the faithful few;
And they were wed: but he was here with me;
And loved to be where I had loved to live
Rather than Andros. Then his mother died
Who was the light of his ancestral hall;
And now beneath an unfamiliar roof
He found more bliss than in the ancient home
Where she was not: another voice is heard;
Between us two another face is seen,
A little sweet face looks up to us both,
And smiles on each in turn; and we look down
Upon it, as a mirror magical,
Wherein each, gazing on it, sees us both.
Kleis is her name, the key that can unlock
The hearts of both, if ever they grow hard;
But that may never be while she is by.
The hours, the days are fled, the years are gone;
He went and came; the springtime saw him part.
Ofttimes our Lesbos saw him not again
Till Summer ended; first I shed some tears
At parting; but the days of welcome sped
After farewell so surely, that I came
To think of his return, as of the dawn
After a sunset, and my heart grew strong.

VII

One Autumn night, when we had piled the hearth;
And the old rooftree redden'd with the fire,
And Kleis had lean'd her cheek upon my knees,
With wakeful eyes watching her father's lips;
He told us of the sea, its glories, wonders,
And perils, while we heard it roar without
A friendly symphony to that deep voice,
And weather'd frame; and gusty tempests shook
The last leaves from the old vine on the wall.
And shrieks rose in the pauses of the wind,
And were caught off again; whether they were
Of homeless wanderers, or of drowning men;
And I sat pale. Oh! sweet and solemn nights,
Better than songs and purple festivals,
And banquets of the proud. There as he sat
Over against me, like a king of men.
And the quick flashing of the firelight smote
Upon his face, stormbeaten, but serene;—
And show'd those kind deep eyes beneath his brows
Knotly and dark; I said unto myself;—
“Behold, how fair a thing the heart of Man
Temper'd to peace, and even with itself,
And strung in concord with good things and ill,
For peaceful sufferance made the latter good.
'Tis as the calm glow of this hearth, that streams
Into the outer dark; an evening beam
Pour'd thro' the loopholes of a warlike tower,
Or down the laden vineyard's turfy way;
And, tho' the frame be wreck'd by time, and care,
Looks through it, as the starlight thro' the storm,
And leafless boughs.” There as he sat, and spake,
Of cities, and of peoples, fortunes, fears,
Shipwrecks, and perils of far voyages,
Or joyous ventures betwixt isle and isle;
Methought I saw Odysseus come to life;
Or the great soul of that primeval king
Set in like limbs; so knit he must have been;
Such his grave aspect, and his kindling eye,
And towering brows; such his unquailing heart,
In patience so long-suffering; but in strength
To lift himself, if need be, over ill
Swift as an eagle; but, within, devout
And tender thoughts, that when the trampling feet
Of daily cares were heard no more, would wake
Clear as the bubbling of a spring by night
Along a dusty way. How sweet his smile!
How rich the treasure of his spirit, stored
With wisdom, and with musings; tissues woven
Thro' many days of iron, and of gold,
Luck and mischance, real woe, and real mirth;
Fortune that pined, and sorrow that rejoiced,
And piteous joy, and laughter-stirring grief;
And memories of his own as fair as song.
His life, as 'twere, a hymn of praise, with acts
For music, dying into cadences
Of self-approval, sweeter than the tongues
Of Corybantes, as they bear along
The Mother of the Earth. And, looking on him,
His spirit seem'd to lay my troubled thoughts;
As a strong wind that, setting from the land,
Beats back the eager flood. Oh! I was proud
Thus to be school'd by one, whose faithful words
Were echoes of his deeds; to hear, and learn
The proper notes of magnanimity.
And when he ceased his changeful histories,
And leant his cheek upon his hand, and fix'd
His dreaming eyes upon the dying fire;
Out of the ruddy embers shaping things
That he had seen in valiant days of youth;
Whether it were wild sunsets barr'd with storm;
Mountain, or angry shore, or ragged steep;
Or burning isle, or desert rough with wrecks;
Or piled merchandise upon the wharves
Of seaward cities basking in the sun;
Or multitudinous capital with towers,
Through whose deep heart the flames of ruin roll'd;
Or crimson rivers out of Etna's heart:
Then I sat silent seeing all he saw.
But chiefly when he said: “How hard is Life!
I sleep with toil, and dream of toil to be.
I climb the rock of danger for the nest
Of peace, but find it not; and long long use
Steels me to front the stormy elements
Of chance and change more joyfully than calm.
And yet I seek not riches, nor the springs
Of pleasure, who can sleep beneath a rock,
And drink the rivulet from it, or wildgrape
That overhangs it, as 'twere Samian wine;
And swallow rude bread with the mountaineer.
Enough for me if I shall live to bring,
Upon the day that little Kleis is wed,
What shall suffice to dower the little one
Who slumbers on thy knee; and thee, dear wife,
Something to pillow thine old age upon;
Who from thy birth wert framed too fearfully
For this rough world.” Ah! then my heart was wrung.
Ah! then, methought, I had been deaf, and dumb;
And blind through all those years, while he had fought
With giants for our sakes, and had prevail'd.
But, had he fallen in the next emprise,
Would not those words, like spectres in the night,
Come back to me, and drag my conscious heart
Down to a living death? So I arose;
And, bowing down before him, clasp'd his knees;
And in a voice of anguish, “Part no more;
Or thou wilt leave behind thee tears and sighs,
Able to cloud thy hopes, and dim thy weal;
And make farewell not blessing, but a dirge.
And now, I mind me, while thou wert away,
There came one from Miletus; and he laid
A sealed packet in my hand for thee,
Well nigh forgotten; take it, there it is
Hid in the casket by thee;” but my heart
Was prophet to his tongue while he unwrapt
The writing, and then read; “From Anaktoria
Greeting; weep with me; woe is in our house.
For Death hath taken him who gave me life;
And left me heir to all, which were as nought,
Were not my sorrow temper'd with this thought,
That I have power to work my will to thee,
Which first was his; to dower thee with such wealth,
Tho' less than the full measure of thy meed;
Yet all enough to crown thee with the peace
The due of rich deservings; peace at last—
A clear sun setting past a stormy sea—
Peace to the homeless heart that pines for rest;
Peace to the widow'd heart that pines at home;
And peace to him, who from the shades turns back,
To see that better flower of gratitude;
The bliss of loving hearts he left behind.”
Thus Anaktoria wrote. Kerkolas read:
And, bowing down his head in silence, seem'd
As though he listen'd to the roaring sea
Without, that rose on sudden angry gusts,
As if to chide him for ingratitude;
Or snarl him forth to one last deadly strife.
Then whisper'd he, “I know not if this gold;
Or perils of the deep, ev'n if foreknown;
Or all the sweet songs that I cannot hear,
When winds and waves are loud 'twixt me and thee;
Or little Kleis stretching her arms to me;
Or all at once would stay me from the use
Of long long years, and love of daring deeds.
But now I see the first tears in those eyes,
At thought of that which they could brook before,
Or speed with hopeful smiles, and happy words,
My heart is weaker than a windless sail.
Thou hast prevail'd, 'tis ended; and henceforth
All my seafaring shall be done with thee,
In voyages, where hazard there is none,
In a gay bark which I will build for thee,
Fair as the wreck at Andros. If sometimes
We sail, like butterflies, or fearless birds,
'Twixt isle and isle, thro' summer and light air,
Mostly we'll glide 'twixt Lesbian bay and bay,
In search of pleasant moments; and abide
Till even, tented o'er by flowering boughs,
Wooing the nymphs to listen to thy songs,
Then homeward sail beneath the summer moon.”
Oh! then I rose; oh! then I took my harp.
I took my harp; I sang a wondrous song,
Unprompted rhythms, a pæan of delight,
Welcomes for aye! farewell to all farewells.
And then those eyes, unused to tears, would shed
A few swift drops, like dews that glance by moonlight.
Nearer he came; he took me by the hand;
And then he said in tenderest tones; “Dear heart,
Sing it again, oh! sing it o'er again;
Such moments do I love; for, on the tide
Of thy sweet melodies, the years of old,
Like stars of sunset scatter'd on the sea,
Flow back; and sorrow's self looks beautiful,
As icy summits drown'd in dews of rose.”
And then my heart was jocund with the thought
That one so lock'd in armour could be stirr'd.
And “Not to us, oh; not to us,” I cried,
“Who live with shadows in this sunny world;
Who sit apart, deaf to the sound of things,
And shun all strife with scorn, front Power with pride,
Dreamers at noon, rebellious sons of Time,
Weavers of wind, frail children of the Muse,
Who drink the hueless spring of Castaly,
And call it nectar. Oh; not ev'n to us;
Who with the curtain of a rainbow screen
The dull grey cloud of Life; and, when that veil
Is lifted up, and shows the crags and mist
Naked and cold, we fly away in fear:
Who coldly turn from forms most beautiful;
Or, seeing, scorn them as familiar things,
Taking the phantoms in our hearts for more:
Who mourn because the harvest of delight,
Reap'd in the spring, leaves summer without fruit,
And autumn bleak, and winter without light:
Who thirst for joy yet cannot taste the fruit.
Not ev'n to us, poor Poets, strange and proud,
Leaves in the whirlwind, flame before the wind,
Extreme, unhonour'd, slight, inconstant, vain,
Hath Nature, mighty in benevolence,
Kind Nature stinted a few living hours.
We are consoled if we can thus prevail
O'er stalwart strength, and draw heroic tears;
If we can hang the dusty rock with vines;
And set the wilderness with isles of green,
Whence heavy-laden hearts may pluck the grapes;
And drink the spring that bubbles in the waste.
We are not comfortless; if ye, the kings
Of action, can forget your cares, and lull
Your overwakeful sorrows as we sing,
And live again triumphant days of Youth,
Or turn to mercy out of ways of ill.
The giant of the forest bows his head
And thousand years unto the summer wind.
The gnarled strength of man may be subdued;
And yield to simple words, and silver song.
Nor will a strengthless woman live in vain,
If thoughts and passions, working change on earth,
Made musical by one melodious voice,
Are heard in echoes when their days are gone:
Or, like a garland of all-colour'd blooms,
Bound in one loving spirit's golden cord,
Breathe sweetly when the living leaves are sere,
Speak when she is not heard, and vanquish time,
Death and oblivion, and go down the flood
Of ages, wing'd into futurity
By breath of words that have no other soul!”