 | The Isles of Greece |  |
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ALCÆUS
ALCÆUS
(LESBOS)
I breathed the coming of the flowery Spring.—Alcæus.
Happy bridegroom, thou art blest
With blisses far beyond the rest,
For thou hast won
Thy chosen one,
The girl thou lovest best.
Sappho.
With blisses far beyond the rest,
For thou hast won
Thy chosen one,
The girl thou lovest best.
Sappho.
I
Long days the banded armies of the airHad fought against the Spring; until the heart
Pined, and grew fainter with the hope of her.
But yestereve the cloudy curtain rose
On a far vision full of blessedness.
A long line in the West of happy light;
A hush'd smooth Ocean, solemn and divine,
Gold fire, translucent gold; and out of it
The warm airs flew like Angels to the earth,
Wafting my cheek with passing plumes. I rose;
I breathed delight; and with adoring eyes,
Far thorough that ambrosial element
I wander'd, seeking, what my heart had lost,
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I stretch'd my arms, as to a glorious God
In parting seen; imploring him with tears
To stay his flight, till I could reach him too,
That I too, I, might sail upon that sea
With the bright company that follow'd him
Whose gladness was immortal! The sweet wind
Sang in mine ears, to-morrow, oh! to-morrow.
And, with that answer from myself to self,
I lean'd my head upon my arm, and look'd
Across the purple air, and glooming vale
Into the ebbing glory, till deep sleep
Came down on me, unbroken; till the Morn,
Sprang like a virgin fountain from the East—
So many days we had not seen the sun—
And dash'd my face with gold drops as I lay,
That woke me with their touch. It seem'd a moment;
And lo! my love was answer'd, and my prayer;
And all things were rejoicing. Ev'n the dews
Throbb'd exultation, answering to the call
Of forest pipes, whose mingled melodies
Rose like a rising tide, that simmers clear
'Mid rosy shells; or with their sweetness made
A tempest; as when sudden gusts of dawn
Swoop on a garden plot, and snatch away
Rich spoil of dewy odours in their haste,
Whirling them all together. And I saw
Under a green arch of a hedge of rose,
Whose sweetbriers fill'd the turfwalks with their breath,
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Singing of things to be; and stepping forth
I saw the orchards rippling in the light.
The lily of the valley wagg'd its head,
Delirious with the bliss; and all the soul
Of silver dawns of other early days,
Of earliest springs, a thousand years ago,
Rose on its sighs; and the faint primroses
Breathed inexpressible sweet thoughts; that seem'd,
When I could bind them for a moment's span,
To waft the freshness of some mighty morn
When Death shall be no more; and violets
Held in their fairy amethystine bowls
The waters turn'd to wine; and crimson lilies
Seem'd lamps of chisell'd ruby, borne aloft
To catch the first spark from the Summer's eye.
II
And now, when all the isle was full of flowers,And the far slopes were fresh with forest green,
Citharus, my youngest brother—whose kind heart
Thrill'd less to sound of song and clash of arms
Than homely faith and truth—led home his bride,
A daughter of Methymna, a soft-eyed
And gentle-hearted girl—their hopes were one.
Ev'n as transparent waters, skyward flung
Up from a fresh fount's heart, fall back again,
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In her clear voice—a sweet monotony
That never tired—their souls, like mirror'd mirrors,
Made never-ending answers to each other.
The staid Andromeda had fashioned her
In arts and graces, that were so transfused
Into her inmost being, they shed thereout
A sweetness like the breath of hidden flowers;
More loveable than if they wreathed the brows
Of stronger genius with a heart less pure.
And, though her limbs were slight, her stature less
Than majesty, her modest motions left
In the beholder's eye, when she was gone,
Fair traces like the waving of a flower;
A secret charm of subtle magistery.
And if her voice was low, as rivulets are
When winds are still, its earnest tenderness
Made it an oracle; and Sappho saw
No fault in her, whom cunning Nature framed
Of so fine woof, that the world's eye, half blind
With looking on the lily and the rose,
Know nothing of it; and those only find
Who seek in quiet shadows, and are fond
Of her least handiwork. Her trim robe knit
Her delicate ankles with such comely grace
That all her tiny paces you might count
And time to music; beauty in her soul
Made that pale face, that common eyes would miss,
Above all beauty of proportion, as
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Excels all living types except the soul.
III
That morning I had writ a gay new song;And on the plumes of mine own winged words
Felt lifted as an eagle toward the sun.
“And oh!” I cried, “if I could grasp the glory
Of Power but for a day, to lay it down
The next! I should have tasted that I thirst for.
I should have heard men's living voices shout
My name; and lightnings of rejoicing eyes
Would flash around me. But the golden dreams,
The silent raptures of the lonely bard,
Are but the sunmists on a deathcold peak
That fall back on him; and a deathless name
Is as the thunder from beyond the sea,
Heard out of the far future. Cannot the fire
Of this tumultuous being, which I feel,
Instead of flickering round my harpstrings, strike
At once, like lightning, on the hearts of men;
And mould them suddenly into such shapes
As I desire? Doth not one day of triumph
Outweigh the breath of cycles pour'd into
The deaf ears of the dead? What is a name,
An ancestry, the customary honours
That lift us o'er the world, if all we gain
Is but the fickle reverence of those
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The best fruits of the earth, and build our homes,
And weave our garments, would, to-morrow noon,
If the Fates smiled on Envy, take back all;
And more than they have given us, or can give,
Our breath itself? Who would not only stint us
To their black broth; but in their darkness make
The poet and the lawgiver cupbearers
To their foul pride; but take from us the food
Of knowledge, while they cannot taste themselves.
And if 'twere possible, would quench the sun
Of genius, and the prodigalities
Of Nature trample underfoot; and dance
With idiot glee upon the ruin'd world!
Blunt, edgeless weapons for us or against;
Waves to and fro driv'n by the restless winds;
That in another day may overwhelm
The Idol of to-day—but stop—perchance
The floodtide of their favour, upbearing us,
May set us on a rock, whence all their storms
May fail to unfix us ever. Then, oh! then,
From that high place we may behold and laugh
To scorn their baffled onsets; by and by
The boiling waves will lessen, and subside
To their original calm; and they will come
And kiss the feet of the Invincible
Who humbled them, as, in the quiet sea,
The little ripples lap the iron base
Of the great rock that overshadows them.
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That I should mock the poor man with my tongue,
Or scorn him in my heart; the eldest-born
Of Nature is an honourable man;
Whose daily duties he hath not to seek
By guesswork, like the rich man's boasted toils;
Who stay'd by patience cannot miss the mark.
Oh! holy is the patience of the poor;
That from his stubborn acre wins his life,
And thanks the Gods for it; say, hath he time
For guilt, for sins, that in the Courts of Kings
Are born of sultry moments, that throw up
From some small seed sun'd by unnatural sloth—
Some tiny seed that in the fields would die
Under the frosty winds—a hundred arms
That knit together into darkest shade,
And stifle Nature, and shut out the light;
What space hath he to wander from the Right?
To play with perils that distort the soul;
To bathe in passions that exhaust the heart;
To feed himself with pleasures, like the meats
Trick'd for their taste whose palsied senses sleep,
Who never see the sunrise? If his lips
Are silent; if he paints no love with words;
While poets dream by lamplight of the morn;
Dream that they feel what they have never known;
He lives and feels a life, like Nature's own,
Steadfast and true. By him the daily face
Of Nature is beheld with daily love
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He sees his sacred mother torn from him.
He sees, and haply for the first time knows
She was his mother—oh! how dear to him—
And wonders at her loveliness, and weeps,
And pines as only he can pine—and dies.
Oh! no; it is the currish, shameless cit
I hate; the alternate man of shouts and sneers,
Whelpt of ungodly priests, and bloody kings;
With soul, encased in smouldering soot, and slime,
The rogue who being what stronger rogues have made him
Is proud of infamy—and Pride in rags
Is Evil, naked as the beggar's sore,
A weed most rampant where nought grows beside—
Is proud of infamy, and scoffs the thought
Of honesty, as honest men a rogue.
With whom to be a fool is not to steal—
To be a simpleton is not to lie.
I hate his godless heart, and lawless tongue,
And cruel hands that tear like lion's claws;
Less delicate in shedding human blood
Than slaughtering of bullocks. The dull mob,
Where each man, hearing with his ass's ears
The universal hubbub, takes the roar
Of many cowards for his own brave voice.
Like evil children, emulous of folly,
They would chip sculptured marble with rough stones.
Knaves, they would steal, and sell the stars of Heaven,
If only they were silverheaded nails;
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To buy a feast of beans. And if they thought
There was a heaven of gold above their heads—
(For them a grain of knowledge more than folly
Leads straight to madness) they would fling up flints
To graze off fragments from the epicycle.
Look at yon smith, with hair like matted horsetails,
And hands that are less horny than his soul;
His grimy forehead pearl'd with sweat and dust,
Swart giant of the anvil, King of brutes;
True head, and type of vulgar violence,
Who with the selfsame brawn that thunders down
The hammer on the anvil, jovially
Would pound the world to powder; splinter shrines;
Fling brands into the carven sanctuaries;
And fire the precious palaces; that he
Might see the riches that he cannot reach
Burst off in sparks of ruin o'er the land!”
IV
Needs must I own ambition is a flameBlown by the winds of Pride, that spareth not
Things lovely or things good; but ravins thro'
The pleasant places we have built ourselves,
The quiet gardens, and the pleasurehouses
Of fancy, sweeping all things from its path;
Till it hath made a desert where it stands.
And, when all things are wasted, ev'n the fire
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Goes up, and casts its cloudlike shadows down.
Ah me! I knew not, when I sang of old
Of beauty and of valour; nectarous draughts
Of mirth, convivial converse, noble aims;
The majesty of brave men, the dark eyes
And charming smile of youth; that aught, beyond
Imagination, and its godlike shapes,
Was wanting to this world to make of it
Elysium. My own visions bore me up,
Like wings, above low fears, and homely cares:
Till on that fatal day when first I heard
The voice, and saw the form of Myrsilus;
His proud smile and his dark triumphant eye.
Still present seems the moment, when I pass'd
The temple of the Muses, whence I came,
My robe still scatter'd with the leaves and flowers
Of the spring garlands I had offer'd there.
With downward vision dreaming on I came;
Descending slowly, by the marble stair.
When lo! it seem'd a nobler than the Gods
Of sculptur'd marble rose before me—he,
The chief of men, with hymns, and banners borne
Onward to power—that day he was proclaim'd
Our ruler, and the sudden glory burst
My gates of dream, and flooded my whole soul
Like morning light with wonder. On he came
With acclamation; four white horses drew
His chariot; and he rose to greet the welcome
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Who sways the waters, and his dauntless aspect,
His swift and fervent utterance took the hearts
Of all that multitude. His dark locks shook
In the young May-wind; and from forth his eye
The restless laughter, born of secret scorn,
Play'd fearlessly before the cloud of men,
That love to look on evil robed in pride;
And under the gay leopard's spotted skin
See not his lurking malice. In that eye
Lay treason, as a dragon in the sun,
To spring upon them, when their careless strength,
That now was knit together in his aid,
Should be stretch'd out in slumber. As he spoke,
The bursting of the popular acclaim
Lifted him from the earth, like thunders borne
From hill to hill; nay, at that very moment,
As tho' to make a very God of him,
A storm, with lightning rolling from behind,
Made giant music from the inland heights.
He waved his jovian locks; and made his eyes,
Lifted to heaven in his impassion'd, pure,
And sacred love of liberty, appear
As though they kindled at that mighty thought,
In common with the laughing earth and air,
The winged clouds, the glad and boundless seas,
And bade the Immortal witness to his words!
Alas! at sight of that magnificence,
My nature changed; as on that fair Spring day
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Were burst up by the tempest. In me grew
Far other passion than the simple love
Of music, and of beauty—who was I?
Tho' flattering tongues of loving friends might fill
Mine ears with endless praise; though I should strive
At noble sports and warlike games; could hurl
My javelin with the hunters; could affront
The curly heads of the rebellious seas
And toss them from me; though I ran as swift
As rivulets whose frostfetters are unbound;
Could wield all arms, and dance the Pyrrhic measures
To clang of beaten shield; and sing as well
As larks at morn: what, though I might do all
As well as I could sing unto the lyre?
What even then were all? Here was a man
Youthful as I; far stronger, who could chain
The manyheaded monster, and make calm
Revenge and envy, insolence and hate,
With flowing words, like smooth oil on the waves;
And with his large eyes flashing in the sun,
His beaten breast, and waving arms, and lip
'Twixt laughter and defiance, he could tame
Lions about to spring; and make them crouch
Before him, like an Orpheus! Who was I?
That fatal day I should have slept a sleep
Deep as enchanter's rod, or wizard's charm,
Or aconite could drown me. Who was I?
A Marsyas beside Apollo's self;
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In sight of Myrsilus. If I could win
A gentle ear to listen to my song,
Lycus, or Atthis, or Erinna—boys
Eager and faithful; girls whose faith is love—
Yet who was I? For he could brandish fate
In his vulcanic arms, and weld the world
According to his will; and make the tongues
Of countless others like or unlike him;
Roll acclamation as the banded seas,
That, when the stormy winds are tyrannous,
Lift up their voices in a thunder-song!
That day was past when I had worshipp'd him,
Or envied; yet 'twas but a year ago.
And now my heart was fill'd with fear and hate,
At thought of all the evil he had done.
V
I ran down to the shore to breathe the winds,With flown hair, and with parted lips; my heart
Plumed with the pride of youth, my mind a tumult
Of undefined hopes, in which no fear
Mingled at all. I pass'd the schoolhouse gate,
And peep'd in with the gracious air of one
Now come to years mature, who had put off
His childish things. Deserted were the courts;
But my old master sat before the door
Of his own home; he too was quaffing there
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Whose white hairs flowing down his shoulders once
Were dark as mine. He call'd me by my name;
He took my hand, and spake with gentle tone:
“I saw thee passing; and the memory of thee,
And all thy ways, came over me at once.
For I do note the attributes of them
I discipline—the form and spirit remain
Drawn on the tablet of my heart, like sandmarks
Left by the rippling shallows on the beach—
And know, my boy, I early mark'd thee out
For one whom curious Nature set apart,
And lifted o'er thy fellows; made thee tread
With those swift steps, that oftener lead to sorrow,
Than to glory; listen to me; for two hearts
Battle within thy bosom, love, and pride.
They may not rule together; if the one
Show thee the harmonies of this great world
We live and move in—colour, form, and music—
And if thy nimble wit enable thee
To fix, and to compare the diverse virtues
Of those around thee; pride is not content
With wonder only; thou must rule and guide them.
And few are strong enough—and only those
Whose steely texture hath no golden threads
Of tenderness wove with it—to subdue
Wills strong as are their own: thus the proud passion,
Like a tall tree imprison'd amid briers,
Cannot throw out its branches freely, and so
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To lift its head above the jungle, is claspt
Under by poisonous o'ergrowths; is distorted
To envies, which beget asperities,
And scorn. Oh! often, when thou couldst not use
Thine hand to strike, I've seen thee sting with fear;
And with thy tongue wound worse than with thine arm.
And when thou couldst not win thy way with truth,
Creep round by secret ways; and when compell'd
To yield to right, resent it as a wrong;
And till the sunset of that day brood o'er it
In solitude. Should such things be? and thou
Able to do great deeds? For I have seen thee
Give aid unto the weak against the strong;
Proffer wise counsel, breathe consoling words,
And living on the love which thou hadst won.
Then have I said, ‘Ah! that it might be so—
For ever, only so—and he content
To feed on praise of true, nor thirst to grasp
The glitter of false honour, would but feel
That all, that is not freely given, sometime
Must be withdrawn’; for if thou wert a God
Dwelling with men, thou couldst not in their eyes
Possess thine own unenvied. Oh beware!
For he that aims at all things, like a child,
Who strives to catch fair flowers beyond his reach,
Falls wounded back, and misses even that
Which lies within his grasp; and thou wilt find thee,
When years are over, poorer than the man,
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For less than all—tho' far more than enough—
Being short of thy desire, will leave thee lean;
While he is mighty being satisfied.
Wouldst thou be Poet, Warrior, Statesman, Sage?
Soon as thy young ambition puts on armour,
Straightway the tender voices of the Muse,
Within the secret places of thy soul,
Will bid thee follow her to lonely vales,
Turfwalks, and caverns echoing with seamusic;
Up to the hills crested with golden clouds.
Will bid thee wander thro' the isles, and hear
The tongues of many peoples; and to tread
Strange cities, to behold great festivals;
Pluck beauty from sweet wildernesses; hear
The songs of many minstrels, and give answer
With thine own harp and voice; to weave thee garlands,
Garlands of such imperishable hue,
No time shall fade them. All this mayst thou win
By love alone, in light of peaceful hours,
Thine hands unstain'd with blood, thine heart unvex'd
By storms of strife; and when old age shall come,
The past would look to thee as young as now,
Seen thro' the veil of natural tears, which soon,
Or late, must dim the bright divinity
Of this life's dawn; or Death, which is our friend,
Calling us on to Immortality
Would seem to be our foe. Be wise, be wise.
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To build thee there a cottage in a garden;
To wreathe with rose, to fence it with sweet briers;
To walk in thine own vineyard, and to pluck
The fruits of every season, and at last
The vintage, crown of all thy happy toil;
To see the sun rise, and the sun go down,
Upon thy day of life, in holy calm,
Holier for all the storms that pass between
The morn and even; than with beating heart
All the day long to struggle on and on
Up to the thunderpeaks, and icy crown
Of desolation; only to rejoice
In silence, and to shout where none can hear;
Till darkness fall on thee when thou art faint,
And none to help thee? O boy, death is better
And deaf ears fill'd with dust, than listening ever
To lamentations of thy lonely heart,
Regrets, and yearnings, where no echo is
Of human sympathy; no well-earn'd hymn
Of that true praise, whose chords of harmony
Are others' love. Forgive me, if I speak
Words that may seem to chide thee—'tis not so—
Couldst thou but hear that still small voice within,
That pleadeth with unutterable pity
For thee, who sometime wert my charge; who art,
Of all the dear sons of my soul, the most
To love and fear: forget not thou my words;
When he, who gave thee counsel in thy youth,
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The voice that warn'd thee thinner than the winds.”
VI
Ev'n as he spoke, all passions, like the lights,And glooms that follow o'er the morning plains,
Flitted across my heart; pride, anger, scorn,
Remorse, and tenderness, and grim resolve.
But when he ended, at his feet I fell;
I bow'd before him; I had no voice, but tears
That fell upon his hand. Oh that his words
Had been more deeply rooted in my heart!
Oh that, like fruitful rains, those tears had grown them
About my heartstrings! but alas! they sank not
Far thro' the stony corselet of ambition;
But there were wither'd, like the seed unsown.
I felt, while listening to the wise old man,
Like one who sentinels a barren rock,
Which a clear cold river runs around,
Making a pleasant sound; but none the more
Can he come down from that lone crag, and take
A drop to cool his tongue; but hears it glide
With a forlorn regret. Pride seem'd a conscience;
The fancied duties of my station strong
Necessities, and vast, thro' fumes of pride.
Methought that heartful man, though old in years,
Less manly-wise than children; sure his heart
Ne'er dreamt of ills; his ears had never heard
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Ambitious less of virtue than of praise—
I held a virtue. Then I said, “O father;
I fear it will but seem ingratitude,
For friendly counsels, to unmask to thee
The world's experiences; and cast their shadows
Upon thy clear and honourable soul;
To cloud the even of thy peaceful days
With evil memories of evil deeds.
Thy spirit, like a quiet mountain peak
Smit by the setting sun, less warm than bright,
Looks down upon the waters tossing under
And takes far distance for tranquillity.
'Tis well for thee to see the vessel toil
Through troubled waves; he, standing at the helm,
And watchful of its motions, only knows
How mighty are the waters and the winds.
The groaning timbers, and the roaring storm,
The momentary perils, constant trials,
Far off may seem no more to thy dim eyes,
Whose youth was peaceful, than the tiny motions
Of a child's boat built of a stick and shell.
But there are some who work and watch therein,
Who guard the onward vessel of the state,
And look for rocks and breakers night and day,
Tho' days and nights of calm may make our tasks
Seem easy; sometimes must the vessel's course
Change suddenly, else founder, struck by squalls;
Or split upon sharp crags. Now Myrsilus,
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As thou hast ever done—is one of them;
A rock, not hid, but open, and defiant;
And loud with insult as the bark of Scylla.
There are some spirits like watchers in a tower;
Who first survey the region, and its bound,
Ere they come down to traverse it; forewarned,
Tho' timid, weak, and faint, they still are armed.
While others, with a giant's strength, are weak
As blinded Cyclops; measureless conceit
They take for inspiration; and rush on
In darkness, till they stumble; such is he.
His strength is folly, and his arms vainglory.
He with his troop strides on thro' bloody wrongs;
And takes the wandering eyes of pale despair,
The mute fear of the oppressed and the poor,
For tributes to his triumph; he forgets
That a hush goes before a hurricane;
And that the surge, thrown hindward by the wind,
Regathers, and, driven on by stronger winds
Of public hate, rolls back upon the shore;
Effaces the old hollows, and flings up
The surf beyond the highest watermark.
And be not angry with me, O my father,
If I desire to be this very wind,
Ay, ev'n the hurricane to blow against him,
The boaster; and to carry on my wings
The curses of the poor. Judge for thyself,
If he, who hath learnt justice from thy lips,
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To thrust aside for ever, and at once
This overgrown, and heavy-footed idler,
Who, trampling on the worm, hath roused the serpent.
VII
Listen then, father: 'twas but yester-even,Returning from Methymna by the shore,
We reach'd a hamlet of poor fishermen,
Hard by a countryhouse of Myrsilus,
And there we met a bridal band with flowers
And torches. They were bearing the young bride
Up to her future home among the hills,
The only daughter of a fisherman;
For she was wed unto an upland youth.
They met at Mitylene oft and early
On marketdays, as he sat by his panniers
Of figs and grapes; she by her fishy crates
Ere sunrise; and their young eyes told their hearts
Unto each other. And then simple chat,
Held in cool shadows of the quiet dawn,
Left memories that to each other were
An added life; they laugh'd, they sang, they dream'd;
The rough-spun network of their innocent hopes
Was link'd for them as strongly as the toils
Of Vulcan, and with magic blisses laden.
Still neither fisher's bark, nor viny slope,
Was golden as their dreams; which if not all
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Their hearts' desire. So many a changeful day,
Though hopeful, rolled by, till the old man died,
Peacefully at his farm among the hills.
And now the warmth of that more eager flame,
Gentler and swifter than the touch of Time,
Dried up the tears of Nature; the new love
Embalm'd the old; he richer by a field,
And orchard, like a temple for the Nymphs,
Pillar'd with cherry, fig, and plum, and pear,
Round which the lithe vine gambol'd like a flame;
Or led thro' long green aisles which screen'd the sun;
And left the moss, and sweet herb underneath
Dewy at noon; and then a patch of grain,
That rippled in the spring-wind like a tide
Of gold, up to a ridge of olives gray,
Old, gnarl'd, and crook'd; as though they strove to mock
The vineyard with its laughters underneath.
Now, therefore, corn and wine, and oil were his,
And now he would fetch up, to his own home,
To cheer his widow'd mother, that fair girl,
That maid o' the sea, whose rosy feet were kiss'd
Each morn by the blue waves; whose azure eyes,
Yet dark, had drawn into their inmost depth
The purple of the waters; and whose heart,
Simple, and trustful, loving, strong, and pure,
Was more a treasure to him than the pearls
Of all the Nereids. The country folk
Turn'd up a sideward valley; and the hour
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Yet throbbing in the west, the happy songs,
The twinkle of the lamps and torches sinking
Into the violet distance, stay'd us there
Awhile, and set us musing; and we wove
Instinctively epithalamial measures;
And with fantastic beauty strove to gild
The simple sweetness of the festal show
Sacred to peace. Once more the rustic pomp
Rose visible to us, tho' more remote,
In winding slowlier up a thymy slope.
When all at once, in wonder and alarm,
We heard the singing change to angry cries.
With violence we saw the torchbearers
Seized; and their lights dash'd earthward; and their robes
Rent by strange hands; and from a cypress-wood,
Shadowing the upland way, rush'd forth a band
Of masked revellers; and methought I saw
Iæus with his frantic acolytes
Borne on with shouts and laughter, that overwhelm'd
The uproar of the beaten villagers.
I cried—‘Oh sure I know that central shape,
Still foremost in all outrage, as of old,
And clothed with might of limb beyond the rest
To deal it: let us haste, while yet we may,
Lest ill be done, that cannot be undone.
But, when we reach'd the spot, the deed was done.
The rioters had vanish'd; and their steeds
Held harness'd for them in the thicket near,
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Between the vineyards; and we heard their shouts
Dying afar among the hills, and nearer
The curses of the bridesmen, and the shrieks
Of women in despair. Such was this deed.
Grief drove the poor men wild; none knew the name
Of their oppressor; but a month before
A villager had seen him step ashore
Out of a pleasure-barge, while Ida's brothers
And father there were hauling in their nets,
And she sat knitting in the prow o' the boat,
Her dark hair drooping o'er her shoulders fair,
Her large blue eyes raised with a mute surprise.
And with the faith of her inviolate heart
Truthful and innocent, she gave to him
That faith, which to a brave man is a shield
Invisible betwixt himself and her,
Yet strong as adamant. But to his heart
It show'd like lawless freedom, and a kind
Of welcome, and a challenge to his prowess.
And when her eyes were cast down suddenly,
And swift confusion mantled on her cheek,
'Twas to him as submission, and a triumph;
And he look'd on devouring with his own.
And, as the tyrant and his company
Wound round the hill in their descent again,
They came close under us; their voices rose
Clearly: I heard him say, ‘They know us not;
But I know them; and who, think ye, they be?
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On whom I swear that I will be avenged
With this same act repeated on themselves.
And, for the wild-eyed fisher's girl, fullsoon
They shall repay me with a fairer flower;
And the three I will charge with mine own deed!’
Scarce had we space to swallow these few words,
Gasp'd out with panting breath—when ‘Follow me!’
I cried—but knew not whither; for our foes
Were horsemen; and 'twas vain to seek for them
Already in the city's unknown shades
Concealed. And while we spake, a dark-eyed boy
Broke thro' the midst of us; he had beheld
Out of his upland home the bridal band
Ascending; he had mark'd the sudden tumult;
And with alarmed speed and fixed eye
Rush'd down the stony way; and to his cry
‘Where is she? where?’ no answer came; he shriek'd,
‘Quick follow me;’ and diving suddenly
Into a neighbour's orchard—as he knew
All byways and all crosspaths in the hills—
He brought us, swift as their well-baited steeds
Where two roads met; and there and then we stay'd
Our course, just in the nick of time to see
Sweep by the armed robbers. When the bride
Beheld her lover she stretch'd forth her arms.
And he, his dark locks like a lion waving,
With desperate might snatch'd from the spoiler's arms
The treasure of his life; she sank unharm'd
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Of the onward rushing steed; the horse, though scared,
Harm'd not in aught the boy; the ravisher
Fled shamefully before the brandish'd staves
And uproar of the bridesmen; but a club,
Drawn by a menial's hand, in passing, smote
Against the temples of the fallen youth;
And laid him helpless with his bleeding locks
Scatter'd along the dust; his eyes in death
Turn'd fondly on her—but he spake no more.
And then indeed all lesser passions hush'd
In the wild grief of that forsaken girl,
Who rose up in the strength of her despair,
And flung herself upon the breast of him
She loved; and press'd his lips yet warm, and laugh'd
A frenzied laugh, not knowing what she did;
For madness had possess'd her; and she sat
Playing with his smear'd locks, and her red lips
Still redder with his blood. We raised him up;
We bore him through an open garden gate,
Along a trellised walk, which led us to
A table, spread beneath a portico,
Telling of recent revels; now the place
Was still, the seats forsaken; and the cups,
And the half-empty flagons signified
That here the tyrant and his guests had been;
And had gone forth, on fire with wine, to do
A deed of wrong; and risen from their carouse
Struck with unnatural thirst to sacrifice
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To the Eumenides! We stood around,
In silence, and we fill'd a bowl of wine,
And, our hands stain'd with that most innocent blood,
We pledged each other, vowing to avenge it;
While the last crimson band of the sunk sun
Answer'd us from afar, as 'twere a torch
Of Nemesis; and from the mountains came
A low wind sighing thro' the garden trees
A sympathetic threne. And now, O father,
Such is a portion of the many wrongs,
Inflicted by the mighty and the proud
Upon the weak and poor. If I be born
Of that same class, that holds the sacred right
Of standing foremost in all deeds of honour,
Shall I behold such things go unaveng'd?
Not rather peril me and mine for right;
Lest the great Gods should mock us in our pride,
Our self-love, and our frail prosperity;
And join us to the downfall of the godless,
The lawless, and the worst; us mortal men,
Who dare to live the life of the Immortals
Secure from harms.” And then the old man said—
“If such be deeds done in these evil days,
Then needs must I be glad that I am old;
And that mine aged feeble steps outrun
The old age of the world; that I no more
Have strength to shed the blood of good or ill.
Although I blame thee not for heats of anger,
187
Yet none the less may my untroubled eld,
That hath escaped this fire of youth unharm'd,
And looks not back on ills it cannot heal,
Counsel thee—what at last may win thee too—
What I have earn'd—a spirit unreproved;
Counsel thee patience which is fortitude,
Stronger than daring hand, and eagle eye,
Can arm thee with. Oh may thy latter days
Turn to their prime, as moonlight to the sun,
Drawing from them a pale yet peaceful light.
Though I be last of all my kin—have seen
My friends of youth, all my beloved ones
Pass to the shades before me—though I be
Childless, forgotten; though I leave no eye
To weep for me, yet this I do remember.
No human face has closed its eyes on mine,
That in my conscience, to torment me, set
Fiery words of judgment, awful tongues,
And blood-bedabbled spectres. Those I prized
Are parted; yet they peep from out the past,
With tender smiles of an immortal love,
That time shall wound no more; they come to me
Like the sweet Hamadryads, and mild Fauns,
Haunting my sleep with sunny looks, kind words,
And consolations. Hark! I charge thee, boy,
To listen to a few last words of mine.
For thou wilt never listen to me more;
A day or two, and I shall be at rest.
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Fail not to fetch them from thy memory forth;
And greet each day, and close it with the same.
Speak truth with the true heart—Oh! that is best—
But alway truth; tho' the rebellious will,
Like a wild horse, rear up against the curb.
Speak of the absent as tho' they were by,
And heard thy faintest whisper; lest perchance
Ill tongues should wing ill words, as winds that blow
Sparks into angry flames; or thou be found,
When challenged, for the sake of a good name,
Or gain, or peace, to vary from thyself,
And honour. Let thy secret, unseen acts
Be such as if the men thou prizest most
Were witnesses around thee; the great Gods
Look'd down upon thee, and immortal ears
Hearken'd thine inmost thought! So may thine age
Be even as mine. Lift not thine hand to strike,
Save in the cause of justice, and when words
Are vain as wind, avenge not a slight wrong,
Or any, with that violence which, weigh'd
Against the evil deed thou wouldst avenge,
Makes equipoise of ill, disarms the hand
Of Nemesis, and mocks the blessed Gods
We pray to for their aid, and then disown;
And scatters o'er the earth the fruitful seed
Of ceaseless discords, like the thistleheads
Borne o'er the wilderness. Make not of mirth
An endless feast, lest the wide world of weeds
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Seem as that wilderness; and keep thou wine
For winter hearths, and through the summer days
Rejoice with songs alone—farewell, farewell.”
I kiss'd that aged hand, and parted from him
Swiftly: my heart was full; and when his words
Ceased, as the winds before the rain, I wept.
Once looking back, I saw him seated there
For the last time beneath the rustling vine;
The sea broke at his feet; the swallows whirl'd
O'er his white head; then he arose, and pass'd
Slowly upon his staff into the shade
Of his own dwelling. As the shadow drown'd
His form, methought a darker shadow closed
Round him—alas! I never saw him more.
He was borne out, nor seen nor heard again
By them who loved him, and who ow'd to him
Much flower and fruitage of their after lives.
Some humble souls wept for him; and I saw
The torches pass, I heard the trumpet wail
As he was borne to silence; as I stood
Amid a crowd of the gay heartless youth,
Whose flatteries were singing in mine ears;
Whose idle taunts were flung like sparks of fire
From whirling brands on good and ill alike;
Whose reckless folly and light laugh I fear'd
More than the dead man's frown; whose mockery scorch'd
My tears up faster than all tender thoughts
190
Of him, whose loving wisdom might have changed me
For good, if gratitude and piety
Had made their voices heard above the din
Of daily vanity, and the trumpet notes
Of haughty aspirations—but in vain.
VIII
Hymen! O Hymenæe! was the cryThat woke me up upon the sovran morn,
Ere sunrise; and their songs came to mine ear,
Ere sleep had been thrown off, and bred such dreams,
As make the reawaken'd sense and soul
Weep for the lost unreal; tho' that morn
Was heavenly-bright with glad realities,
Sweet spousals of twin loves; that had not grown
Some April morning, like the first sweet flowers,
Sweeter than all the wealth of Summer, yet
To fade and die away ere Summer came;
But were the incense of two faithful hearts,
That knew each other's heart, and not the eyes
Only; and saw for ever in those eyes
The heart's own beauty. Should I not awake?
Hymen! O Hymenæe! rose again
The bridal song; and flutes and tabors join'd
Their pleasant voices, and the happy birds
Fired all the Maymorn azure with the sparks
Of kindred jubilee; and cymbals rang,
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High o'er their rose-bound temples, as they press'd
Lightly the dewy green with dancer's step,
And pass'd before us. As the pomp advanced
Along the green slope of a bowery hill,
Methought I look'd upon the Golden Age
Come back to life; some pure Ideal wrought
Out of the sunny brain of Phœbus laid,
In noonday drowse, under a covert roof'd
With early rose. Along the path we trod,
The sunlights, dashing thro' the leaves, blown back
By the warm gusts of morning, flooded all
The moss-walks for a moment, and lit up
The fallen blooms, snow-white, and gold, and blue,
And crimson; and play'd o'er the curly locks
Of the young timbrel-bearers—many a braid
Of choicest flowerets dropt with diamond dew.
Once more the envious shadows veil'd the day,
And swallow'd up in their cool, soft embrace
The waving heads, white arms, and rosy wreaths
Of the young damsels, and the youths that bore
Fresh panniers, laden with some precious gifts
For Artemis, to lay before her shrine,
And charm the virgin Goddess till she smiled.
I hung back to behold, with all my soul
Set in mine eyes, the glory of that morn,
That I might paint it on my inner sense
So wondrous clear, no cares, no aftertimes
Of mortal trouble, nor old age itself
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Until their forms thro' distance seem'd to swim
In mists of light. And when again there rose
“Hymen! O Hymenæe!” it was far
And faint; then I ran forward and o'ertook,
Just as the foremost of the bridal march
Rose in the sunshine o'er the circling woods.
And lo! the temple with its columns huge,
And architrave, throng'd with the solemn Gods,
Drown'd in the golden smoke of sunrise, shone
Like a tall gate of Heaven!
IX
The next day,At even, from her father's house they bore
The gentle bride; and all the company
Of friends, and kinsfolk, all who yestermorn
Had fill'd the temples of the Gods with prayers,
And hymns and odours—and beyond the rest
Artemis, Virgin ever, lest she frown
Upon espousals even such as this—
Were met together; and my mother came
And kiss'd the damsel in the portico.
The bridegroom stood aside, that he might hear
The tender words exchanged, and mark the smiles
Of greeting unobserved. And now they brought,
From far and near, such tributes to the bride,
As, whether plain or costly, still were fair
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Than other; whether gold and silver threads,
Or homely woollen thro' the tissues ran;
On all, seen clearly by the eye of Love,
Heart-love was broider'd like a rich red-rose;
And old and young strove to outdo each other
In lavish bounty. There were vestures, wrought
Of such rare needlework, they seem'd to weigh
No heavier than a breath of morning dew:
And yet their price in gold might to the poor
Seem vanity, such as the Gods might visit
With retribution; there were sandals, sew'd
By delicate fingers, only to be worn
On such high festivals as come not oft
In any year; and many-colour'd veils;
Vials of eastern odours; carven cups;
Flagons of silver, boss'd with buds and flowers;
Urns moulded out of finest filter'd earth,
And baked to lucent marble in the flame
Of sevenfold-heated furnaces; whereon
Triumphs, and pomps were shown, and deeds of arms;
Or wrestlers knit together; or the wheels
Of rival chariots flinging up the dust.
The vestibule was throng'd with laughing eyes
And mirthful voices; while the bronzed arms
Of slaveboys, well contented with their task,
Bore up the panniers laden with the gifts.
And then came Citharus, bearing in his hand
The offering of our house, a diadem
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The beauty of fresh flowers; an heirloom rich,
From mother unto mother handed down,
Thro' many generations, and at last
Thus best bestow'd upon the sweet young bride;
At least, in their first rapture so they said.
And yet I thought the tender pensive face
That smiled beneath it once, when thou wert young,
My Mother, would have bow'd in answer to
The selfsame loving words in days of old.
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ANTIMENIDAS
1
Holding in thy handAn ivory-hilted brand
Inlaid with gold,
Fair to behold,
Thou camest back from a far-distant land.
2
It swell'd him with pride and it made him mad.
3
I've heard that one in Sparta bred,
So the rumour ran,
The wise Aristodemus said
“'Tis Money makes the Man.”
Alcæus.
I
Amid the merrymaking came the cryOf instant war; as when the mountain wind
Shrills thro' the purple vineyards, and bears down
At summernoon the frore breath of the snows.
We spread the banquet in the Armoury,
That Love should not forget the morrowmorn;
That he was sitting under cloud of Death,
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To brazen tongues of wrath; that War should part
Not without the sweet memories of Love;
For partings must be with the coming dawn.
Meanwhile, let there be joy with dance and song;
That, when the clash of arms is in our ears,
Still they may echo with the festal sounds
Of this sweet eve, and make the warrior's heart
Impregnable to fears, with thought of those
He leaves behind him; and his armed hand
Insuperable, in the hope to save
The land he loves and yearns to tread again.
So, soon all friends were gather'd at the board;
And the bright day gave place to softer light
Let down by silver chains from lamps that burn'd
Sweet odours; lamps that shone, as summer moons,
Over the carven cups, and urns of flowers.
The evening wind blew from the plots without
Their dewy breathings; and the sound was heard
Of fountains in the gardens; and the rain,
Seen 'twixt the parting curtain's wind-blown folds,
Glitter'd in the moonlight like sparks of fire;
And from rosethickets, under arching sprays,
Came, ever and anon, the distant swell
Of choral voices, whose soft tide of song
Swam, mingling with the moonbeams. And we paused
Amid our converse; as though in our ears,
And hearts, Elysium seem'd to fall in drops
Of Music, sweet tears of Melpomene;
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Foremost sat Citharus with his dove-eyed bride;
And all the children of our house were there
But Antimenidas; ah! where was he?
And first in honour, and not least in grace,
The dear house-mother with her children sat;
Then kindred faces, from far mountain homes
Seldom turn'd city-wards; and many a friend,
Loved for his truth, or honour'd for his skill;
Menon, the sun of wit, and soul of mirth;
And Melanippus, trusty friend; and she,
The pale-brow'd Sappho, through whose dark, deep eyes
Rose, starlike, inner glories. And I saw
There Anaktoria wreath'd with rose, herself
The queen of beauty; and she tamed her lips
To tenderness; her eyes, two sunlit heavens,
To dewy twilights; everyone was glad.
And ev'n the sad Erinna left her loom,
And solitary home, to warm her heart
For years to come; and feed upon those joys
In memory which she never hoped to feel.
And now the youths and damsels, cupbearers,
The fairest children of our noblest chiefs,
Each a young Hermes, or a Hebe, clad
In many-colour'd vests, began to run
Between the tables, filling to the brim
The beakers wreathed with fresh-gather'd flowers,
That painted in the purple Lesbian wine
Their hues, as 'twere dark fountains shaded o'er
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That fill'd the place with blisses; some sweetmeats,
As was the custom of the early times;
Some on their knees did hold up silver ewers,
Wherein they dipp'd their hands: the elders fill'd
The highest seats; and then the foremost men
In noble deeds; along the centre stood
White images of the great Gods. Then rose
Citharus, now the Master of the feast;
And bade us pour out the first and best wine
To the Immortals, on the festal board,
Altar of Friendship, and convivial Joy,
And hospitable Peace: “For are not those
Gather'd around me, a mirror of the World,
A picture of Humanity on earth
Call'd by the good Gods to the feast of Life,
Its fruits and flowers? Pour out the best of all
To them who give it; that our hopes may be
Crown'd by their graces, and our joys be full.
And first to Vesta, guardian of the hearth,
And home, who holds the rooftree o'er our heads;
Without whose mercies all our household cares
Were frail, as dwellings builded on the slope
Of fiery mountains, or earthquaking plains.”
Then from tall vases, running o'er with flowers,
He handed to the guests fresh garlands, strung
With silver braid, till every man had bound
His brows, and scatter'd roundabout him all
The remnant roses; till but half the floor
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Of garden sweets, of leaves, and buds, and flowers.
Oh! who shall tell how soft the moments were,
How swiftly sped, though on their plumes they bore
More lovely, glancing colours than the wings
Of turtles in the sunbeam; were more sweet
Than dew-dropt musk-rose petals shed at dawn?
The laugh of Menon, heard among the rest,
Set mirth a moving, like a flute-note high
Above the timbrels, or a dancer's foot.
Fair Anaktoria bent her queenlike brow,
—Well pleased to read heart-homage in men's eyes—
In answer to sweet words, though her own heart
Unvanquish'd laugh'd at their captivity.
She spoke of her own land, Ionia,
Its wealth and wonders; and “Alas!” she sigh'd,
“Shall a strange sceptre shadow us at last,
A conqueror's heel press on us? let me hope
That here are some, who will turn back the proud
The way they came, ere my Miletus hear
The owl of Athens hooting from her towers.”
Atthis was gleeful as a dimpling spring
Shaded with maiden-hair, and briery rose;
But Sappho lean'd back, dreamful even then;
And from the beauty of the Actual
Weaving a lovelier beauty, to the tune
To some unheard sweet song; and oft her smile,
Like a warm moonbeam cross'd by twinkling leaves,
Seem'd all astir with inner fancy-work.
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Of prowess, peril, wonders, accidents;
Ventures by flood and field, heroic acts;
Triumphs of patience, nights in mountain snows;
Spoils won; the chase, the race; midsummer days
Among the islands; wanderings into wilds
Unknown before; memories that kindled hopes;
Young hopes that look'd on to far years, and drew
Smiles from old eyes that look'd back to the same;
Of victors crown'd, of wrestlers overthrown;
The chariot-course when last the rivals met,
And to the inland solitudes went up
The shoutings from the amphitheatre.
II
But suddenly both eyes and ears were closedTo all around me, and I saw but one.
Whose is that face, so dark with eastern suns,
That eye so bright, those limbs so knit with toil
To sinewy strength, that form heroical,
But thine, my brother? He had but enter'd now;
And stood awhile apart, with both his palms
Resting upon an ivory-hilted sword
Of eastern fashion, rarely wrought; “'Tis he!
'Tis Antimenidas!” ah! then I rose;
I ran, I fell upon his neck; but he
Smiled as he press'd me to him: “It is well
That warlike rumours reach'd me; else had I
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This feast of friends; I see that good things gush,
Like fountains in the desert unforeseen,
From evils; had I lost another day
We should have met only in battle-field
Without the memory of this bliss to cheer
My spirit onward.” Again I cried, “O thou
Deem'd lost, as to our senses thou hast been,
This many a winter, since we parted last,
For no sign reach'd us; when thou wert not seen—
As they who listen in a vacant night,
And hearkening ever to the dreary void
May hear weird noises in the silence—I,
Methought, heard Death articulate thy name.
So doubly is this moment blest to me,
That from the ashes of dead Hope awakes
No fancied form to baffle me, no shape
Cloudlike of memory; but thyself, the same
Thy very self:” just then a lamp pass'd by,
And cast a light upon his weary face;
And then I saw, clearer than in my own,
How moments, like to little waterdrops,
Had worn them channels, like dry torrent beds,
Laid for those tears that only dew the cheeks
Where they are not; and how his brow had felt
The breath of the scorch'd deserts, and the fire
Of other climes! He sat down by my side.
I bade the cup-boy bear him of that wine
That had slept, dreaming underneath the earth
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When I was but a boy, and look'd on him,
As only boyhood can on one advanced
One lustre onward; as he drain'd the cup
He cried—“Ah! Lesbos, Lesbos; never since
Hath any vintage purpled on my lip
Like this our island nectar;” and I said—
“While they are talking of their divers feats,
Tell me, my brother, of thine own; and when
Came to thee the great sword I see thee bear;
An ivory-hilted sword of massy weight,
Wreathed with fantastic scroll-work, and inlaid
With gold device:” “I bring thee this” he said.
“My voice hath never had a charm, like thine,
For tears, for triumphs, for delight—a voice
To make the young heart echo, and the old
Live o'er again—a voice, to which the world
Trembles in answer, like a harp struck well.
One only note it hath, and that hath been
A clarion-sound in peril. But take this;
And hang it up amid the curious arms
Of many generations; if they say,
‘Which of thy forefathers of mighty build
Carried this weapon?’ thou shalt say ‘My brother
Won it from him who bore it, one who stood
A giant of six cubits’; and my praise,
Pour'd from thy lips, will be to me and thee
A double harvest from the selfsame field.
Thou know'st full well my heart was not as thine
203
As two tall trees that bend to one another,
Thine was the seemlier, mine the sturdier frame;
Thy hair was dark, but mine was sunny-fair.
And while thy soul shone chiefly in thine eyes,
When some great thought, as lightning in the night,
Struck thro' their blackness; mine, as the blue sea
Lifting the sunbeams on its surface, throbb'd
With momentary passions, eager hopes,
Brief joys, and high thoughts of heroic acts,
And strength, and names of honour won with arms.
Yet how we loved each other, how we loved!
Star drawn to star by powers that cross'd each other;
Loud trumpet-notes round which soft harpings shower'd;
So that sweet Sappho named us Night and Day.
And twain were thus as one—unlike grew like—
Our spirits borrow'd aspects of each other—
For thou my hardihood with dews of pity
Didst temper; and I lent thee linked mail
For action. Hand in hand we trod the earth;
I loved to hear thee sing of deeds of mine;
Thou lovedst to see me body forth thy songs.
And when thy heart, as sometimes needs must be,
With shadows scared, or dazzled with its light,
Saw not the shapes of things, my clear gray eyes
Peer'd thro' the mists of dark and bright; and thou,
When with mine iron will I would rebel
'Gainst Time, and Space, and Possibility,
Wouldst with keen arrows of thy fancy sound
204
Grew still as at the wholesome touch of frost.
And yet not all unlike; for both were born
Fashion'd with eyes that open'd on the sun,
And those strong wings that seek it; hearts that held
Unhonour'd life a living death; and death,
Honour achieved, immortal life! alas!
But we were dreamers both; both fired too soon
To lift the anchor reckless of the helm;
Scornful of rest and peaceful thoughts, to sail
Far forth from shelter'd inlets undisturb'd,
And dash athwart the great seas manifold.
Ah me! ah me! how many days seem fled
Since those thoughts were; for, tho' my years are few,
My thoughts are many; and here we meet again
A little space, too soon to part once more.
Ah me! how dreadful is the spectre fair
That once was joy in life; how mournful-sweet
The memory of those moments—days—ev'n years—
When all before us, whether Earth or Heaven,
Desert or vineyard, icy peak, or plain,
Swathed in the selfsame Summer azure, fled
Before us as we trod the dews at morn.
Soon shall we stand upon the top of all;
Touch with faint hands the barrenness that seem'd
Elysium; hear the silence round us, whence
Far songs seem'd waving to us; or only hear
The cinders crash beneath our heels; the dust
Of vanities—cold ashes, loves or fears—
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Or Death, like the lone thunder, calls to us.
Now we are met, and have between us set
This jar of golden Lesbian, I will tell thee
All that befell me since that saddest hour
Of all my life; it was a rainy eve,
I well remember, when as now we sat,
Our young morn shadow'd with untimely cloud,
As now the noonday of our vexed years
Is lit a moment with returning mirth.
Tell me which is the better—hard to say—
Yet such is Life—Songs end in sighs—and sighs
Kindle with songs again. The host's swart face
Peep'd thro' the fluttering trellis, anger'd half,
And half well-pleased, that we had order'd wine
We could not taste; the breeze swept by, and broke
Our sad low murmur'd speech with wailing sound.
We heard the melody of one sweet song—
Known from our cradles unto me and thee—
Wave from behind; and ebb with the hoarse sea
That sobb'd beneath us. I rose, and took thy hand;
And with my feet upon the plashy stair
That met the sea, I stretch'd the other down
To the boatmen; and when first I raised my eyes
Out of my folded arms, I saw thee there,
Thine hand upon the marble balustrade,
Thy brows bent forward with an eager look,
Till misty twilight shut out all but that
One mournful image shadow'd in my soul.”
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Slight things like these”—I answer'd, “O my brother;
And yet thy spirit, better knit than mine,
Needed but merry voices, or a song;
Or welcome of bold comrades wing'd with hope;
Thine eyes to look upon the busy crowd,
And common purpose, making many one,
And the weak strong; straight to put off, like sleep,
The present weight of sorrow, and forget
Like dreams in sudden daylight. But I stood
In love with grief; and shrank from sight of men
For weary hours; as tho' familiar life
Like loving touches to a wounded side
Made sorrow ache the more: Oh! how I loved
To torture mine own soul, with memories wrought
To such a fairy skein of tenderness
By cunning fancies, that thy smallest acts,
Unnoted words, and unremember'd looks,
As ghostly witnesses against me came
And charged me with ingratitude. One morn
That we had plann'd to reach a mountain peak
Before the Sun, I woke thee with a shout;
But thou wert sick and all our purpose lost;
And I went forth half anger'd, and alone.
Again, when I was lying with fix'd eyes,
And fever'd tongue, I saw my mother pass
Into the chamber with thee, and thy hand
Did clasp hers piteously, thy wondering eyes
Look'd weeping up into her anxious face;
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I saw thee running on the morning sands,
A warrior leading on the fisher boys,
Thy trumpet but a wreathen rosy shell;
A swimmer buffeting the ridgy sea;
A horseman flying towards the mountains dark,
Thy fair head smitten by a spark of light
Over the dark cloud of his rolling mane,
Bent like the morning star above the sea.
O Brother, none but those whose daily life
Is fed by Love's sun, and perennial dew,
By hourly converse, like the Summer air
That stirs the flowers and draws forth all their sweetness,
Can feel how like Night in a wilderness
With barrenness, and silence, and the dark,
It is to lose the interchanging moods
Of that home-life; tho' crost with stormy hours,
That make relapsing peace like Summer blue
Come back with tenfold blisses—let me hear thee—”
III
Then answer'd Antimenidas, and said—“Thou wilt remember, when I parted hence,
'Twas for the wars nigh Babylon; the kings
Of Egypt and Assyria would meet,
And I would serve with Pharaoh in the East.
Thrice did the boatman shout in my deaf ears,
Ere I had turn'd from gazing on the shores,
Whence I was parting, dim as early dreams;
208
He rested on his oars; a few brief words—
A trumpet from the deck—and helmed heads
That gleam'd amid the twilight—and I saw
The swarthy captain of the Egyptian King;
Who to my queries moved his hand along
The cloudy orient, black with coming night;
And the long line of that heroic land,
The memorable plain, where Xanthus runs
And Ilion frown'd; whose giant ghosts I saw
Rise up that moment 'twixt the earth and heaven,
And heard the iron ring upon their shields
In dream more moving than the armed hosts
Of living men. ‘Young man, if there were light,’
He said, ‘ev'n now perchance I might show to thee
How the old fights, sung by your ancient bard,
Were lost and won.’ I answer'd not his words;
I thought in silence. On those very shores,
Where spectral twilights only flitted now,
An ancestor of mine had won renown,
Whose face and form may have prefigured mine;
And I was following after a strange host
While he had seen Achilles! I was born
Long ages after the heroic years,
Haply to fall untimely, and unknown
In some far wilderness. Methought I saw,
Shaped out of uncouth shadows dim and vast,
The two primeval armies camping there;
Methought their watchfires flushed the blowy night,
209
As two or three far fishers with their boys
Hung up the evening cauldron o'er the coals.
But Reason, swift as lightning, whisper'd me,
‘Patience, not Passion, builds up the great heart;
What hast thou done, or suffer'd?’ ‘Ah!’ I cried—
‘Will honour, or dishonour wait on me?
Glory, or shame, or a swift end of all?
Oh! Honour, like the diamond in the dark
Wrapt round by the unlovely rugged rock,
Is won by perils, to be broken through
Ere it can blaze out sunlike.’ Then I thought,
As the weak arm grows strong with daily toil,
My soul with custom of heroic thoughts
Will laugh at peril; and then hourly use,
By little and by little—as the growth
By silent atoms of the human frame
Till the poor infant is a mighty man—
Will make me first o'ercome the dread of death
And then forget the very thought, and then
To seek him out with mockery and disdain,
And catch his dart upon my very sword-point!
Yet though I long'd for it, this change was swift,
Ah! this was sudden as the rising sea,
That met me ofttimes in the straits at morn
Rolling from the Ægean, when my heart
Beat quicker to behold mine enemies;
And soon proud resolution, youth, and strength,
Made my arms iron, as I struck my way
210
And now the vision of a bloody time,
That shook me for a moment, made me soon
Strong as the thunder when it follows fast
The fiery zigzags cloven in the cloud.
And as I linger'd by the chieftain's side;
‘Young man,’ he said, ‘my luck among the isles
Is of the best; fifty from Tenedos,
A hundred men from Samos, and from Cos,
Sixty from Chios, out of Lesbos none,
Saving thyself: but thou, if I may guess,
Hast in thine eye the star that guideth men
And rules their fates; and, when my years were thine,
Long days of dusty march, and midnight watch,
My corselet dinted with an hundred fights,
My breast all wrinkled with my many wounds
On nightly trench, hillside, and battleplain,
Scarce won me notice from the Satrap vain,
Whose noble blood was not a drop the less
For all his boasted feats, and bellying words.
Circled by our good swords no harm could reach him;
And to the eye of the proud King our master
His brainless brows seem'd wreath'd with brave men's bays,
And piled with all the praise of our best deeds.
'Twas hard to bear; at length, when this old arm
Is shrunken with the fiery breath of War;
And life, so often perill'd, scarcely seems
My own possession; and my stormbeat Age
Hath shed away the last leaves of hope's flower—
211
To wind mine arm about some loving heart—
To feel my little ones about my knees—
To see the fond looks of my countrymen
Turn'd on me; and to sit with faithful friends
And talk of my past cares at eventide—
Oh! just when Honour, tho' piled up to heaven,
Would scarce outweigh the lifelong load of ill,
Behold I am become a thing to fear.
And this old head, say they, might love to change
The heavy iron for the heavier gold,
And press its gray hairs with a circling crown.
And Pharaoh bids me, for my many years,
And services, take guerdon and repose
In far-off lands. Oh! if the blood of youth
Stirr'd in me now, the same ambitious motions,
Revenge would, like an unobserved spark,
Breed suddenly more tumult in the state
Than any hopes of empire; but the days
Are over when my spirit could take fire.
The peace, which is my punishment, I crave.
And I could sit, a solitary man
And listen to the murmurs of the Nile.
Perhaps 'tis best to die as I have lived,
The thunder and the shouting in mine ears,
As it may be to-morrow. I could have hoped,
If I should come out of the strife to be,
To watch the faint wind waft the fisher's sail
Down stream toward the great sea—as my breath
212
Far as the Ocean of Oblivion—
I know, that, if I lose, or if I win,
This is my last great venture: if I return,
Methinks 'twould be a lovely thing to walk
At morn and even 'twixt my plots of flowers;
Nurse them as children; raise their drooping heads
And give them all my care—let it be so.
And, if they pay me with ingratitude,
They cannot quench in me the glorious thought,
Thought still in curved age to comfort me,
That I have served my country, which I loved,
Thro' good and ill, and met its ill with good.
I charge thee, hold before thine eyes for ever,
By night and day, in fiery letters scroll'd,
Not Glory—no! nor Honour—but this—Duty!
O word that all do utter, few can hear,
Fruit of sweet kernel, though of bitter rind!
O golden sunbeam wandering in the dark;
Goddess, who frownest with thine onward face,
And, when we look back to thee, smilest sweetly!
My star in youth thou wert, in age thou art:
Thy lamp shall light me down unto the tomb.
And so I charge thee, boy, fix not thy faith
On kingly promise; but be wise, and fill
Thy conscience with such memories, as will shine,
Like the sweet stars at midnight, in thine age.’”
I heard no more; although I yearn'd to hear
How Antimenidas had won that sword.
213
Struck in together; and two dancers sprang
Forward, lithe-limb'd as Hermes, or the Nymph
Who fled before Apollo; and all eyes
Turn'd to their subtle motions, made to yield
Harmonious utterance to the thoughts within;
As 'twere an unsung music, silently
Unfolding what the nimble melodies
Spake openly. And every footfall soft,
That touch'd the veined marble, straightway seem'd
Instinct with a wing'd spirit that again
Upbore it; every pace with beauty breathed
Fell on the eye, as on the charmed ear
The mingled magic of the harped strings
And breathed notes, running through every curve
With skill and lovely change; as from the heart
A rapt emotion pours into the mind
Fast following thoughts that melt into each other;
As sinuous currents join and flow together;
As the green woods wave in the morning wind;
As the blue waters surge along the shore;
So one smooth motion pass'd into another.
It seem'd a tale of many passions told
In inarticulate tongue, yet eloquent;
Life given not to one sculptured form alone
But many statues chasing one another
Thro' labyrinths of grace! Oh! there was love
Pleading in truthful sweet humility
To timorous simplicity; then the boy
214
Then swifter motions, faith, hope, eager joy,
And triumph: then a pause, a shuddering pause
Of fear, no longer born of self-mistrust,
But fierce self-love, that sever'd them at once
With gestures of disdain; for she had seen
As 'twere the shadow of the sickly fiend
That turns love into hate. She flies away
In ever-widening circles; and he stands
Awhile, mute image of despair and woe.
And now the music deals fantastic airs
With a weird rhythm, and in a harsher key.
And, while he stands thus, in between the two
Starts forward, like the very imp of Ill,
A swart form, ragged-lock'd, and dwarfish mould,
And uncouth mien, yet sinewy in its strength
And lithe activity; and laughter curls
The parted lips, and mockery rules his limbs
To ribald motions, as he signs to them
With his dusk finger, and they hang their heads;
And bend their dull eyes sadly to the earth.
But, after a brief silence, once again
Low notes of still a sweeter melody
Rose slowly, through a still-ascending flood,
To a full swell of re-awakening hope,
Rebuoyant blissfulness, and perfect peace.
And, when the rude and sunburnt elf had ceased
His lawless paces, comes a winged child,
Light, as a linnet perching on a rose,
215
And a clear song, whose piercing lark-like thrills
Gush'd forth like a first sunbeam, that reveal'd
Love's fair new earth and heaven, yet old as Time,
Green earth of Nature, and blue heaven of Truth.
Again the music peals; again they raise
Their pensive brows; again they come together
With ever-narrowing circles, and again
They whirl the timbrels o'er their laughing heads.
They clasp their willing arms about each other,
Sunning each other with delighted eyes
Victoriously; for Love hath vanquish'd Fear!
When they had ceased there rose a shout from all
That soften'd into melody; and hark!
The golden voice of Sappho in a song.
For she was there in honour of the feast,
Although her lonely heart was far away.
It was that saddest season of her life,
That lamentable interval, ere yet
The shadow of great sorrow she had borne,
A soul-consuming sickness nigh to death,
Had pass'd away from her; I knew it not,
Till we were aged in far after years;
And then she told me all in calmest words,
With steadfast eye and unimpassion'd voice.
But now her best friend Anaktoria
Had join'd the guests; for she was come from far
To bear her off upon the breezy seas
Between the isles; and so the gentle Muse
216
And all her spirit woke up suddenly:
And with her spirit, like a searching fire,
She threads anew the windings of the dance,
Interpreting the whole with magic art;
And throwing over the dumb pageantry
The mantle of her fancy; till the ear
Marvell'd that out of such a thing should spring
Food for the heart as well—a tale of joy
And tears.—And as her wonder-weaving words
Were lifted on the flood-tide of her voice,
And waved along the armed walls, and beat
The tall roof, and went forth into the night,
Some eyes were lit with rapture, some with wrath,
Some rain'd warm drops of pity. I stood apart,
As one who nevermore might hear the like;
And down beneath the dust of death would bear
That voice away with me, that it might ring
Through the starless midnight of dread Nought
A peal to wake Oblivion, echoing on
For ever and for ever! And I bow'd
My head upon my hands as one afraid;
And closed mine eyes, that, shutting out the light,
I might not miss one note of that sweet song
That was divine, and mystically phrased
To them who love not, but an oracle
From heart to heart of lovers; closed mine eyes,
That their cross sense should not offend mine ears,
Thro' which such magic sank into my soul,
217
Pale and delightless. When I raised my head
She was not there; ah! was it she indeed?
Or some immortal in a mortal form
Seen for a moment? Then I saw her pass
With noiseless speed adown the garden walk
Beyond the fountain; and her moonlit robe
Vanishing through a bowery arch that led
To odorous gloom, like a sad Muse, that shuns
All mortal voices ev'n of praise, and loves
Better to hear the echoes of her soul
In the lone nightingale's ecstatic song
Beneath the stars. Softly I followed her,
Half fearful; there she sat; her upward eyes
Catching the quivering moonbeams, as tho' they
Were throbbing pulses of that lord of night
That kindled all the shadows overhead,
Transform'd to tender lightnings; and I said—
THE PARTING OF ALCÆUS AND SAPPHO
I would tell thee something,
But cannot speak for shame.
But cannot speak for shame.
If honour to thy heart were dear,
And thy speech not prone to wrong,
Shame would not veil thine eyes, thy tongue
Would utter lawful words that I might hear.
And thy speech not prone to wrong,
Shame would not veil thine eyes, thy tongue
Would utter lawful words that I might hear.
“The wine is turn'd to water, and the mirth
To mockery; and the lights are dim, and sound
Of other voices after thine as harsh,
And tuneless, as the noise of beaten brass.
And ev'n the true voice of Philosophy,
While the heart trembles with the fiery touch
Of Beauty, as a lifeless echo sounds;
Cold Truth a shadow passing from a cloud
Betwixt us and the sun. So I too fled;
And, as I part to-morrow, perhaps for ever,
Poet to Poet cannot bid farewell,
Better than where the loving nightingale
Fills all the dark with music—hark! what notes—
Grand, inarticulate, universal tongue;
Strange utterance of the inexpressible.
Where mortal speech, all words indeed, save thine,
Sappho, thou soul of tenderness, thou soul,
Might fail, must fail; methinks, such sounds might serve
For wing'd ambassadors betwixt two hearts
That love each other, with their fiery tongues
Interpreting to each the blissful pains
The other feels, yet cannot sign so well.
Oh! who that heard thee scattering ev'n to-night
Out of that heart thy fancies swift and bright,
Words, that, like sparks from Life unquenchable,
Sank in mine ears; and were extinguished there,
Only because there follow'd other notes
Beautiful, and more beautiful, that made
The former dark, and cast them out of mind.
And then the great whole, as a host of stars
Well nigh invisible to the mind's eye
From manifold effulgence: who that heard
That mighty song could ever trust thy words,
That out of Memory only sprang the flame
Of inspiration; no, thou lovest, Sappho.”
She said, “I loved, Alcœus;” then I answer'd;
“Thou lovedst him, but now thou lovest not,
Well do I see; but, O dear Sappho, know,
That, if those notes shaped not thy living thoughts,
They imaged mine; and every burning word
Sprang from my heart;” she said—“Thou lovest then,
Alcæus?” “Take back thine own words,” I cried;
“Or give them to me, I will utter them;
And thou shalt answer;” but she only said—
“O then Alcæus knoweth not love at all.”
“Sappho I love,” I answer'd, “Sappho I love.”
“Then in that love,” she said, “like to a child,
That strives with tiny steps to run beside
The strong and rapid pace of full-grown men;
He strives in vain, poor child, and he must faint
And fall; while they who follow after him
Obey him out of tenderness. And thou,
Who lovest wine, and war, and power and glory,
And poesy, methinks, for glory's sake,
Hast small space left in thy o'erpeopled heart
For woman's love; a torch blown by all winds,
Thy spirit's wandering flame recoils upon thee,
Making thee fretful by inconstancy;
While true love, an unruffled altar fire,
Warms more and more all corners of the heart,
And lights that temple up from end to end:
Till all the fuel of humanity—
Not fancies only, not slight hopes and aims—
Are kindled into Poesy; into
Ambition. But that iron of the soul
Is molten like the metal in the forge,
And then, made malleable, is wrought into
Invulnerable armour, proof to all
The shocks of Time! such are my dreams of love;
Oh! he, who builds on love, may build a world!”
And then, half anger'd, I made answer thus:
“Well hast thou said, thou lovedst; for indeed
Thou lov'st no more; yes, thou hast spoken truth.
Thy heart is dead; or thou couldst never thus
Like skill'd anatomist, with sober eye,
Search all its fibres and fine network out,
And mark the channels, where the vital blood
Leap'd boiling, with a hard unfeeling eye:
But rather, like the beggar by the way,
Wouldst wait in humble patience, day by day,
The slenderest boon from the beloved hand,
And bless the giver, even though he scorn'd thee.
Thou wouldst not, like the critic's cold bright eye,
Minutely measure the exact proportions
Of a most perfect portrait; thou wouldst rather,
Like a barbarian, make a very God
Of the most thwart and rudest image of him.
Love is that childlike art, that clothes the Real
With the Ideal, its own simple self;
Not the poor poet's lifelong grand despair
For ever seeking that he cannot find.
Love, like the great Creator, clothes the Real,
Though but unseemly dust, with its own Life,
And sees that it is good; and he is blest:
No mortal Artist, who 'twixt that Creation
And his own handiwork, however fair,
Sees an immeasurable Infinite.
And yet I blame thee not; that sovran heart
Can never die that once hath loved as thine.
But when the inner central flame intense,
Kindled by thundergusts, is quench'd for ever,
The ashes glow, and cast around them life,
That warms the world; and other sparks arise
Of many loves, each potent unto good.
And every fiery pang that it hath felt
Turns to an arrow of song, that strikes the hearts
Of thousands, winning from them tender sighs
And painless tears, whereon the soul is fed
To blessed growths, and strengthens; and is won
From iron moods of evil.” “Hush!” she said;
“Better than all the colours of swift words,
To paint the life that inly dwells alone—
The inexpressible knowledge of the heart—
Are those wild notes above us: higher up
The sloping shadows yonder other notes
Make answer, softer, sweeter. Hark! above
The eager bird is showering wondrous tones;
That shoot and flash, like exultation now,
Now change to tremulous tenderness, and fall
Thro' quivering anguish to a long lament.
But not for long, oh! not for long he mourns.
Brief sadness, shadow of too much delight,
Low, passing sigh of summer winds at noon,
Dies in a breath; and, like the dissonance,
That drowns itself in the full harmony,
Makes the rebuoyant life more glorious
For no far memories, no wild apprehensions,
Nor fear of death, throw shadows of the past
Or future on the present perfect hour.
And its perfection—all in all to him—
Makes heaven of earth, and day of night—a night
Illumined by the flashes of his joy—
And every moment, in its depth and speed,
Like waters flowing rapidly beneath
The unfailing moonshine; every moment gone
Is follow'd by another, brighter still,
With blisses of the heart. He heeds not whence
They come, nor whither flee; for he is blest,
Rejoicing in the pulse of time that is.
Ah me! methinks 'twere better for the poet,
If like this voice of might so glad, so strong,
He could forget the future and the past;
And of the present make an endless triumph,
Singing of nature, singing of life—”
To mockery; and the lights are dim, and sound
218
And tuneless, as the noise of beaten brass.
And ev'n the true voice of Philosophy,
While the heart trembles with the fiery touch
Of Beauty, as a lifeless echo sounds;
Cold Truth a shadow passing from a cloud
Betwixt us and the sun. So I too fled;
And, as I part to-morrow, perhaps for ever,
Poet to Poet cannot bid farewell,
Better than where the loving nightingale
Fills all the dark with music—hark! what notes—
Grand, inarticulate, universal tongue;
Strange utterance of the inexpressible.
Where mortal speech, all words indeed, save thine,
Sappho, thou soul of tenderness, thou soul,
Might fail, must fail; methinks, such sounds might serve
For wing'd ambassadors betwixt two hearts
That love each other, with their fiery tongues
Interpreting to each the blissful pains
The other feels, yet cannot sign so well.
Oh! who that heard thee scattering ev'n to-night
Out of that heart thy fancies swift and bright,
Words, that, like sparks from Life unquenchable,
Sank in mine ears; and were extinguished there,
Only because there follow'd other notes
Beautiful, and more beautiful, that made
The former dark, and cast them out of mind.
And then the great whole, as a host of stars
Well nigh invisible to the mind's eye
219
That mighty song could ever trust thy words,
That out of Memory only sprang the flame
Of inspiration; no, thou lovest, Sappho.”
She said, “I loved, Alcœus;” then I answer'd;
“Thou lovedst him, but now thou lovest not,
Well do I see; but, O dear Sappho, know,
That, if those notes shaped not thy living thoughts,
They imaged mine; and every burning word
Sprang from my heart;” she said—“Thou lovest then,
Alcæus?” “Take back thine own words,” I cried;
“Or give them to me, I will utter them;
And thou shalt answer;” but she only said—
“O then Alcæus knoweth not love at all.”
“Sappho I love,” I answer'd, “Sappho I love.”
“Then in that love,” she said, “like to a child,
That strives with tiny steps to run beside
The strong and rapid pace of full-grown men;
He strives in vain, poor child, and he must faint
And fall; while they who follow after him
Obey him out of tenderness. And thou,
Who lovest wine, and war, and power and glory,
And poesy, methinks, for glory's sake,
Hast small space left in thy o'erpeopled heart
For woman's love; a torch blown by all winds,
Thy spirit's wandering flame recoils upon thee,
Making thee fretful by inconstancy;
While true love, an unruffled altar fire,
Warms more and more all corners of the heart,
220
Till all the fuel of humanity—
Not fancies only, not slight hopes and aims—
Are kindled into Poesy; into
Ambition. But that iron of the soul
Is molten like the metal in the forge,
And then, made malleable, is wrought into
Invulnerable armour, proof to all
The shocks of Time! such are my dreams of love;
Oh! he, who builds on love, may build a world!”
And then, half anger'd, I made answer thus:
“Well hast thou said, thou lovedst; for indeed
Thou lov'st no more; yes, thou hast spoken truth.
Thy heart is dead; or thou couldst never thus
Like skill'd anatomist, with sober eye,
Search all its fibres and fine network out,
And mark the channels, where the vital blood
Leap'd boiling, with a hard unfeeling eye:
But rather, like the beggar by the way,
Wouldst wait in humble patience, day by day,
The slenderest boon from the beloved hand,
And bless the giver, even though he scorn'd thee.
Thou wouldst not, like the critic's cold bright eye,
Minutely measure the exact proportions
Of a most perfect portrait; thou wouldst rather,
Like a barbarian, make a very God
Of the most thwart and rudest image of him.
Love is that childlike art, that clothes the Real
With the Ideal, its own simple self;
221
For ever seeking that he cannot find.
Love, like the great Creator, clothes the Real,
Though but unseemly dust, with its own Life,
And sees that it is good; and he is blest:
No mortal Artist, who 'twixt that Creation
And his own handiwork, however fair,
Sees an immeasurable Infinite.
And yet I blame thee not; that sovran heart
Can never die that once hath loved as thine.
But when the inner central flame intense,
Kindled by thundergusts, is quench'd for ever,
The ashes glow, and cast around them life,
That warms the world; and other sparks arise
Of many loves, each potent unto good.
And every fiery pang that it hath felt
Turns to an arrow of song, that strikes the hearts
Of thousands, winning from them tender sighs
And painless tears, whereon the soul is fed
To blessed growths, and strengthens; and is won
From iron moods of evil.” “Hush!” she said;
“Better than all the colours of swift words,
To paint the life that inly dwells alone—
The inexpressible knowledge of the heart—
Are those wild notes above us: higher up
The sloping shadows yonder other notes
Make answer, softer, sweeter. Hark! above
The eager bird is showering wondrous tones;
That shoot and flash, like exultation now,
222
Thro' quivering anguish to a long lament.
But not for long, oh! not for long he mourns.
Brief sadness, shadow of too much delight,
Low, passing sigh of summer winds at noon,
Dies in a breath; and, like the dissonance,
That drowns itself in the full harmony,
Makes the rebuoyant life more glorious
For no far memories, no wild apprehensions,
Nor fear of death, throw shadows of the past
Or future on the present perfect hour.
And its perfection—all in all to him—
Makes heaven of earth, and day of night—a night
Illumined by the flashes of his joy—
And every moment, in its depth and speed,
Like waters flowing rapidly beneath
The unfailing moonshine; every moment gone
Is follow'd by another, brighter still,
With blisses of the heart. He heeds not whence
They come, nor whither flee; for he is blest,
Rejoicing in the pulse of time that is.
Ah me! methinks 'twere better for the poet,
If like this voice of might so glad, so strong,
He could forget the future and the past;
And of the present make an endless triumph,
Singing of nature, singing of life—”
“But are there,”
I said, “no sweet reflexes from past hours;
No echoes of old tongues, no loving words
Of lost and loved, to shrine in sacred song?
No twilight, rich with colours? and no mist
From the oncoming years, which, tho' they turn
To tears, are hued afar off, like the hills
With gold and amethyst? no heights of sorrow,
To make the lovely present yet more lovely,
Like the flown tempest, frowning back upon
The plains rebathed with summer?”
I said, “no sweet reflexes from past hours;
223
Of lost and loved, to shrine in sacred song?
No twilight, rich with colours? and no mist
From the oncoming years, which, tho' they turn
To tears, are hued afar off, like the hills
With gold and amethyst? no heights of sorrow,
To make the lovely present yet more lovely,
Like the flown tempest, frowning back upon
The plains rebathed with summer?”
But she answer'd—
“Alas! the fond illusions of the future
Are shadow'd by the sorrows of the past,
The unreal by the real; ah! that past
Hath made the present now so dark to me,
That would I were the little bird that sings,
Lightening the darkness with his song—we too
Can sing, Alcæus; but my songs are now
Lamps in a tomb, kindled by glorious thoughts;
But burning by a dead and silent heart.
Would I could have thy comment; dream for once
Thou art that bird; that from thy poet soul
Flows that rare song! come, tell me what it saith.”
“Tis strange,” I said, “the selfsame thought was mine.
Through all our wild discourse another voice
Seem'd, as an undercurrent to our speech,
To fill our pauses up; methought those birds
Became two lovers, and they communed thus—
And saith the lover dealing with his love—
‘The fear of losing that which I do prize
Beyond all gems and gold, thy love for me,
Makes me rein in the madness of my own.
Else would I play the tyrant in my love,
And fancy torments for thee, that should cloud
The laughing brow of the fair God Himself,
And make him, in despair and pity, break
His golden arrows, that such things should be;
And quench his torch in tears, and shake in anger
His curly locks, and rend his rosy plumes.
And when I had drunk up the lees of joy,
And made my spirit satiate with delight,
By feeding on thy lips the noonday long,
Listening thy tuneful tenderness, and searching
For truth the calm blue fountains of thine eyes;
Sometimes misjudging thy most pleasant speech
With mock suspicion and revenge, I'd wound
Thy tender conscience in its quickest part,
And lay those dear blue eyes in tears. Sometimes,
With sudden change from fondness to disdain,
Like wintry wind in summer, I would shake
Thy powerless goodness yielded up to me
In moments of affection; and behold,
As one who sees a plot of garden flowers
Torn by a thundergust, the desolation
Of thy young heart in ceaseless agony;
And with relentless coldness would hold off
The supplicating hand and pleading voice;
Tho' to the beatings of thy heart my own
Should answer all the while, three to thy one.
And to mine eyes the fountains of my tears
Should mount, like wells in earthquakes, that o'erflow
Their edges; till the greatness of the grief,
And sense of anguish wrought by cruel skill,
Should move my soul as much as thine. Ah! then
I would fly to thee, clasp thee to my heart,
And circle thy sweet neck with yearning arms;
Whisper thee consolations, such as love
Can only breathe; drink up thy tears, and lull
Thy tossing heart with mournful tenderness,
Born half of real despair; which I should feel,
Amid the lightnings of this perilous hour,
The offspring of my phrenzy; and my sorrow
Should fall upon thee like the dews of even
After a burning noon; and thy forgiveness
Smiling upon me, like the soften'd light
Of sunset; and the melancholy calm
Of our reunion, like the windless hours
Of starlight, when the stormy day is done!’”
I ended—and the sweet trio overhead,
Scared by my tongue,—which ever and anon
Rose rapturously, or overworn at length
By its own passion, sang no more; but then
That other song from far came clearer up
Swimming along the moonlight: And I said—
“Now hear the answer.”—“Spare thee,” she replied—
And laugh'd a sudden laugh, so strange and wild,
Alcæus thought that madness had seized on her—
“O wayward son of Caicus, how is this?
How doth this faithful picture of thy soul,
Drawn by thyself, match with thy former words,
That lofty, true, yet vain philosophy
Love lock'd in memory, ruling not thine heart,
But like rare gems too precious to be own'd,
Whose very value makes them valueless?
Now hear the answer,” she in turn exclaim'd,
“It is for me to show thee what it saith.
Come, I will voice the dim sweet melody
With fitter speech than ever man could shape;
Whose softest passion would disport it thus,
And wound while it is winning. O proud man;
Thou canst not slay weak love by craft or force.
The secret links that bind twin souls together
Are subtle as the light that yields and flies;
And yet will glitter on the sword that strikes it,
And fills again the void with angel speed.
Beaten behind the cloud of angry frowns
It lives and hopes; and will break madly through,
And make a contrast sweeter than full noon.
Tears cannot drown it, but returning days
Lift up its head, like the pale bells of spring,
That early come, and rarest breathe, and are
Remember'd latest; and sharp frosts of scorn
That shed its leaves, and sear the naked stem,
Barren as death, yet leave the roots unharm'd,
Which with the first warm glances of the year,
Bud as the vine, and once again will weep
Tears like the precious vintage, warm with life;
Tho' the drear interval be dead and cold.
And tell me, O proud man, what wins thee thus
Back to thy troth, and suns thy pride away.
Is it not Beauty? picture for the eye
To feast on, while the heart is far away?
A flower—no more—but when the flower is sere,
And all its rose-hues, like the blood of youth,
Are blench'd within it, and it yields no breath
For pleasure, like first girlhood's songful voice;
When the lithe form is curved, and the brow
Is smooth no more, and the first snowflakes fall
Amid the dark clouds of the flowing hair.
It is one thing to see the lovely face
Look up to thee a moment after tears;
Another to look on it after years.
Say, should the old Love, ev'n though unforgot,
Knock at thy gate, and say—‘Dear friend, I come;
But found the way so rough, I fear the hours
I counted on for travel have changed to years.
Or was it but a fancy?—for my heart
Calls back, as yesterday, the merry morn
When first we met—and now, I think, I dream'd,
For all my heart is happy, as of old,
At sight of thee! ah no! 'tis but a day.
Wouldst thou fold her to thine unshaken heart;
And, looking thro' the dim eyes, only see
The inextinguishable star within?
Wouldst thou not hold her from thee with thine arm;
And look, as on a picture marr'd by time,
Silently casting up the worth of that
Which once was priceless? turn it to the wall,
And let another picture take its place?
I see an old man leaning on a staff;
From a crazed bark he steps upon the shore;
He looks around him; and his eyes are dim
With wandering in waste lands, his raiment stain'd
With many shipwrecks; but his faithful heart
Forgets the days between, and only sees
The summer mountains, and the viny cot
Of one who once did love him; he is there—
For in the darkness he could search it out—
But lo! there is no cot, but a fair house
With many halls; he weeps and turns away.
But she hath seen him from the topmost tower;
She hath forgotten all the days between;
She hath run down and clasp'd him in her arms,
And she hath clothed him in fair cloth of gold,
And from her heart shed on him once again
The youth long fled; her love hath wrought a charm.
She looks not back into the Past, but on
Into the Everlasting; and she sees
The selfsame boy and girl, who went of old
Forth in the morn together, and then saw
No more each other till their end of days,
The selfsame boy and girl, but hand in hand,
Growing in youth for ever and in joy,
Climbing the mountain slopes to meet the Dawn!”
“Alas! the fond illusions of the future
Are shadow'd by the sorrows of the past,
The unreal by the real; ah! that past
Hath made the present now so dark to me,
That would I were the little bird that sings,
Lightening the darkness with his song—we too
Can sing, Alcæus; but my songs are now
Lamps in a tomb, kindled by glorious thoughts;
But burning by a dead and silent heart.
Would I could have thy comment; dream for once
Thou art that bird; that from thy poet soul
Flows that rare song! come, tell me what it saith.”
“Tis strange,” I said, “the selfsame thought was mine.
Through all our wild discourse another voice
Seem'd, as an undercurrent to our speech,
To fill our pauses up; methought those birds
Became two lovers, and they communed thus—
And saith the lover dealing with his love—
224
Beyond all gems and gold, thy love for me,
Makes me rein in the madness of my own.
Else would I play the tyrant in my love,
And fancy torments for thee, that should cloud
The laughing brow of the fair God Himself,
And make him, in despair and pity, break
His golden arrows, that such things should be;
And quench his torch in tears, and shake in anger
His curly locks, and rend his rosy plumes.
And when I had drunk up the lees of joy,
And made my spirit satiate with delight,
By feeding on thy lips the noonday long,
Listening thy tuneful tenderness, and searching
For truth the calm blue fountains of thine eyes;
Sometimes misjudging thy most pleasant speech
With mock suspicion and revenge, I'd wound
Thy tender conscience in its quickest part,
And lay those dear blue eyes in tears. Sometimes,
With sudden change from fondness to disdain,
Like wintry wind in summer, I would shake
Thy powerless goodness yielded up to me
In moments of affection; and behold,
As one who sees a plot of garden flowers
Torn by a thundergust, the desolation
Of thy young heart in ceaseless agony;
And with relentless coldness would hold off
The supplicating hand and pleading voice;
Tho' to the beatings of thy heart my own
225
And to mine eyes the fountains of my tears
Should mount, like wells in earthquakes, that o'erflow
Their edges; till the greatness of the grief,
And sense of anguish wrought by cruel skill,
Should move my soul as much as thine. Ah! then
I would fly to thee, clasp thee to my heart,
And circle thy sweet neck with yearning arms;
Whisper thee consolations, such as love
Can only breathe; drink up thy tears, and lull
Thy tossing heart with mournful tenderness,
Born half of real despair; which I should feel,
Amid the lightnings of this perilous hour,
The offspring of my phrenzy; and my sorrow
Should fall upon thee like the dews of even
After a burning noon; and thy forgiveness
Smiling upon me, like the soften'd light
Of sunset; and the melancholy calm
Of our reunion, like the windless hours
Of starlight, when the stormy day is done!’”
I ended—and the sweet trio overhead,
Scared by my tongue,—which ever and anon
Rose rapturously, or overworn at length
By its own passion, sang no more; but then
That other song from far came clearer up
Swimming along the moonlight: And I said—
“Now hear the answer.”—“Spare thee,” she replied—
And laugh'd a sudden laugh, so strange and wild,
Alcæus thought that madness had seized on her—
226
How doth this faithful picture of thy soul,
Drawn by thyself, match with thy former words,
That lofty, true, yet vain philosophy
Love lock'd in memory, ruling not thine heart,
But like rare gems too precious to be own'd,
Whose very value makes them valueless?
Now hear the answer,” she in turn exclaim'd,
“It is for me to show thee what it saith.
Come, I will voice the dim sweet melody
With fitter speech than ever man could shape;
Whose softest passion would disport it thus,
And wound while it is winning. O proud man;
Thou canst not slay weak love by craft or force.
The secret links that bind twin souls together
Are subtle as the light that yields and flies;
And yet will glitter on the sword that strikes it,
And fills again the void with angel speed.
Beaten behind the cloud of angry frowns
It lives and hopes; and will break madly through,
And make a contrast sweeter than full noon.
Tears cannot drown it, but returning days
Lift up its head, like the pale bells of spring,
That early come, and rarest breathe, and are
Remember'd latest; and sharp frosts of scorn
That shed its leaves, and sear the naked stem,
Barren as death, yet leave the roots unharm'd,
Which with the first warm glances of the year,
Bud as the vine, and once again will weep
227
Tho' the drear interval be dead and cold.
And tell me, O proud man, what wins thee thus
Back to thy troth, and suns thy pride away.
Is it not Beauty? picture for the eye
To feast on, while the heart is far away?
A flower—no more—but when the flower is sere,
And all its rose-hues, like the blood of youth,
Are blench'd within it, and it yields no breath
For pleasure, like first girlhood's songful voice;
When the lithe form is curved, and the brow
Is smooth no more, and the first snowflakes fall
Amid the dark clouds of the flowing hair.
It is one thing to see the lovely face
Look up to thee a moment after tears;
Another to look on it after years.
Say, should the old Love, ev'n though unforgot,
Knock at thy gate, and say—‘Dear friend, I come;
But found the way so rough, I fear the hours
I counted on for travel have changed to years.
Or was it but a fancy?—for my heart
Calls back, as yesterday, the merry morn
When first we met—and now, I think, I dream'd,
For all my heart is happy, as of old,
At sight of thee! ah no! 'tis but a day.
Wouldst thou fold her to thine unshaken heart;
And, looking thro' the dim eyes, only see
The inextinguishable star within?
Wouldst thou not hold her from thee with thine arm;
228
Silently casting up the worth of that
Which once was priceless? turn it to the wall,
And let another picture take its place?
I see an old man leaning on a staff;
From a crazed bark he steps upon the shore;
He looks around him; and his eyes are dim
With wandering in waste lands, his raiment stain'd
With many shipwrecks; but his faithful heart
Forgets the days between, and only sees
The summer mountains, and the viny cot
Of one who once did love him; he is there—
For in the darkness he could search it out—
But lo! there is no cot, but a fair house
With many halls; he weeps and turns away.
But she hath seen him from the topmost tower;
She hath forgotten all the days between;
She hath run down and clasp'd him in her arms,
And she hath clothed him in fair cloth of gold,
And from her heart shed on him once again
The youth long fled; her love hath wrought a charm.
She looks not back into the Past, but on
Into the Everlasting; and she sees
The selfsame boy and girl, who went of old
Forth in the morn together, and then saw
No more each other till their end of days,
The selfsame boy and girl, but hand in hand,
Growing in youth for ever and in joy,
Climbing the mountain slopes to meet the Dawn!”
229
IV
And, when the night was far advanced, the youths,Ere parting, set beneath a niche apart
An upright lance, and cross'd it with another,
Whence hung two empty bowls at either end,
Much like to scales; and underneath they placed
Twin vessels brimm'd with water, in the midst
Whereof two brazen statues stood immerged.
The youths stood round intent upon their play,
Each with a cup of wine held in his hand,
To fling into the bowls suspended from
The cross-lance, that the weight might bear them down
To strike the statues on their heads of brass.
For in the pastime was an augury:
And he who threw his wine, and spilt it least,
And struck the bowl down on the head of brass
With the most force, was master of the game;
And he would reign unrivall'd in the heart
Of his beloved. So they sped their sport
With laughter, and with shouting: some had miss'd
Their mark, and all their wine was shed aside,
And stain'd the marble floor; some hit the edge,
And tilted up the bowl; some shook with mirth,
And cast the wine with so unsteady hand
That part was splash'd upon the robes of friends,
230
Emptied their goblets with a better sight;
But not with force to make the head beneath
Ring to the bowl, and totter: last came he
Who own'd the omen most; he had no fear
That he should fail; and, if he fail'd, what then?
He had no fear: all his young heart was strong
In faith: was it not twofold, his and hers?
Laughing he poised his chalice, and he threw
With such sure aim that all the golden rain
Fell, without loss of one of its bright drops,
Right in the middle of the pendent bowl;
That lighting on the brazen head below
Made all the chamber echo to the clang,
The image totter'd, and the water waved,
And every voice gave “Victory!” with a shout!
V
And then I rose, and draining at a draughtA goblet brimm'd with bright Methymna wine,
Sang with a kindling eye, and hearty voice
My last new song, that mingled farewell sighs
With shouts of victory—clanging at every pause
A javelin on a shield—but, ere it ceased,
One in a whisper bade me turn and mark
An unexpected guest; and I sat fixed
Like chidden schoolboy by the sombre eye
231
With temper'd grace, and with a half-smile, said;
“Pardon me, Countrymen, if I make bold,
Now the symposium is o'er, to venture
Upon this feast of friends; for I was loath
To mar a merrymaking, and to jar
Your happy songs, and pleasant praise of wine,
An owl amid the summer nightingales.
Your wine is its own warrant; it hath heart
And body like a hero's; but the heart
Heroic needs it not; and in the coward's
It leaves a hollow like a raging fire,
That roars and leaves white ashes in its place.
Who shall be sure, that, when the wine is out,
The spirit shall be in? oh! noble acts
Not seldom lag after adventurous words,
And songs in praise of it; and wine and song
Have this in common, something that inspires,
And nothing that sustains: therefore the more,
Like two frail girls that clasp each other's waists,
Each staying each up the hillside, till both
Are stopt for lack of breath, or fall together.
And wine and song may symbolize each other.
Wine pour'd into the heart lifts up like song;
Song flowing from the heart exalts like wine.
And now for graver matter from the Troas.
Letters this day have reach'd us of much moment;
Proud Athens, like a kraken from the deep,
Is clutching with long arms the capes and isles,
232
Upon Sigeium with an armed host,
Led by one Phrynon, who hath won a crown
Sometime beneath Olympus at the games;
And like a little Agamemnon comes
To sweep into his net that famous shore,
And stamp his heel on our forefathers' dust.
I have a thought, to sweep him into mine.
I think that ye have known me from my youth;
No boaster I—unless this be a boast—
And, if I am, then let me pride myself
In boasting that I ever loved to shield
The weak against the proud.”—He turn'd and said—
“Alcæus!” and there play'd upon his lip
A dubious smile—“Alcæus! I have heard
Thee sing, and strike the strings to noble words;
And noble deeds are then most surely done,
When all the soul is drunk with sounds divine;
And now there shall be proof of me and thee.
For hark!” he said, and rose with lips comprest,
And forehead wrinkled with a sudden frown;
“Hearest thou not the tread of armed men?
'Tis Myrsilus himself; who, though he be,—
I shame to say it,—of my class the people,
Yet is the poor man's enemy, and the foe
Of all just men. What I am known to be
I may proclaim, without self-flatteries.
I am the friend of Honour, and the Gods,
And, being such, the foe of Myrsilus.
233
I'll sooner join thee in opposing him,
The adversary of order, and of man,
Than gain a doubtful triumph of mine own
By siding with him; and in winning lose
My self-approval, and uphold dishonour.
And Myrsilus inherits from his sire,
And grandsire, taints of falsehood: some remember
The latter with the hod upon his head
In the hot sun; and many a tale of bricks
He counted through the weary hours of noon;
And, had he done no more, he might have lived
And died forgotten, but without reproach.
But, as the snake first grovels in the dust,
Then springs, and bites, he pilfer'd from the stores
Of others; and by little and by little
Piled bricks enough to build himself a house;
Then bought a patch of land, and made a garden
Of potherbs; and, as still the city grew,
He sold it to the Archon; and so gain'd
Enough to buy a brickyard for himself:
Then from his kilns whole streets were builded up.
And at his death the father of this tyrant
Inherited wherewith to make them his.
Then avarice seized him, and he piled up gold
As once his sire had stones; and this his son
Now trowels gold, as his forefathers lime,
And wastes instead of spares. So Time brings round
The winter, spring, and summer; after that
234
And that small seed of lies, sown early, breeds
The crop of crimes to be hereafter reap'd
In blood. And now, methinks, his hour is come;
The Gods have will'd it so, if ye be men!”
235
MYRSILUS
'Tis time to hand the cup around,
To sing, to dance, to shake the ground.
For Myrsilus is dead!
—Alcæus
To sing, to dance, to shake the ground.
For Myrsilus is dead!
—Alcæus
He rose—drew back the crimson-folded veil,
That screen'd the hall of armour; and we saw
Along the moonlight, thro' the peristyle,
And 'twixt the columns of the outer court,
The stealthy motions of a helmed band,
And faintly heard their tread: “For he hath come
To be avenged on ye,” said Pittacus,
“For lending aid unto the countryfolk
In rescuing the young bride; to fire this dwelling,
And seize upon the newly-wedded spouse
Of Citharus, for the girl whom he hath lost,
The fisher's daughter—this I fully know
From faithful witnesses, my proper ears.
‘Know that to-morrow is the marriage-feast
Of Citharus,’ he said: ‘then will I be
Avenged for this their deed and seize the maid
Before her lover's eyes; for I will steal
Upon them like a mountain cat at even,
Soft-footed, and unheard.’”—Just then the band
Near'd us with uproar, and with riotous songs,
And cymbals clash'd, and shields.—“But see he comes,
Not as a cat, but one who is possess'd
By his own spirit; as though it were a fiend
Lashing him o'er a cliff into the sea.
And, if the Fates had not decreed his doom,
New wine hath dazed him, so he cannot steer
His brain more than his feet, so he must fall;
Then fear not.” But the women raised their arms,
And shriek'd; the young bride fell upon the neck
Of her young spouse: then suddenly rose up,
Cast off the fearful nature that was hers,
And put on a new beauty. Pallas-like
Her angry eyes dilated, and sent forth
Sparkles of fire; and her uplifted arm,
Snatching a javelin from the bristled wall,
Look'd fearless toward the foe; and, as the moon
Shone down, and mingling with the lamplight, show'd
Dimly the onward host to those within,
A shout rose from their side, that overwhelm'd
The cries of the scared girls and beaten shields.
But Pittacus, the wonder of us all,
Who seem'd the soul of us, strode thro' the hall;
And, drawing back upon the opposite side
The awning hanging 'twixt us and the garden,
For one brief moment only, and no more,
Show'd us, in timely ambush lurking there,
Another steely cohort; who had scaled
The outer wall, and waited stilly now
The orders of their chief, as he came round
The public way, and enter'd by the gate.
So then we stood between the adverse hosts
Of iron-plated men; our carven vessels,
Our banquet garlands, and our crowned brows
Shone in the red light of the candelabras,
As 'twere a little isle of flowers, whereon
Wild torrents are descending. Then a voice
Cried; “Open to the Archon”; and their arms
Beat on the barred gate—and Pittacus—
“I pray ye, let no guest forsake his seat,
No damsel be afraid”: and he himself
Went forward to receive him; and Myrsilus
Stept thro' the portico into the hall
With a firm step and haughty head, as one
Who made his office do what he, the man,
Had never dared at all; for he was chief.
But his eye wander'd; and that lamp of thought
Seem'd wavering in the wind of public scorn.
And he took refuge in that feigned sense
Of outward majesty, which, as a man,
He own'd no more; he moved towards the host.
While silence held the rest, Alcæus said—
“If thou com'st not an uninvited guest,
Though, it may be, a friendly one withal,
O Myrsilus, what pressure in the state
Can be so instant, as to break this hour
Of midnight, sacred to the mysteries
Of friendship, love, and home? The day is due
To public matters”? With a sneer, and snarl,
He answer'd:—“If my presence gives offence,
I neither wonder, nor forgo the right
Which is at once my duty to the state,
To visit guilt ev'n at its banquet tables,
And merrymakings;—I am Chief of Law!
And thou of its offenders, with thy kin!”
“Be seated, O my Lord,” said Citharus.
“It ill beseems that we, who stand accused
Of heavy crime, should keep our seats, while thou,
The minister of Justice and of Mercy,
Art all unhonour'd in the midst of us.”
And under a large shield of silver, boss'd
With the heroic deeds of ancient men,
They set a throne above the banquet seats;
And spread it with some gorgeous draperies
Of gold and silver tissue; there they led him,
And bow'd the knee to him. He swoln with pride
Rose from his seat, and said: “'Tis not for nought
The common voice of all this land hath chosen
Me its chief ruler—me, whose house and name
Hath risen, and, I may say, become renown'd,
Tho' not for deeds of arms—trophies like these
I see around me, and, save this company,
Which make the homes of reasonable men
Look, as it were, a shambles stuck with tools
Of slaughter; and which violence and ambition,
Not the necessities of nature, made
For lawless ends, not for our skill and labour;
Which have by little and little, like the seeds
Of Autumn, borne to us the abundant harvest
Of riches and prosperity.—I say
'Tis not for nought the people made me Chief,
For now the nobles are become the cry
Through all the land: in humbler station we
Ourselves have suffer'd uncomplainingly
The scorn of those, who, having never ate
The bread of toil, or in their actions won
A blessing from the people, call the blood,
That lazily is creeping thro' their veins,
And the unwrinkled front of secular sloth,
The seals and types of majesty: methinks,
The honour which they claim belongs to those
Who plough, sow, reap; to those who give us bread;
To the vine-gatherer who serves our wine;
The weaver who apparels us, and warms;
The woodcutter who feeds our furnaces;
The mason who piles up our palaces.
In truth,” he said, circling in his disdain
The silent company—“ye are not men,
Ye needy beggars, in your bonnets flaunting
Pride for a plume; which, like the homeless ones,
Ye doff not at the corners of the streets
Meekly to catch in it the alms flung to ye,
But wave it in the wind; while your delights,
Fruit of the tears and sweat of humble men,
Are laid before ye. I boast not of my worth—
But if I did, who shall gainsay me, who?
I will not boast of that pre-eminence
Which my forefathers' worth hath won for me,
The station which I hold, and, but for them,
I had not held: but this I say, that those,
Who have subdued the earth, adorn'd and spread
The city, as mine ancestors have done,
Merit exalted honour; but who are they
Who weave vain songs, interpret oracles?
Do the poor fill their bellies with the dust
And cobwebs of the sages, or the singers?
True, if the beggarman were minstrel too,
Or sophist, then the cobbler, or the weaver
Might pause a moment on his way, to throw him
A small coin for his tricks—as we are wont,
For their fantastic motions and grimaces,
To laugh at apes from Afric—these are not
The properties and functions of such men
As claim nobility, and should lord it o'er ye.
But when the man of nothings doth no more
Shelter himself in shadow of negations;
But, like a hunter of his kind, goes forth
To do all evil; like a spider spins
His fatal meshes, and then runs and slays,
Returning with the bodies and the souls
Of men, he is no longer to be scorn'd
And suffer'd, but a giant to be met
By outstretch'd arm of Law.” And, as he spoke,
Half the assembly with mock-wonderment
Answer'd him in a shout; he paused, and look'd
About him shrewdly; heard their loud applause;
And for a breath he stood irresolute.
Soon, strengthen'd by his fix'd resolve, he cried;—
“Stand forth, I charge ye, Alcæus, Citharus,
And Antimenidas, if he be here,
Return'd at last: stand forth, for on ye lie
Murder and outrage. 'Twas but yesterday
A single horseman spurr'd into the city
At even, bearing the ill tidings to us
That there was lamentation in the hills;
A bridal had been broken, and the bridegroom
Slain, and the bride borne off, and none knew whither.
Though full of cares, we took an escort—rode
Up to my countryhouse, hard by the scene
Of violence—found our dwelling had been forced
By these same rioters—there were bloody marks
Upon the marbles—flagons overturn'd,
And winecups on the pavement—all disorder—
We have with us a witness who brings home
To ye this charge, together with bloodguilt.
Ye have laid violent hands on guiltless men.
And we have witnesses that yestereven
Thou and thy kinsmen lay in wait to slay
A village bridegroom in a narrow way
Defenceless, unprepared; and from him reft
His late-espoused bride.” “Thy witnesses,”
Alcæus said—“can witness also this;
We were unarm'd as they—that they were many—
While we were few—that we and they were friends—
And that the robbers, whosoe'er they be,
Fled from our naked hands—wherefore we know
That black intent was in the heart of each
Sharp as a poison'd dart—when, who should shield
The weak from wrong, is foremost to offend,
He needs a something more than sword and spear,
And guard about him, to make head against
The anger of just hearts aroused—the scorn
Of those, who will not see them trodden down
Beneath the iron heels of lawless men,
Though arm'd with sword and spear—is it not so?
One drew a dagger on me; but I snatch'd it
From his unsteady hand, trembling with guilt,
Or wine, or both; or then he would have slain
The unhappy boy, who fell a moment after
Struck by a villain slave—his only crime
That he had rescued from a robber's hand,
At peril of his life, the loving girl
Whose life he held more precious than his own.
One drew a dagger on me—who was he?
For we and these poor men were all unarm'd!”
Then Myrsilus—“O Alcæus, this is base;
The desperate cunning of a frighten'd child,
Who would retort the charge he can't deny
O son of Caicus, I fear thou liest;
Knowing that what thou dost impute to them
Thyself hast acted—there are who testify
Two brothers snatch'd from us the outraged maid
Whom we had saved; one set her on a steed,
And bore her to the city's secret holds;
There to conceal her, henceforth to become
The slave of lawless pleasures, having slain
Her youthful spouse, whom, riding from the hills,
We found stretch'd cold upon the public way,
Silent in death, or with his dying lips
He had condemn'd thee:”—“Shameless, without conscience;”
The astonish'd brothers whisper'd to each other—
“His witnesses must needs be his own slaves,
Whom terror and self-love have urged to weave
A web of lies, as flimsy and as vain
As the air-bubble which a breath will burst.
But thou art Archon, sovran guard of Truth,
And, being so, must sure tell truth—so be it.”
Then turning round, and in a loud clear voice—
“But say, my Lord, who hath arraign'd us, who?”
“Mark, mark!” said Myrsilus, with mocking tongue;
“He doth no more deny it! know then, Poet,
We have a witness, who shall say him nay?
Even our cupbearer; for he is wont
With one or two, his fellow servitors,
To go before us to our countryhouse;
To make all ready for us, ere we go forth
To take our pastime there, as was our purpose
On that same evil day, that very day,
Had not ill tidings held us in the town.
Come forward, man, I say;” and from the crowd
Stole one with wavering eye, and downcast look.
And, like a schoolboy hurrying o'er his task,
That he may not forget it, with thick speech,
As one o'ercome with wine, he utter'd thus—
“Myself beheld the lamentable deed.
Returning to the hills we heard the riot;
Saw bloodshed from the terrace where we sat,
Breathing the summer twilight; and I said—
‘Hush, friend; the Guardian of this noble isle
And public peace, methinks, had better station
Arm'd men among the vineyards, and the woods,
If such things be; we are too late to save
The hapless youth, or to avenge his bride
By armed presence; let us listen then,
If any chance may serve to give us clue
To the offenders, doubtless of the nobles.’
I stood upon the terrace that o'erhangs
The hollow way that winds into the hills;
And heard the tongues of two or three in converse.
I said—‘I needs must know them for they call
Each other by their names’; and Citharus said,
‘Alcæus, we have left undone a deed,
Whose lack outweighs all good that we have done.
The girl is safe; the boy will speak no more;
The horseman is escaped, and we did ill
To spare his accursed life.’”
That screen'd the hall of armour; and we saw
Along the moonlight, thro' the peristyle,
And 'twixt the columns of the outer court,
The stealthy motions of a helmed band,
And faintly heard their tread: “For he hath come
To be avenged on ye,” said Pittacus,
“For lending aid unto the countryfolk
In rescuing the young bride; to fire this dwelling,
And seize upon the newly-wedded spouse
Of Citharus, for the girl whom he hath lost,
The fisher's daughter—this I fully know
From faithful witnesses, my proper ears.
‘Know that to-morrow is the marriage-feast
Of Citharus,’ he said: ‘then will I be
Avenged for this their deed and seize the maid
Before her lover's eyes; for I will steal
Upon them like a mountain cat at even,
236
Near'd us with uproar, and with riotous songs,
And cymbals clash'd, and shields.—“But see he comes,
Not as a cat, but one who is possess'd
By his own spirit; as though it were a fiend
Lashing him o'er a cliff into the sea.
And, if the Fates had not decreed his doom,
New wine hath dazed him, so he cannot steer
His brain more than his feet, so he must fall;
Then fear not.” But the women raised their arms,
And shriek'd; the young bride fell upon the neck
Of her young spouse: then suddenly rose up,
Cast off the fearful nature that was hers,
And put on a new beauty. Pallas-like
Her angry eyes dilated, and sent forth
Sparkles of fire; and her uplifted arm,
Snatching a javelin from the bristled wall,
Look'd fearless toward the foe; and, as the moon
Shone down, and mingling with the lamplight, show'd
Dimly the onward host to those within,
A shout rose from their side, that overwhelm'd
The cries of the scared girls and beaten shields.
But Pittacus, the wonder of us all,
Who seem'd the soul of us, strode thro' the hall;
And, drawing back upon the opposite side
The awning hanging 'twixt us and the garden,
For one brief moment only, and no more,
Show'd us, in timely ambush lurking there,
Another steely cohort; who had scaled
237
The orders of their chief, as he came round
The public way, and enter'd by the gate.
So then we stood between the adverse hosts
Of iron-plated men; our carven vessels,
Our banquet garlands, and our crowned brows
Shone in the red light of the candelabras,
As 'twere a little isle of flowers, whereon
Wild torrents are descending. Then a voice
Cried; “Open to the Archon”; and their arms
Beat on the barred gate—and Pittacus—
“I pray ye, let no guest forsake his seat,
No damsel be afraid”: and he himself
Went forward to receive him; and Myrsilus
Stept thro' the portico into the hall
With a firm step and haughty head, as one
Who made his office do what he, the man,
Had never dared at all; for he was chief.
But his eye wander'd; and that lamp of thought
Seem'd wavering in the wind of public scorn.
And he took refuge in that feigned sense
Of outward majesty, which, as a man,
He own'd no more; he moved towards the host.
While silence held the rest, Alcæus said—
“If thou com'st not an uninvited guest,
Though, it may be, a friendly one withal,
O Myrsilus, what pressure in the state
Can be so instant, as to break this hour
Of midnight, sacred to the mysteries
238
To public matters”? With a sneer, and snarl,
He answer'd:—“If my presence gives offence,
I neither wonder, nor forgo the right
Which is at once my duty to the state,
To visit guilt ev'n at its banquet tables,
And merrymakings;—I am Chief of Law!
And thou of its offenders, with thy kin!”
“Be seated, O my Lord,” said Citharus.
“It ill beseems that we, who stand accused
Of heavy crime, should keep our seats, while thou,
The minister of Justice and of Mercy,
Art all unhonour'd in the midst of us.”
And under a large shield of silver, boss'd
With the heroic deeds of ancient men,
They set a throne above the banquet seats;
And spread it with some gorgeous draperies
Of gold and silver tissue; there they led him,
And bow'd the knee to him. He swoln with pride
Rose from his seat, and said: “'Tis not for nought
The common voice of all this land hath chosen
Me its chief ruler—me, whose house and name
Hath risen, and, I may say, become renown'd,
Tho' not for deeds of arms—trophies like these
I see around me, and, save this company,
Which make the homes of reasonable men
Look, as it were, a shambles stuck with tools
Of slaughter; and which violence and ambition,
Not the necessities of nature, made
239
Which have by little and little, like the seeds
Of Autumn, borne to us the abundant harvest
Of riches and prosperity.—I say
'Tis not for nought the people made me Chief,
For now the nobles are become the cry
Through all the land: in humbler station we
Ourselves have suffer'd uncomplainingly
The scorn of those, who, having never ate
The bread of toil, or in their actions won
A blessing from the people, call the blood,
That lazily is creeping thro' their veins,
And the unwrinkled front of secular sloth,
The seals and types of majesty: methinks,
The honour which they claim belongs to those
Who plough, sow, reap; to those who give us bread;
To the vine-gatherer who serves our wine;
The weaver who apparels us, and warms;
The woodcutter who feeds our furnaces;
The mason who piles up our palaces.
In truth,” he said, circling in his disdain
The silent company—“ye are not men,
Ye needy beggars, in your bonnets flaunting
Pride for a plume; which, like the homeless ones,
Ye doff not at the corners of the streets
Meekly to catch in it the alms flung to ye,
But wave it in the wind; while your delights,
Fruit of the tears and sweat of humble men,
Are laid before ye. I boast not of my worth—
240
I will not boast of that pre-eminence
Which my forefathers' worth hath won for me,
The station which I hold, and, but for them,
I had not held: but this I say, that those,
Who have subdued the earth, adorn'd and spread
The city, as mine ancestors have done,
Merit exalted honour; but who are they
Who weave vain songs, interpret oracles?
Do the poor fill their bellies with the dust
And cobwebs of the sages, or the singers?
True, if the beggarman were minstrel too,
Or sophist, then the cobbler, or the weaver
Might pause a moment on his way, to throw him
A small coin for his tricks—as we are wont,
For their fantastic motions and grimaces,
To laugh at apes from Afric—these are not
The properties and functions of such men
As claim nobility, and should lord it o'er ye.
But when the man of nothings doth no more
Shelter himself in shadow of negations;
But, like a hunter of his kind, goes forth
To do all evil; like a spider spins
His fatal meshes, and then runs and slays,
Returning with the bodies and the souls
Of men, he is no longer to be scorn'd
And suffer'd, but a giant to be met
By outstretch'd arm of Law.” And, as he spoke,
Half the assembly with mock-wonderment
241
About him shrewdly; heard their loud applause;
And for a breath he stood irresolute.
Soon, strengthen'd by his fix'd resolve, he cried;—
“Stand forth, I charge ye, Alcæus, Citharus,
And Antimenidas, if he be here,
Return'd at last: stand forth, for on ye lie
Murder and outrage. 'Twas but yesterday
A single horseman spurr'd into the city
At even, bearing the ill tidings to us
That there was lamentation in the hills;
A bridal had been broken, and the bridegroom
Slain, and the bride borne off, and none knew whither.
Though full of cares, we took an escort—rode
Up to my countryhouse, hard by the scene
Of violence—found our dwelling had been forced
By these same rioters—there were bloody marks
Upon the marbles—flagons overturn'd,
And winecups on the pavement—all disorder—
We have with us a witness who brings home
To ye this charge, together with bloodguilt.
Ye have laid violent hands on guiltless men.
And we have witnesses that yestereven
Thou and thy kinsmen lay in wait to slay
A village bridegroom in a narrow way
Defenceless, unprepared; and from him reft
His late-espoused bride.” “Thy witnesses,”
Alcæus said—“can witness also this;
We were unarm'd as they—that they were many—
242
And that the robbers, whosoe'er they be,
Fled from our naked hands—wherefore we know
That black intent was in the heart of each
Sharp as a poison'd dart—when, who should shield
The weak from wrong, is foremost to offend,
He needs a something more than sword and spear,
And guard about him, to make head against
The anger of just hearts aroused—the scorn
Of those, who will not see them trodden down
Beneath the iron heels of lawless men,
Though arm'd with sword and spear—is it not so?
One drew a dagger on me; but I snatch'd it
From his unsteady hand, trembling with guilt,
Or wine, or both; or then he would have slain
The unhappy boy, who fell a moment after
Struck by a villain slave—his only crime
That he had rescued from a robber's hand,
At peril of his life, the loving girl
Whose life he held more precious than his own.
One drew a dagger on me—who was he?
For we and these poor men were all unarm'd!”
Then Myrsilus—“O Alcæus, this is base;
The desperate cunning of a frighten'd child,
Who would retort the charge he can't deny
O son of Caicus, I fear thou liest;
Knowing that what thou dost impute to them
Thyself hast acted—there are who testify
Two brothers snatch'd from us the outraged maid
243
And bore her to the city's secret holds;
There to conceal her, henceforth to become
The slave of lawless pleasures, having slain
Her youthful spouse, whom, riding from the hills,
We found stretch'd cold upon the public way,
Silent in death, or with his dying lips
He had condemn'd thee:”—“Shameless, without conscience;”
The astonish'd brothers whisper'd to each other—
“His witnesses must needs be his own slaves,
Whom terror and self-love have urged to weave
A web of lies, as flimsy and as vain
As the air-bubble which a breath will burst.
But thou art Archon, sovran guard of Truth,
And, being so, must sure tell truth—so be it.”
Then turning round, and in a loud clear voice—
“But say, my Lord, who hath arraign'd us, who?”
“Mark, mark!” said Myrsilus, with mocking tongue;
“He doth no more deny it! know then, Poet,
We have a witness, who shall say him nay?
Even our cupbearer; for he is wont
With one or two, his fellow servitors,
To go before us to our countryhouse;
To make all ready for us, ere we go forth
To take our pastime there, as was our purpose
On that same evil day, that very day,
Had not ill tidings held us in the town.
Come forward, man, I say;” and from the crowd
244
And, like a schoolboy hurrying o'er his task,
That he may not forget it, with thick speech,
As one o'ercome with wine, he utter'd thus—
“Myself beheld the lamentable deed.
Returning to the hills we heard the riot;
Saw bloodshed from the terrace where we sat,
Breathing the summer twilight; and I said—
‘Hush, friend; the Guardian of this noble isle
And public peace, methinks, had better station
Arm'd men among the vineyards, and the woods,
If such things be; we are too late to save
The hapless youth, or to avenge his bride
By armed presence; let us listen then,
If any chance may serve to give us clue
To the offenders, doubtless of the nobles.’
I stood upon the terrace that o'erhangs
The hollow way that winds into the hills;
And heard the tongues of two or three in converse.
I said—‘I needs must know them for they call
Each other by their names’; and Citharus said,
‘Alcæus, we have left undone a deed,
Whose lack outweighs all good that we have done.
The girl is safe; the boy will speak no more;
The horseman is escaped, and we did ill
To spare his accursed life.’”
So saying he
Slunk back into the crowd, and was not seen.
Then Myrsilus—“Such were the very words,
And they declare ye guilty of this act,
If any proof can be”—whereat Alcæus
With a despairing gesture smote his brow,
And, turning unto Pittacus, he said—
“The Gods are arm'd against us, O my friend,
These very words were spoken;” but he answer'd:—
“Fret not thyself, nor chafe; but wait in patience
The signals of the Gods, who can defend
The right, when hope is fled; fret not thyself;
They make the darkest moment turn to dawn.”
Then Myrsilus: “Dost thou deny the words?”
“The spirit, not the letter, I disown.
The words were truly spoken; but the sense
Was this: the girl being saved, her lover slain,
In piteous indignation, and regret
We all were held, that the foul ravisher
Had not been done to death, as was his meet;
And blood for blood been taken then and there.”
Then Myrsilus with scornful look and tone:—
“O most inventive, high poetic art!
The horseman then, who bore to us the tale,
Himself hath done the deed!” We answer'd him
Together with one voice, “Thou say'st; and truly.
We saw him do it; and not only we,
But all the villagers upon the spot
Beheld it, and the hamlets higher up.
The poor slain youth, hoping his coming bride
Beheld it, (but his tongue is silent now),
All these, my Lord, were witnesses as we.”
“All are not needed; are there here who back thee
In this thy bold diversion?” “O my Lord;
Being innocent of this most cursed act;
Expecting not thy presence, and engaged
In merrymaking, we could ne'er have dreamt
'Twas needful to defend ourselves. Moreover,
That night of the sad spousal we had come
Late from Methymna, when the fray began.
'Twas wellnigh dark; the names of any there
We know not; and their faces dimly seen
Live not in our remembrance; time we need
To seek the vouchers who were present there.
I doubt not 'twill be easy; but they cannot
Answer thee now.” “And if they too were here,”
Cried Myrsilus, “to echo all thy speech,
Confirming with their voices thy denial,
What proof have we that thou and they are not
At seesaw with collusion, predetermin'd
To front occasion boldly? We hold good
The testimony of our partisans
At least as any other; and, were craft
Not in base hearts, we hold it more trustworthy
Than any rustic wits that, in the blaze
And smoke of their own folly, haply fed
By too much drink, see double, if at all,
And know not what they see: and more; we hear
That since the murder the poor girl is dead—
Thus wrong breeds wrong, and threefold makes your crime—
Adding to direful deeds the dread effects
That follow on the same—dead is she, dead!
Ay even of very woe!” “'Tis horrible!”
Surely we cried, “'tis horrible! but who
Hath rumour'd this new fear? 'tis true, 'tis true,
That the poor youth is slain; but for the girl—”
“Patience, my friend, and let the Archon speak,”
Said Pittacus—“I speak,” said Myrsilus,
“On testimony not to be gainsaid.”
He paused, and, signing to an armed man;—
“Where are the two old folks? Make haste; bring up
The fisherman, the father of the girl;
And with him bring the mother of the boy.
Behold them pass in, those two stricken souls,
The widow'd mother, and the white-hair'd sire,
More aged than by an added score of years
Through their fresh grief.” But who is she, that pale
And stricken form, who leans upon his arm,
Shivering and smiling fitfully a smile,
Wan as the glitter of an icicle
Beside the old man's grief? Is this the maid,
Who, but a few bright morns ago, was one
No more familiar with despair and death
In her Maytime, than is the curly vine
Climbing about a cypress? Yes, 'tis she.
The tyrant saw her not; but others saw.
Ev'n while he spoke, with soundless foot she moved
Behind a shadowy column, and was not seen.
“Look at her, Tyrant, see what thou hast done!
Is this the one to feast thy weary eyes?
To sing to thee, to dance to thee? Is she
Worth loving now? And if not, hast thou aught
Of pity left in thee to take its place?
Or only fear?” Then Myrsilus pursued:—
“It was a moment, when the pressing call
Of matters appertaining to the war
Summon'd me to the Council; for the Elders
Would meet upon the instant—perhaps even then
Were met—when suddenly I saw before me
This mournful man, the father of the girl,
With sleepless eyes that had been drain'd of tears,
His two hands prest upon his aching brow,
Bow'd nigh to doom by nights and days of sorrow.
He stood at dusk beneath the portico
Of my own dwelling; and he wail'd and said;—
‘Myrsilus, O Myrsilus, the power
Is thine for good or evil; help me to justice,
If not to vengeance; and the Gods will give thee
Eternal life for it! I am her father.
Alas! my joy is dead, my girl is slain;
She was my only child, 'tis horrible!
She was the blessed child of my old age,
The gift her dying mother left to me.’
I promised justice; and I said, ‘To-night
Ye shall behold the workers of this wrong.
I shall not leave redress of such a deed
To private hands; I go to seize upon them,
And take them as my prisoners; ye may follow,
Thou, and thy friends and kinsfolk, if ye will.
And, as your wrongs are louder than all law,
I counsel ye not to forgo so fair
Occasion to avenge ye; and the laws
Will hardly touch a father, who in just
And natural anger slays with his own hand
The slayer of his child: and know to-night
They hold a marriage-feast, and will rejoice,
Remembering not your anguish, or the ill
That they have done: the Gods will bless ye for it,
If ye do save them lightning, and cut short
In retribution their accursed mirth!’
And then I said; ‘The Council waits for me;
I must away;’ but turn'd and spake again;
‘Come back when thirty minutes are gone by,
Ere yet the moon is up; for I shall need thee
In a grave matter;’ didst thou not return?
And gave I not torn from my tablets to thee
A leaf well folded in a linen cloth,
Together with my ring, for token sure
The writing came from me? and bade thee bear it
A furlong out beyond the western gate;
And there deliver it at the palace door
Of one my friend? Give ear unto my words.
And, when I charged thee come to me again
Bearing his answer, and the ring I gave thee,
Didst thou not play me false, and make away?
When I tore off the wrap, the writing said
The ring was there; but lo! the ring was not.
And then I shouted, ‘Stay the messenger.’
The slave replied; ‘Thus saith the doorkeeper;
‘Just as the letter came into thy hand
He parted swiftly, and the night is dark.’’
So I was left to wonder!” The old man
Stood blank with sudden terror; and 'twixt that,
And the dull ache of sorrow, found no words
More than a weary babe. Again he cried;
“The ring, the ring!” then answered the old man;
“My Lord, we came for justice; and we came
At thine own summons; after weary days,
And nights of anguish, we have dragg'd our grief
Before thee; and we turn upon thee now
Despairing eyes, that would, they know not what.
Thou canst not give us comfort; and revenge
In hearts like ours burns low amid the tears,
And sighs of our bereavements; and the Gods
Bear witness for us that we never saw
The thing of which thou speakest; and, O Heaven!
Now hast thou laid upon us a new load
To press us to the earth: this is some witchcraft,
Some weird fatality to blind our eyes,
And make our reason helpless. O ill day
That ever brought us hither: is the web
Of treason, spotted with our children's blood,
Now to be cast on us? on us who lie
Low in our misery, inconsolable!
We never look'd for this! we pray thee spare us;
And mock us not, if there be no redress.
We can forgo the triumph young men love.
The miserable have no eyes to see
The evil-doers suffer in their turn.
For, though we might, these aged hearts, made dark
By our afflictions, can have small delight
In bloody recompenses, or revenge;
Or triumph in the ruin even of those
Who have destroyed us. Let us part, and lay
Our vexed hearts by those who sleep the sleep
That never wakes; though poor we are not base.
The poor man, losing honour, loses more
Than the big jewel in a crown; for so
He loses that he hath preserved with care;
And held against all subtleties, all wiles
Of his own soul, all perils from without;
And losing that, my Lord, he loses all—”
“Is this man mad with grief,” said Myrsilus;
“That he is double to himself, and flouts
His own experience but a few hours old?
There is the sheepskin, and the woollen cap,
The same even to the rent upon the edge;
The same deep thoughtful eyes which I look'd into
Under my very doorposts yestereven
But one; and yet he mocks me—why I know not—
And apes oblivion of himself, and me,
And my words and his own—this—”
Slunk back into the crowd, and was not seen.
245
And they declare ye guilty of this act,
If any proof can be”—whereat Alcæus
With a despairing gesture smote his brow,
And, turning unto Pittacus, he said—
“The Gods are arm'd against us, O my friend,
These very words were spoken;” but he answer'd:—
“Fret not thyself, nor chafe; but wait in patience
The signals of the Gods, who can defend
The right, when hope is fled; fret not thyself;
They make the darkest moment turn to dawn.”
Then Myrsilus: “Dost thou deny the words?”
“The spirit, not the letter, I disown.
The words were truly spoken; but the sense
Was this: the girl being saved, her lover slain,
In piteous indignation, and regret
We all were held, that the foul ravisher
Had not been done to death, as was his meet;
And blood for blood been taken then and there.”
Then Myrsilus with scornful look and tone:—
“O most inventive, high poetic art!
The horseman then, who bore to us the tale,
Himself hath done the deed!” We answer'd him
Together with one voice, “Thou say'st; and truly.
We saw him do it; and not only we,
But all the villagers upon the spot
Beheld it, and the hamlets higher up.
The poor slain youth, hoping his coming bride
Beheld it, (but his tongue is silent now),
246
“All are not needed; are there here who back thee
In this thy bold diversion?” “O my Lord;
Being innocent of this most cursed act;
Expecting not thy presence, and engaged
In merrymaking, we could ne'er have dreamt
'Twas needful to defend ourselves. Moreover,
That night of the sad spousal we had come
Late from Methymna, when the fray began.
'Twas wellnigh dark; the names of any there
We know not; and their faces dimly seen
Live not in our remembrance; time we need
To seek the vouchers who were present there.
I doubt not 'twill be easy; but they cannot
Answer thee now.” “And if they too were here,”
Cried Myrsilus, “to echo all thy speech,
Confirming with their voices thy denial,
What proof have we that thou and they are not
At seesaw with collusion, predetermin'd
To front occasion boldly? We hold good
The testimony of our partisans
At least as any other; and, were craft
Not in base hearts, we hold it more trustworthy
Than any rustic wits that, in the blaze
And smoke of their own folly, haply fed
By too much drink, see double, if at all,
And know not what they see: and more; we hear
That since the murder the poor girl is dead—
Thus wrong breeds wrong, and threefold makes your crime—
247
That follow on the same—dead is she, dead!
Ay even of very woe!” “'Tis horrible!”
Surely we cried, “'tis horrible! but who
Hath rumour'd this new fear? 'tis true, 'tis true,
That the poor youth is slain; but for the girl—”
“Patience, my friend, and let the Archon speak,”
Said Pittacus—“I speak,” said Myrsilus,
“On testimony not to be gainsaid.”
He paused, and, signing to an armed man;—
“Where are the two old folks? Make haste; bring up
The fisherman, the father of the girl;
And with him bring the mother of the boy.
Behold them pass in, those two stricken souls,
The widow'd mother, and the white-hair'd sire,
More aged than by an added score of years
Through their fresh grief.” But who is she, that pale
And stricken form, who leans upon his arm,
Shivering and smiling fitfully a smile,
Wan as the glitter of an icicle
Beside the old man's grief? Is this the maid,
Who, but a few bright morns ago, was one
No more familiar with despair and death
In her Maytime, than is the curly vine
Climbing about a cypress? Yes, 'tis she.
The tyrant saw her not; but others saw.
Ev'n while he spoke, with soundless foot she moved
Behind a shadowy column, and was not seen.
“Look at her, Tyrant, see what thou hast done!
248
To sing to thee, to dance to thee? Is she
Worth loving now? And if not, hast thou aught
Of pity left in thee to take its place?
Or only fear?” Then Myrsilus pursued:—
“It was a moment, when the pressing call
Of matters appertaining to the war
Summon'd me to the Council; for the Elders
Would meet upon the instant—perhaps even then
Were met—when suddenly I saw before me
This mournful man, the father of the girl,
With sleepless eyes that had been drain'd of tears,
His two hands prest upon his aching brow,
Bow'd nigh to doom by nights and days of sorrow.
He stood at dusk beneath the portico
Of my own dwelling; and he wail'd and said;—
‘Myrsilus, O Myrsilus, the power
Is thine for good or evil; help me to justice,
If not to vengeance; and the Gods will give thee
Eternal life for it! I am her father.
Alas! my joy is dead, my girl is slain;
She was my only child, 'tis horrible!
She was the blessed child of my old age,
The gift her dying mother left to me.’
I promised justice; and I said, ‘To-night
Ye shall behold the workers of this wrong.
I shall not leave redress of such a deed
To private hands; I go to seize upon them,
And take them as my prisoners; ye may follow,
249
And, as your wrongs are louder than all law,
I counsel ye not to forgo so fair
Occasion to avenge ye; and the laws
Will hardly touch a father, who in just
And natural anger slays with his own hand
The slayer of his child: and know to-night
They hold a marriage-feast, and will rejoice,
Remembering not your anguish, or the ill
That they have done: the Gods will bless ye for it,
If ye do save them lightning, and cut short
In retribution their accursed mirth!’
And then I said; ‘The Council waits for me;
I must away;’ but turn'd and spake again;
‘Come back when thirty minutes are gone by,
Ere yet the moon is up; for I shall need thee
In a grave matter;’ didst thou not return?
And gave I not torn from my tablets to thee
A leaf well folded in a linen cloth,
Together with my ring, for token sure
The writing came from me? and bade thee bear it
A furlong out beyond the western gate;
And there deliver it at the palace door
Of one my friend? Give ear unto my words.
And, when I charged thee come to me again
Bearing his answer, and the ring I gave thee,
Didst thou not play me false, and make away?
When I tore off the wrap, the writing said
The ring was there; but lo! the ring was not.
250
The slave replied; ‘Thus saith the doorkeeper;
‘Just as the letter came into thy hand
He parted swiftly, and the night is dark.’’
So I was left to wonder!” The old man
Stood blank with sudden terror; and 'twixt that,
And the dull ache of sorrow, found no words
More than a weary babe. Again he cried;
“The ring, the ring!” then answered the old man;
“My Lord, we came for justice; and we came
At thine own summons; after weary days,
And nights of anguish, we have dragg'd our grief
Before thee; and we turn upon thee now
Despairing eyes, that would, they know not what.
Thou canst not give us comfort; and revenge
In hearts like ours burns low amid the tears,
And sighs of our bereavements; and the Gods
Bear witness for us that we never saw
The thing of which thou speakest; and, O Heaven!
Now hast thou laid upon us a new load
To press us to the earth: this is some witchcraft,
Some weird fatality to blind our eyes,
And make our reason helpless. O ill day
That ever brought us hither: is the web
Of treason, spotted with our children's blood,
Now to be cast on us? on us who lie
Low in our misery, inconsolable!
We never look'd for this! we pray thee spare us;
And mock us not, if there be no redress.
251
The miserable have no eyes to see
The evil-doers suffer in their turn.
For, though we might, these aged hearts, made dark
By our afflictions, can have small delight
In bloody recompenses, or revenge;
Or triumph in the ruin even of those
Who have destroyed us. Let us part, and lay
Our vexed hearts by those who sleep the sleep
That never wakes; though poor we are not base.
The poor man, losing honour, loses more
Than the big jewel in a crown; for so
He loses that he hath preserved with care;
And held against all subtleties, all wiles
Of his own soul, all perils from without;
And losing that, my Lord, he loses all—”
“Is this man mad with grief,” said Myrsilus;
“That he is double to himself, and flouts
His own experience but a few hours old?
There is the sheepskin, and the woollen cap,
The same even to the rent upon the edge;
The same deep thoughtful eyes which I look'd into
Under my very doorposts yestereven
But one; and yet he mocks me—why I know not—
And apes oblivion of himself, and me,
And my words and his own—this—”
“True, O Archon;”
Said Pittacus, “'tis strange, 'tis passing strange.
And yet it may seem stranger to thee still
If what was said in secret I have heard.
And what thou spakest to him, he to thee,
I should remember, though he hath forgot.
And that the tongue and soul of this old man
Should now be my possessions—”
Said Pittacus, “'tis strange, 'tis passing strange.
252
If what was said in secret I have heard.
And what thou spakest to him, he to thee,
I should remember, though he hath forgot.
And that the tongue and soul of this old man
Should now be my possessions—”
“Hold!” he cried;
“Hast thou drunk savage brewings, or have I
This night; that substances to shadows turn,
Shadows to substances! the senses sleep,
And reason is unseated? but beware,
Trifle not with me. As for thee, old man,
In whose behoof I waste the precious hours
In threatening times, call up thy drowned wits:
Make haste; and now remember what concerns
Thee more than me; dost think there are no toils
For rulers of the people but to hear
The beggars whine? I am myself to blame.
I was a fool to trust him with a gem,
Whose price would purchase the old fisherman
New nets, and boats, or buy a field for him—”
“Permit me, O my Lord, but to fulfil
My words,” said Pittacus; “which were not boastful.
And let me burnish the dead memory
Of this poor man.—Beneath the portico—”
But Myrsilus sat fix'd with staring eyes,—
As one who hears an echo to his thought
Reverberate from the walls of his own chamber.—
One moment, pale as with a sudden fear,
Then red with rage he shouted; “What am I?
Do I sit here as judge or criminal?
Better declare that I, the Archon, I
Have done this murder, than to coin such speech.
If this old man hath breathed into thine ear
Words which he now remembers not, 'tis like
His memory may have failed quite from the first,
Or that he framed a lie for evil ends,
Of words not spoken at all.” Then Pittacus:
“Patience, O noble Archon, yet awhile.
All shall be satisfied, even thou thyself.
Later the selfsame night of the ill deed,
Three hours from midnight, I myself and slave—”
Then Myrsilus arose, his eyes aflame
With angry fears, and shouted, “No more words!
The case is clear, methinks; there is no need
Deeper to drive into the night, when matters
Of vaster moment press us.” “And to me,”
Said Pittacus, “the case is clear; that horseman—”
“Advance, and seize your prisoners, Guard, I say,”
Cried Myrsilus; “this is a night of shame;
My noble hosts, that under your own roof,
Rather than in full Council at noonday,
Within the Hall of Elders, your dishonour
Should be proclaimed—and sentenced—is your gain;
Tho' justice somewhat lose in the exchange.
We would not press you harder, nor afflict
With stings of public scorn the fallen pride
Of yet a noble house, whom there awaits
A certain doom; for justice must be done,
Though mercy mingle with it. And what doom,
My countrymen, what doom is fittest for him,
Who scorns the laws, and is above all law,
Sheds blameless blood, tramples on lowly hearts?
And is himself of those who name themselves
Noble? whose name is as a tower of strength;
From whose high station, as from heaven itself,
Pity should fall—what doom is due to him?”
“Death!” said the voice of one invisible—
“Death!” from the shadow other voices cried—
“And we say, ‘Death’! and are but as the sound
That echoes to a trumpet, when we say;
As from the choicest flowers in all the garden
We gather for a sacrifice, so ye,
Who are the foremost in this noble isle,
In station, and in riches, and in spirit,
Which Nature gave ye as a crown of flowers,
O ye must yield your lives; ay, blood for blood,
To mark the day, and make it memorable.
Death to the noble who ignobly lives,
Death to the highborn robber, death to pride.”
“Death to Myrsilus! tyrant; thine own tongue
Hath judged thee and condemn'd—thou art the Man!”
Cried Pittacus—but Myrsilus pluck'd down
A javelin from the wall, and launch'd it forth
With perilous might; but with unsteady eye,
So that it flew above the nearer heads,
Sparing the life of him who was the mark,
But struck the false cupbearer, far withdrawn,
Between the eyes; and he fell with a groan.
Then Antimenidas with sudden bound
Sprang forward, waving high above his head
The mighty scimitar, with ivory hilt,
Brought from the east, and rainbow colours play'd
Upon it from the lamps; he stood behind
The throne of Myrsilus, and held it high
Above his head; and when the tyrant glared,
And would have spoken, higher still it rose,
As though it would come down upon his neck,
If but one word were utter'd.
“Hast thou drunk savage brewings, or have I
This night; that substances to shadows turn,
Shadows to substances! the senses sleep,
And reason is unseated? but beware,
Trifle not with me. As for thee, old man,
In whose behoof I waste the precious hours
In threatening times, call up thy drowned wits:
Make haste; and now remember what concerns
Thee more than me; dost think there are no toils
For rulers of the people but to hear
The beggars whine? I am myself to blame.
I was a fool to trust him with a gem,
Whose price would purchase the old fisherman
New nets, and boats, or buy a field for him—”
“Permit me, O my Lord, but to fulfil
My words,” said Pittacus; “which were not boastful.
And let me burnish the dead memory
Of this poor man.—Beneath the portico—”
But Myrsilus sat fix'd with staring eyes,—
As one who hears an echo to his thought
Reverberate from the walls of his own chamber.—
253
Then red with rage he shouted; “What am I?
Do I sit here as judge or criminal?
Better declare that I, the Archon, I
Have done this murder, than to coin such speech.
If this old man hath breathed into thine ear
Words which he now remembers not, 'tis like
His memory may have failed quite from the first,
Or that he framed a lie for evil ends,
Of words not spoken at all.” Then Pittacus:
“Patience, O noble Archon, yet awhile.
All shall be satisfied, even thou thyself.
Later the selfsame night of the ill deed,
Three hours from midnight, I myself and slave—”
Then Myrsilus arose, his eyes aflame
With angry fears, and shouted, “No more words!
The case is clear, methinks; there is no need
Deeper to drive into the night, when matters
Of vaster moment press us.” “And to me,”
Said Pittacus, “the case is clear; that horseman—”
“Advance, and seize your prisoners, Guard, I say,”
Cried Myrsilus; “this is a night of shame;
My noble hosts, that under your own roof,
Rather than in full Council at noonday,
Within the Hall of Elders, your dishonour
Should be proclaimed—and sentenced—is your gain;
Tho' justice somewhat lose in the exchange.
We would not press you harder, nor afflict
With stings of public scorn the fallen pride
254
A certain doom; for justice must be done,
Though mercy mingle with it. And what doom,
My countrymen, what doom is fittest for him,
Who scorns the laws, and is above all law,
Sheds blameless blood, tramples on lowly hearts?
And is himself of those who name themselves
Noble? whose name is as a tower of strength;
From whose high station, as from heaven itself,
Pity should fall—what doom is due to him?”
“Death!” said the voice of one invisible—
“Death!” from the shadow other voices cried—
“And we say, ‘Death’! and are but as the sound
That echoes to a trumpet, when we say;
As from the choicest flowers in all the garden
We gather for a sacrifice, so ye,
Who are the foremost in this noble isle,
In station, and in riches, and in spirit,
Which Nature gave ye as a crown of flowers,
O ye must yield your lives; ay, blood for blood,
To mark the day, and make it memorable.
Death to the noble who ignobly lives,
Death to the highborn robber, death to pride.”
“Death to Myrsilus! tyrant; thine own tongue
Hath judged thee and condemn'd—thou art the Man!”
Cried Pittacus—but Myrsilus pluck'd down
A javelin from the wall, and launch'd it forth
With perilous might; but with unsteady eye,
So that it flew above the nearer heads,
255
But struck the false cupbearer, far withdrawn,
Between the eyes; and he fell with a groan.
Then Antimenidas with sudden bound
Sprang forward, waving high above his head
The mighty scimitar, with ivory hilt,
Brought from the east, and rainbow colours play'd
Upon it from the lamps; he stood behind
The throne of Myrsilus, and held it high
Above his head; and when the tyrant glared,
And would have spoken, higher still it rose,
As though it would come down upon his neck,
If but one word were utter'd.
II
Then I sawMyrsilus from underneath his robe
Draw forth a trumpet, raise it to his lips,
And blow a blast that made the armour ring.
And suddenly, as from the gorge of Night,
There came a cry in answer, that turn'd pale
The lips of the bystanders, but not so
The tyrant and his henchmen. He rose up
With scorn upon his lip: “Ha! ha!” he cried,
“Methinks the chase is ended, and the game
Is ready for the hunters!” As he spoke
Pittacus step forth again; drew back
The veil that hung between us and the garden,
256
“Welcome! I wait ye!” And another shout
Of a whole host, as of a bursting flood,
Gave answer, “We are here, long life to thee!”
And now the moonlight, mingling with the lamps,
Shimmer'd on the arms and helmed heads
Of yet another band; swiftly they near'd;
And Pittacus turning to the tyrant; “Who
Are now the hunters, and who are the game?”
So saying, he vanish'd in the gathering crowd.
The tyrant shouted, “Who are on my side?”
But none made answer; for the armed guard
Who came obedient, though unwise, to aid
Their lord, had heard wise words from Pittacus,
While Myrsilus was boasting of himself.
And now the wine of that old love was sour'd
By the sad tale into its opposite;
And the arm'd cohort who had leapt the wall
Were well prepared to fling down arms of brass,
And stretch forth arms of nature to their brothers.
But two or three, the tyrant's chosen friends,
Who rode forth, and who sat at meat with him,
And knew that they must live or die with him,
Unwitting of the change those words had wrought,
And fill'd with wrath, and trusting to be back'd
By arms, rose to lay violent hands upon
The bridal guests. But, ere the foremost man
Could touch the robe of Citharus, or his friends,
A javelin like a starflash, glanced across
257
The tyrant whisper'd to a kinsman near,
To hasten forward, and be swift to stay
The flying maids. They with a wailing cry
Threw up their arms in piteous flight, and sought
The shelter of the shadows; and I saw
The peaceful Citharus cast away all fear!
Love lent him strength against the threatening bulk
Of yet another foe; he snatch'd a cup,
Fill'd it with wine, and dash'd it in his eyes.
Half blind he stumbled o'er a fallen stool;
Then Citharus grasp'd a dagger from the wall;
And while he held it lifted in the act
To strike it home, the ivory-hilted sword
Whirl'd by the arm of Antimenidas
Lighten'd between; and swiftly rushing down
Drown'd the last traitor's curses in his blood.
“'Tis well,” he said, “that I have slain this man;
If thou hadst done it, 'twould have been to thee
An arrow in thy heart, an evil dream
To haunt thee; but nor thou, nor any here
Can call it vengeance, for 'tis only justice!”
A moment's silence, and a plaining cry
Came from the garden side; we turn'd and saw
The white robes of the bridemaids hurrying thro'
The darkness of the vineyards, and a slope
Of olivewood behind; and there they stood,
And mourn'd, and raised their clasp'd hands to the stars.
258
III
Then once more, to the wonder of us all,
That fisher, whom the guard had borne away,
Came back into our midst; and Myrsilus,
Whose mere astonishment broke through all fears;
“What! do I see thee yet again, old man;
Did I not bid them bind thee, bear thee off,
And chain thee?” “True,” he answer'd, “true, my lord;
But I remember now what I forgot—
Pardon the folly of a weak old man—
Thou gavest me the tablets and the ring.”—
“Then hand them back,” cried Myrsilus in wrath.
“Not so, my lord; saving this company,
I will read out the written characters.”—
“What! is it so, and I too knew it not?”
Mutter'd the tyrant to his secret soul;
“He reads, he reads my words!” And then aloud;
“Take him away; I tell ye he is mad.”
Truly it seem'd that fisherman had lost
The wavering reason that his woes had left;
He laugh'd a phrenzied laugh, he laugh'd aloud,
And for a moment all the multitude
Stood open-mouth'd with awe. Then, swift as sight,
He cast off from him the unsightly cap,
And sheepskin, his white hair, and hoary beard,
And stood forth there, the dark-eyed Pittacus.
A moment there was silence, and he said;
“I have thrown off the mask, O Myrsilus;
And now I counsel thee to do the same.
Unmask thee, masker; be for once a man;
And show thyself for what I know thou art,
A murderer; now let thy face put on
The image of thine heart! shift off the load
Of lies, and rise up evil as thou art!
Be what thou art, not seem what thou art not.
That change from twilight into blackest night
Will make thee grand by contrast; let the fox
Turn on the dogs, and, though he be a villain,
That moment makes him equal with his foes.
Oh! ape no more the march of majesty;
Nor mock the voice of Law; nor noble scorns
That burst from honest lips; oh! own thyself
A man the foe of men, a cheat, a traitor,
A public scourge for one who wields the strength,
That should subdue the strong, to crush the weak.
This bloody act is thine, as I shall show.
An ill which heap'd upon a thousand ills
Shall weigh thee down to Hell! this ancient house
Is guiltless of the innocent blood that cries
To heaven and earth for vengeance! O my friends,
'Tis not in birth, or customary honours,
Or in their opposites, that men may live
Stainless of sin; the rich man slays the rich,
The poor the poor, and rich and poor each other.
Cast envy from your hearts, and judge this man,
Ye poor, as though he were a fellow-worker,
As once his kin were; better were he now.
Ye rich, remember not that he hath wealth
And power, and honours; we are here as men,
With hearts that tremble to the selfsame motions.
And, being of the people, not in vain,
Not without reason, do I raise my voice
For these, tho' they be nobles. O my friends;
I think men know me for the friend of truth,
And justice; even more a friend of those
Than to the people; I may then be heard
Without suspicion; this I testify,
That I too, by the help of Nemesis,
Was present with mine ears at this man's counsels.
I think ye can divine without more words,
My friends, who is the horseman that escaped.
First, to the city after the affray
That horseman came not; but reenter'd then
His house upon the hill, whose terraced front
O'erhangs the hollow way, full well I know.
One day I rested in a hamlet nigh
Where the slain youth had dwelt, where now laments
His childless weeping mother all alone.
Late the same night the evil deed was done,
I was returning from an upland farm,
Whither, as is my wont, I had repair'd
On household matters, with my slave behind me.
It chanced that, being aweary of our walk,
We sat awhile to rest us by the way
On a stone seat hard by a spring, that gush'd
Under a marble arch within the wall.
Here, while we sat in darkness, tongues were heard
Of some in converse on the other side,
Where was a pillar'd terrace that o'erhung
The hollow way below; and whether 'twas
The stillness of the hour, or echo flung
Back from the arch we knew not; but the words,
Though whisper'd, fell distinctly on the sense
As though they were outspoken; and one said:
‘Here may we safely commune; for, thank heaven,
Night hath no ears, and her ten thousand eyes
Pierce not the dark; I trust not my own walls,
And fear my slaves be watching; oh there's nought
Like the deep, still, and irresponsive air,
For drowning secrets, as the ocean drinks
The babbling rills. My purpose I have fix'd;
They spoil'd my sport, and I am not myself,
If I do not avenge me.—Vengeance, vengeance
Is justice to myself! I know them too;
Altho' the dusk hour hid their faces from me:
I heard their names spoken to one another,
Alcæus, Citharus, Antimenidas,
Ev'n as they snatch'd the damsel from my arms.
And for the fisher's daughter they have won
They shall lose one still fairer; I will seize
The bride of Citharus newly-wed, and charge him
With my own deed; for if I am not foremost
In laying it to him, there may be peril
From chances unforeseen unto myself.
Such must not be; meanwhile it shall be known
In all the land, Alcæus, and his brothers
Have done this thing; doubt not I will have vengeance,
O night, for unto thee alone we speak.'
Then paused they in their work, and laugh'd aloud.
And under shelter of it I pass'd off,
And out of hearing; and again, it chanced,
That in that interval came by the way
Other three toward the city—in the gloom
Their forms were scarce discern'd—but their own tongues
Quickly made known they were the very men
Whose names were utter'd by the whispering voice
Upon the terrace overhead; they stood
A space; one pluck'd the other by the robe,
Gazing into the deep night without fear,
And said, ‘A strange night's work, O brother, this;
A bridal turn'd into a funeral;
A young bride rescued, and a bridegroom slain.
Alcœus, we have left undone a deed
Whose lack outweighs all good that we have done.
The girl is safe, the boy will speak no more;
The horseman is escaped, and we did ill
To spare his accursed life!’
That fisher, whom the guard had borne away,
Came back into our midst; and Myrsilus,
Whose mere astonishment broke through all fears;
“What! do I see thee yet again, old man;
Did I not bid them bind thee, bear thee off,
And chain thee?” “True,” he answer'd, “true, my lord;
But I remember now what I forgot—
Pardon the folly of a weak old man—
Thou gavest me the tablets and the ring.”—
“Then hand them back,” cried Myrsilus in wrath.
“Not so, my lord; saving this company,
I will read out the written characters.”—
“What! is it so, and I too knew it not?”
Mutter'd the tyrant to his secret soul;
“He reads, he reads my words!” And then aloud;
“Take him away; I tell ye he is mad.”
Truly it seem'd that fisherman had lost
The wavering reason that his woes had left;
He laugh'd a phrenzied laugh, he laugh'd aloud,
And for a moment all the multitude
Stood open-mouth'd with awe. Then, swift as sight,
He cast off from him the unsightly cap,
And sheepskin, his white hair, and hoary beard,
And stood forth there, the dark-eyed Pittacus.
A moment there was silence, and he said;
“I have thrown off the mask, O Myrsilus;
259
Unmask thee, masker; be for once a man;
And show thyself for what I know thou art,
A murderer; now let thy face put on
The image of thine heart! shift off the load
Of lies, and rise up evil as thou art!
Be what thou art, not seem what thou art not.
That change from twilight into blackest night
Will make thee grand by contrast; let the fox
Turn on the dogs, and, though he be a villain,
That moment makes him equal with his foes.
Oh! ape no more the march of majesty;
Nor mock the voice of Law; nor noble scorns
That burst from honest lips; oh! own thyself
A man the foe of men, a cheat, a traitor,
A public scourge for one who wields the strength,
That should subdue the strong, to crush the weak.
This bloody act is thine, as I shall show.
An ill which heap'd upon a thousand ills
Shall weigh thee down to Hell! this ancient house
Is guiltless of the innocent blood that cries
To heaven and earth for vengeance! O my friends,
'Tis not in birth, or customary honours,
Or in their opposites, that men may live
Stainless of sin; the rich man slays the rich,
The poor the poor, and rich and poor each other.
Cast envy from your hearts, and judge this man,
Ye poor, as though he were a fellow-worker,
As once his kin were; better were he now.
260
And power, and honours; we are here as men,
With hearts that tremble to the selfsame motions.
And, being of the people, not in vain,
Not without reason, do I raise my voice
For these, tho' they be nobles. O my friends;
I think men know me for the friend of truth,
And justice; even more a friend of those
Than to the people; I may then be heard
Without suspicion; this I testify,
That I too, by the help of Nemesis,
Was present with mine ears at this man's counsels.
I think ye can divine without more words,
My friends, who is the horseman that escaped.
First, to the city after the affray
That horseman came not; but reenter'd then
His house upon the hill, whose terraced front
O'erhangs the hollow way, full well I know.
One day I rested in a hamlet nigh
Where the slain youth had dwelt, where now laments
His childless weeping mother all alone.
Late the same night the evil deed was done,
I was returning from an upland farm,
Whither, as is my wont, I had repair'd
On household matters, with my slave behind me.
It chanced that, being aweary of our walk,
We sat awhile to rest us by the way
On a stone seat hard by a spring, that gush'd
Under a marble arch within the wall.
261
Of some in converse on the other side,
Where was a pillar'd terrace that o'erhung
The hollow way below; and whether 'twas
The stillness of the hour, or echo flung
Back from the arch we knew not; but the words,
Though whisper'd, fell distinctly on the sense
As though they were outspoken; and one said:
‘Here may we safely commune; for, thank heaven,
Night hath no ears, and her ten thousand eyes
Pierce not the dark; I trust not my own walls,
And fear my slaves be watching; oh there's nought
Like the deep, still, and irresponsive air,
For drowning secrets, as the ocean drinks
The babbling rills. My purpose I have fix'd;
They spoil'd my sport, and I am not myself,
If I do not avenge me.—Vengeance, vengeance
Is justice to myself! I know them too;
Altho' the dusk hour hid their faces from me:
I heard their names spoken to one another,
Alcæus, Citharus, Antimenidas,
Ev'n as they snatch'd the damsel from my arms.
And for the fisher's daughter they have won
They shall lose one still fairer; I will seize
The bride of Citharus newly-wed, and charge him
With my own deed; for if I am not foremost
In laying it to him, there may be peril
From chances unforeseen unto myself.
Such must not be; meanwhile it shall be known
262
Have done this thing; doubt not I will have vengeance,
O night, for unto thee alone we speak.'
Then paused they in their work, and laugh'd aloud.
And under shelter of it I pass'd off,
And out of hearing; and again, it chanced,
That in that interval came by the way
Other three toward the city—in the gloom
Their forms were scarce discern'd—but their own tongues
Quickly made known they were the very men
Whose names were utter'd by the whispering voice
Upon the terrace overhead; they stood
A space; one pluck'd the other by the robe,
Gazing into the deep night without fear,
And said, ‘A strange night's work, O brother, this;
A bridal turn'd into a funeral;
A young bride rescued, and a bridegroom slain.
Alcœus, we have left undone a deed
Whose lack outweighs all good that we have done.
The girl is safe, the boy will speak no more;
The horseman is escaped, and we did ill
To spare his accursed life!’
Once more, my friends,
Give ear; have patience while I tell ye all.
The second day about the second hour
After the sunset, ere the moon was up,
About a furlong from the city gate,
We met this woeful fisherman, and he said;
‘I have seen Myrsilus; he hath given me hope
Of justice, ay, of vengeance, which shall fall
Upon the murderers of my only child,
This very night; he bade me to return
In twenty minutes, ere the moon was up;
For he had need of me in some grave matter.
But I am weary, and my heart is faint.
I fear to take upon me his behest,
Lest my wits wander; then I must go back
Quickly, and bear the answer; I am worn
With grief, and haply may forget it all.’
‘Be of good courage, O my friend,’ I said;
‘And give me now thy sheepskin, and thy cap,
And take mine, and this mantle; and bide me here
Yet for a little while; and whatsoe'er
He bids me do that will I do for thee.’
And so he gave me them. Then I withdrew;
And in the shadows, ere the moon was up,
I gain'd the portal of the council-chamber,
And spoke the doorkeeper, and he went in.
I heard him say, ‘A fisher stands without
Waiting thy bidding.’ Myrsilus arose,
And came with hurried step into the night;
And look'd as one whose outer sense is blind,
Because the inner eye is turn'd on thoughts
So all-possessing, that the Actual
Is hid as in a dream. He look'd on me,
And knew me not; the wandering of his mind
Help'd out the shadows of the portico
That made my aspect doubtful, as he spoke
With hurried breath, ‘Take these,’ and gave me then
A packet, and a ring for token of him,
To bear to a great palace past the walls
And western gate; and, as he turned away,
He waved his hand, and cried, ‘Haste with all speed,
I may not tarry with thee, and come back
Quickly, and bear the answer to me here.’
I hasten'd thro' the dark, and found a nook,
Where hung a little lamp beside a shrine—
For the moon was not yet—that gave me light
To read the writing, and the answer to it;
Which, friends and countrymen, I pray ye hear.
‘My friend, I send thee this by a blind man;
For such a fool as reads not hath no eyes.
Give heed unto it; for the game we play
Is chancey as a die; and, if I fall,
Thou, and the rest will follow, and our doom
Is death, or banishment; so we must throw
Another cast for life, and its delights.
I tell thee this, that thou mayst hasten thee,
Ere evil come, to gather all our friends,
And meet the worst within the city walls!
So to withstand the craft of Pittacus
Betimes, who is, I fear me, hatching treason.
Haply thou wilt say, ‘Why not forgo
Thy purpose?’ Oh dream not that I will lose
My vengeance, if I lose not throne and life.—
For vengeance, and security are one—
And it is dear to me, and shall not fail,
If your tongue, skill, and prowess fail me not.
So be thou present with a chosen band
Ere midnight, station'd on the garden side
Of the house of Caicus, beneath the wall;
And at my signal rise and enter in;
So they shall be taken, as hunted beasts,
None shall escape me; if I crush the heads
O' the serpents, their long bodies will but writhe
And die; and now the time, or all is lost.
So, when I blow a trumpet from within,
Know it to be my call, and scale the wall.’
My friends, if I may make a little boast,
I have some little skill in counterfeit.
And from my boyhood I could mock with ease
The voices, and the gestures of my friends,
The written characters of other men,
Judging that thro' the selfsame outward forms
I could behold something of their within.
So, having read the tablet, on my own
I wrote in the known hand of Myrsilus,
Not that ye heard this moment, but my words
Which he shall hear—‘O Sir, I write in haste.
The isle is stirr'd because of our misdeed
Yest'reven; fly, while there is room; for know
That Pittacus hath gain'd the soldiery,
And blown into a flame the public wrath
By windy wording of a private grief.
Such aid as thou and all thy men might bring
Would be as nought; but fly to the mainland,
And join the cohort that awaits thee there,
And seek a hiding place for me and thee.’
Thus having writ, I hasten'd to the gate,
And knock'd; and from the shadows stretch'd my hand,
Delivering up the writing to the slave,
Who bore it to his master; who came forth
Suddenly, silently, and smote his brow,
And without speech or sign gave back the ring,
And shut the gate, and barr'd, and bolted it.
Then wrote I on my tablets a reply
As from my lord, and thus—‘Sire, thy behests
I have received together with the ring,
Which, with this answer, in a linen cloth
For better surety I have folded up.
Fear not that I will fail thee; I counsel too,
For sake of caution, double not thy guard;
Lest any should divine the deeper scheme
That masks behind this byplay—to seize on
The chiefs of the old faction hostile to us—
And so some might escape thee, and make off,
And bring together faithful followers;
And 'mid the turmoil of the gathering war
The bold might dare to jostle thee aside,
And step into thy place, as thieves break through
On stormy nights; for I myself will lead
An armed cohort ready for the war;
And hold their palace on the garden side
While thou art nearing by the city way.’
So I return'd unto the council-chamber,
And knock'd, and gave the writing to the guard;
Who bore it in to Myrsilus, who rose
From among the Elders, and I heard him say,
‘Who is the messenger?’ The answer too,
‘'Tis a poor fisherman in sheepskin clad,
With russet cap torn something at the edge.’
‘'Tis well,’ said Myrsilus, ‘let him depart.’
The lamplight from the inner hall shot forth
Into the night, and show'd the woollen cloak,
And russet cap torn somewhat at the edge:
And then I hasted back into the night.
And now, in very proofs of all my words,
See. here the leaf out of his tablets torn
Scrawl'd in his lawless character; see here
His signet-ring which I have held till now.
And once again see here the dagger dropt
Out of the tyrant's hand that evil night,
Which the three brothers in their homeward way
Found glittering in the moonlight: these may serve
To bring home to a ruler and a judge
The bloody guilt he would adjudge to others;
And leave him to be judged by all men here.”
“And yet”—the brothers spoke with one consent
Advancing to the side of Pittacus—
“And yet these tokens are not proof to us
More than the surety of our hearts and eyes.
O tyrant, dost thou think we knew thee not,
Tho' muffled in thy mantle, and thy voice
Carefully hush'd? We saw that cruel eye
Burning with evil; we were near at hand
Behind the young man as he strove against thee,
Yet not so near as to give aid to him.
And, had it not been for a coward's arm,
While rescuing his love he would have slain thee,
Maugre this dagger with its golden haft
Studded with gems.” Then Pittacus again—
“We have borne patiently the guileful arts
Of this rare mummer; but the web of lies,
That he hath ravell'd with a hellish craft
To net the innocent, hath snared himself,
A man whom foolish men have lifted up
By strength of folly o'er their naked heads,
That he might make them anvils for his hammer.
O tyrant, hear not me but thine own soul,
The sleepless witness that within thee burns
Like Ætna, ere thou diest, as thou must,
Judged righteously by thine own judgment, dealt
Unrighteously to guiltless men. I charge thee,
Tell one truth ere thou diest, that thou wert born
A liar, and a liar thou hast lived.
And then the sword that waves above thy head
Shall fall upon it; but, ere that be done,
I bid thee in the name of all good men
To come down from the throne; what doest thou there?”
“My will,” he shouted; and the marble walls
Flung back his last word from its shields and helms;
And judgment fell upon him, not from man,
Nor sword, nor spear, but from the Gods themselves.
And with his eyes on fire he started up,
As tho' to combat with his single strength
The whole assembly; and his arm was raised
As tho' to lighten on them; then it fell,
The glaring eyes grew fix'd, his tongue was stay'd.
For lo! from forth the shadows where it hid,
A sudden spectre clad in funeral white
Made one step forward; and with lifted hand
And pointed finger shriek'd, “He is the man!”
Then strode into the middle of the hall,
Thro' men aghast with awe, they knew not why.
And Myrsilus, who deem'd that she was dead,
Thought that he saw her spirit come for him.
And, from his high place on the cloth of gold,
Prone, as a blinded Polypheme, he roll'd,
And from his mouth his lava-flood of life
Stream'd o'er the marble floor; and his black locks
Flow'd o'er his nerveless arm, and mingled with it.
And that which had been rumour'd now befell.
For when she saw the justice of the Gods,
And the fall'n tyrant, like the tallest pine,
By lightning crazed, she for a moment turn'd
Her blue eyes upward, and with folded palms
Stood, as a peerless image, and then fell.
For mingling passions, like confused streams
Master'd her tender life, a too frail bark
Caught by a whirlpool, till it disappear'd.
So lay the guileless victim, side by side
With her tormentor; he forthwith to pass
To his own place amid the evil ghosts;
She to leave far behind the woeful earth,
Whence, lovely flower, she sprang, but to be dash'd
Earthward again by cruel winds, ere Time
Spread forth her leaves, to shed new life around.
And by the Elysian tuneful springs she lies,
In fadeless paradises of the blest,
With him she loved, not dead; but gone before,
To lay for her beside those waters clear
Green plots alive with songs of happy birds,
And kiss'd with golden air of hopeful dawns,
And the sweet souls of ever-changing flowers.
Give ear; have patience while I tell ye all.
The second day about the second hour
After the sunset, ere the moon was up,
About a furlong from the city gate,
We met this woeful fisherman, and he said;
‘I have seen Myrsilus; he hath given me hope
263
Upon the murderers of my only child,
This very night; he bade me to return
In twenty minutes, ere the moon was up;
For he had need of me in some grave matter.
But I am weary, and my heart is faint.
I fear to take upon me his behest,
Lest my wits wander; then I must go back
Quickly, and bear the answer; I am worn
With grief, and haply may forget it all.’
‘Be of good courage, O my friend,’ I said;
‘And give me now thy sheepskin, and thy cap,
And take mine, and this mantle; and bide me here
Yet for a little while; and whatsoe'er
He bids me do that will I do for thee.’
And so he gave me them. Then I withdrew;
And in the shadows, ere the moon was up,
I gain'd the portal of the council-chamber,
And spoke the doorkeeper, and he went in.
I heard him say, ‘A fisher stands without
Waiting thy bidding.’ Myrsilus arose,
And came with hurried step into the night;
And look'd as one whose outer sense is blind,
Because the inner eye is turn'd on thoughts
So all-possessing, that the Actual
Is hid as in a dream. He look'd on me,
And knew me not; the wandering of his mind
Help'd out the shadows of the portico
That made my aspect doubtful, as he spoke
264
A packet, and a ring for token of him,
To bear to a great palace past the walls
And western gate; and, as he turned away,
He waved his hand, and cried, ‘Haste with all speed,
I may not tarry with thee, and come back
Quickly, and bear the answer to me here.’
I hasten'd thro' the dark, and found a nook,
Where hung a little lamp beside a shrine—
For the moon was not yet—that gave me light
To read the writing, and the answer to it;
Which, friends and countrymen, I pray ye hear.
‘My friend, I send thee this by a blind man;
For such a fool as reads not hath no eyes.
Give heed unto it; for the game we play
Is chancey as a die; and, if I fall,
Thou, and the rest will follow, and our doom
Is death, or banishment; so we must throw
Another cast for life, and its delights.
I tell thee this, that thou mayst hasten thee,
Ere evil come, to gather all our friends,
And meet the worst within the city walls!
So to withstand the craft of Pittacus
Betimes, who is, I fear me, hatching treason.
Haply thou wilt say, ‘Why not forgo
Thy purpose?’ Oh dream not that I will lose
My vengeance, if I lose not throne and life.—
For vengeance, and security are one—
And it is dear to me, and shall not fail,
265
So be thou present with a chosen band
Ere midnight, station'd on the garden side
Of the house of Caicus, beneath the wall;
And at my signal rise and enter in;
So they shall be taken, as hunted beasts,
None shall escape me; if I crush the heads
O' the serpents, their long bodies will but writhe
And die; and now the time, or all is lost.
So, when I blow a trumpet from within,
Know it to be my call, and scale the wall.’
My friends, if I may make a little boast,
I have some little skill in counterfeit.
And from my boyhood I could mock with ease
The voices, and the gestures of my friends,
The written characters of other men,
Judging that thro' the selfsame outward forms
I could behold something of their within.
So, having read the tablet, on my own
I wrote in the known hand of Myrsilus,
Not that ye heard this moment, but my words
Which he shall hear—‘O Sir, I write in haste.
The isle is stirr'd because of our misdeed
Yest'reven; fly, while there is room; for know
That Pittacus hath gain'd the soldiery,
And blown into a flame the public wrath
By windy wording of a private grief.
Such aid as thou and all thy men might bring
Would be as nought; but fly to the mainland,
266
And seek a hiding place for me and thee.’
Thus having writ, I hasten'd to the gate,
And knock'd; and from the shadows stretch'd my hand,
Delivering up the writing to the slave,
Who bore it to his master; who came forth
Suddenly, silently, and smote his brow,
And without speech or sign gave back the ring,
And shut the gate, and barr'd, and bolted it.
Then wrote I on my tablets a reply
As from my lord, and thus—‘Sire, thy behests
I have received together with the ring,
Which, with this answer, in a linen cloth
For better surety I have folded up.
Fear not that I will fail thee; I counsel too,
For sake of caution, double not thy guard;
Lest any should divine the deeper scheme
That masks behind this byplay—to seize on
The chiefs of the old faction hostile to us—
And so some might escape thee, and make off,
And bring together faithful followers;
And 'mid the turmoil of the gathering war
The bold might dare to jostle thee aside,
And step into thy place, as thieves break through
On stormy nights; for I myself will lead
An armed cohort ready for the war;
And hold their palace on the garden side
While thou art nearing by the city way.’
So I return'd unto the council-chamber,
267
Who bore it in to Myrsilus, who rose
From among the Elders, and I heard him say,
‘Who is the messenger?’ The answer too,
‘'Tis a poor fisherman in sheepskin clad,
With russet cap torn something at the edge.’
‘'Tis well,’ said Myrsilus, ‘let him depart.’
The lamplight from the inner hall shot forth
Into the night, and show'd the woollen cloak,
And russet cap torn somewhat at the edge:
And then I hasted back into the night.
And now, in very proofs of all my words,
See. here the leaf out of his tablets torn
Scrawl'd in his lawless character; see here
His signet-ring which I have held till now.
And once again see here the dagger dropt
Out of the tyrant's hand that evil night,
Which the three brothers in their homeward way
Found glittering in the moonlight: these may serve
To bring home to a ruler and a judge
The bloody guilt he would adjudge to others;
And leave him to be judged by all men here.”
“And yet”—the brothers spoke with one consent
Advancing to the side of Pittacus—
“And yet these tokens are not proof to us
More than the surety of our hearts and eyes.
O tyrant, dost thou think we knew thee not,
Tho' muffled in thy mantle, and thy voice
Carefully hush'd? We saw that cruel eye
268
Behind the young man as he strove against thee,
Yet not so near as to give aid to him.
And, had it not been for a coward's arm,
While rescuing his love he would have slain thee,
Maugre this dagger with its golden haft
Studded with gems.” Then Pittacus again—
“We have borne patiently the guileful arts
Of this rare mummer; but the web of lies,
That he hath ravell'd with a hellish craft
To net the innocent, hath snared himself,
A man whom foolish men have lifted up
By strength of folly o'er their naked heads,
That he might make them anvils for his hammer.
O tyrant, hear not me but thine own soul,
The sleepless witness that within thee burns
Like Ætna, ere thou diest, as thou must,
Judged righteously by thine own judgment, dealt
Unrighteously to guiltless men. I charge thee,
Tell one truth ere thou diest, that thou wert born
A liar, and a liar thou hast lived.
And then the sword that waves above thy head
Shall fall upon it; but, ere that be done,
I bid thee in the name of all good men
To come down from the throne; what doest thou there?”
“My will,” he shouted; and the marble walls
Flung back his last word from its shields and helms;
And judgment fell upon him, not from man,
Nor sword, nor spear, but from the Gods themselves.
269
As tho' to combat with his single strength
The whole assembly; and his arm was raised
As tho' to lighten on them; then it fell,
The glaring eyes grew fix'd, his tongue was stay'd.
For lo! from forth the shadows where it hid,
A sudden spectre clad in funeral white
Made one step forward; and with lifted hand
And pointed finger shriek'd, “He is the man!”
Then strode into the middle of the hall,
Thro' men aghast with awe, they knew not why.
And Myrsilus, who deem'd that she was dead,
Thought that he saw her spirit come for him.
And, from his high place on the cloth of gold,
Prone, as a blinded Polypheme, he roll'd,
And from his mouth his lava-flood of life
Stream'd o'er the marble floor; and his black locks
Flow'd o'er his nerveless arm, and mingled with it.
And that which had been rumour'd now befell.
For when she saw the justice of the Gods,
And the fall'n tyrant, like the tallest pine,
By lightning crazed, she for a moment turn'd
Her blue eyes upward, and with folded palms
Stood, as a peerless image, and then fell.
For mingling passions, like confused streams
Master'd her tender life, a too frail bark
Caught by a whirlpool, till it disappear'd.
So lay the guileless victim, side by side
With her tormentor; he forthwith to pass
270
She to leave far behind the woeful earth,
Whence, lovely flower, she sprang, but to be dash'd
Earthward again by cruel winds, ere Time
Spread forth her leaves, to shed new life around.
And by the Elysian tuneful springs she lies,
In fadeless paradises of the blest,
With him she loved, not dead; but gone before,
To lay for her beside those waters clear
Green plots alive with songs of happy birds,
And kiss'd with golden air of hopeful dawns,
And the sweet souls of ever-changing flowers.
IV
And now, behold a wonder; for the men,The armed ones who stood as adversaries,
While we were trembling for the dread to come,
Threw down theirarms; and stretch'd their hands to meet
Each other over the fall'n bulk of him,
Whom they had call'd their master; and all eyes
Were turn'd on Pittacus, whose voice was heard
In gentle accents, like a summer wind,
That in its fury hath blown down a tower,
And now breathes softly through its crannied walls.
The man who from the first had never fail'd
In head or heart, bow'd o'er himself, and laid
His hands upon his eyes, and wept at last
A few hot tears like stormdrops; when again
271
The aged man, the father of the girl,
Bending above the pale face of the dead.
But he was tearless; only now he mourn'd
That he was left behind; the wither'd heart
Bore neither hopeful flower, nor bitter fruit;
It lived, but now the sapless roots were dry.
“Tell me,” said Pittacus, “why didst thou say
That she was dead, thy daughter? Even I
Heard the same rumour from the country folk;”
“And if I said my widow'd girl was dead,
'Twas that I thought so, as I saw her lie
With closed eyes, and with bloodless lips; 'tis true
She lived again, she lived until this hour.
But liefer now I see her pass away
For ever, than remain a death in life,
Life without thought; better no life at all.
And so, as I myself had spread the tale
'Tis certain Myrsilus believed her dead.”
“In this thou mayst behold a wondrous thing,
Old man,” said Pittacus; “the murderer
Dreaming she was no more, did straightway fear
He saw her spirit come to take his life,
Who had ta'en hers; Oh sure the Gods are wise!
Perchance his mind's eye may have conjured up
The ghost of her dead lover, till it grew
Visible to his sense; and then he saw
Him walking by her side; the world will say
The wrong that hath been done hath been avenged
272
And wrought the selfsame end by other means;
The fear of that which might be brought about
The thing itself in its reality!”
V
All in the hall of arms was silence nowAnd darkness; for the mournful guests were gone.
I stood, and listen'd; for I heard a cry
Pass down the city-ways, and up the hills.
Voice bore onward voice, like wave on wave,
“Myrsilus, oh, Myrsilus is dead!”
And, when the louder tongues had ceased, there came
From the dark inner depths of the dark town,
Farther and fainter, “Myrsilus is dead!”
And, when all nearer sounds were hush'd, there flow'd
From moonless valleys, and from moonlit heights,
Like hidden flames that flash back from the clouds,
Or muffled thunders underneath the earth,
Or the thin whispers of far forest trees,
That cry of victory, “Myrsilus is dead!”
273
THE ARMOURY
Warlike men are a city's towers.
The sheen of brazen armour
Lights all the spacious hall,
And warlike arms and trophies
Hang high on every wall.
Lights all the spacious hall,
And warlike arms and trophies
Hang high on every wall.
—Alcæus.
But war was hurtling in the peaceful air
That shone down on their wreaths, and bridal vests
And merrymakings; and an eager host
Was gathering, and the foremost men made haste
To cleanse the rusty stains from helm, and shield
And cherish'd sword: and I too, shut within
My place of arms, a hall of marbles wrought
With skill of primest art, and hung around
High as the roof with trophies of old feuds
And wars in times of the primeval kings,
Made ready. If the world in which I am,
This glad new world of hope, and endless life,
This spirit-land, whither all mortals flow,
And ye must follow into higher state,
Had not begotten in me other strength,
And passions, other than all earthly moods,
274
What was my deepest shame; my flight in war,
My back turn'd to the javelins of the foe,
My shield cast from me, and my broken sword?
But, as a traveller in a mountain-land
Stands wondering at the Morn that hath not dawn'd
Yet in the valleys—hush'd the winds, serene
The sun-illumin'd summit—but at times
The towers of the dim city far below
Are half revealed to his down-gazing eye,
Its voices soften'd to a sound like sighs,
We doubt if such things were, or are but dreams.
And in the Past, the memory of our Prime,
Seen from the light of our immortal years,
Shines like a phantasm with an eerie light,
Rather than real; and we see ourselves
In the fresh strength of youth, and wing'd with hopes;
As though we look'd upon a pictured thing
With hues and forms imagined more than true.
And we can mock the passions that we felt,
And coldly handle burning fire; and try
By sharpest instruments, and strictest measures
Our cherish'd purposes, and lawless wills,
Unruly as the lion of the wild
With sinews knit for onset. Else in vain
Should I essay to drag up into light
That prideful morn that went before my shame;
When I was arming in my house, and thou
O Melanippus, who art with me here,
275
Didst enter with a song; and with thee came
Thy brothers; and behind, the sunny head
Of Atthis, with young violets in her robe
That fill'd the place with sweetness. There I stood,
My choicest helm just set on my young locks,
That then were dark as Pluto's when he rose
Up thro' the flowers of Enna; and was musing
In pleasant hesitation on those walls
Hung with my polish'd treasures, which I loved
To look on better than a golden lyre;
And in my folly rather cared to hear
The iron echoes of the clashing arms
Tost from the roof and marbles of the hall,
Than the best music drawn from silver strings;
Than voices lauding at a feast of friends;
Than mine own songs borne to my idle ear
From tongues of strangers, and who knew me not.
I laugh to think of it; how there I stood
In love with Death, with every pulse alive;
As one may wait with folded arms, and watch
The hush'd and harmless lightnings broidering
The cloudy mantle of a summer night,
Ere yet the storm awakens. There were swords
Glancing back to me many a morning sun,
Or bloodred once again in evening glow,
That had been jagg'd in battle; casques, and shields,
And aged corselets, whence the bloody rust
Of days of action, and of nights of brawl,
276
They shone, save dints and scrawls, that I had seen
So long, so lovingly, that I myself
Grew vain of those sad tokens, and half thought
That I had done the deeds. And that same thought
Was not all vanity, but, like a husk,
It hid the kernel of a valiant heart,
That has been tried since then. But I forget
That I am bound to tell of my dishonour;
And this I do with unimpassion'd heart,
As one from a far sunlit mountaintop
May look down on the tempests, and may hear them.
Well—as the red leaves of a full-blown rose,
Hid in the white folds of a virgin's robe,
Caught by a brisk wind from the sea, flit off,
The laughter and the voices scatter'd all
My fond imaginations; but they fell
Upon the sharp thorns of their cruel mirth.
“Look here is our Achilles, who was wont
To make his voice a treble for our sakes
While singing with the girls; and lo! at last,
Tired of our pastimes, he would be a man,
And change at last the distaff to a spear;
Come, let us help him to put on his arms.
O sweet, softspoken Pyrrha, who, beneath
Thy girlish garb, hast great Pelides' soul,
O tender-hearted Pyrrha, pine no more.(1)
Put not thy faith in rhythms of love and peace,
277
Timing a soft epithalamial air;
But be content with two feet and a march.”
“Fail not to hang thy harp upon thy back;”
Another cried 'twixt laughter and disdain,
“Like a true minstrel; and so it may chance
That in thy flight an arrow may be turn'd.”
“Ha! ha!” said Atthis, “get that helmet shaped
Into a drinking vessel ere thou part,
And of thy stylus make a lance's head;
So it may drive into some tender heart
Thy dreaming spirit, and so lull to sleep
Thine adversary like a poppy-head.”
“What have we here? a song as I'm alive—
A merry drinking song—hark! how it runs—
I
Wine, what art thou? Wondrous sourceOf Good and Ill; blessing, and curse;
Making Good better, Evil worse.
II
Wine, what art thou? Magic springOf consolations, meet to bring
Rapturous bliss to clown or king.
III
Wine, what art thou? Balm of pain;Lethe of memories; vernal rain
Making dead hopes spring up again.
278
IV
What art thou? When his Fancy clingsEarthward, thou givest the Poet wings,
Till as a lark he soars and sings.
V
But now I put the harp away;I haste unto the bloody fray;
Perchance I see no other day.
VI
But still 'tis better not to seeEvils to come which may not be;
Wine, mighty wine shall make me free
From fears, and give me victory!
VII
Wine's the fiery spur of war;Rise up with the morning star,
And drink a draught, and so prepare,
And then arm, arm, and mock at care.
VIII
Wine by war is nobly won,When a great deed hath been done
Drink in haste; the foemen run;
And then on, on, till set of sun!
279
IX
But ever after toil 'tis best,With the dust upon thy crest,
With the blood upon thy vest,
Drink a cup—and then to rest.
Not in the sun, but in the blissful shade
Of the broad leaves of yon full-clustering vine,
That sheds soft twilight all the summer long
Upon the sidewalk of the garden there.
Thy great deeds ever follow'd on thy cups,
Which follow'd in their turn; what were those deeds
But a new song in honour of the same?”
And then they took three spears down from the wall,
And, leaning them together, at the top
They set a helmet; and beneath it threw
A crimson mantle, till it look'd from far
Most high-heroical; again they laugh'd;
And round about it join'd their hands, and sang
A Pyrrhic measure; and they bad it dance,
And flung ripe cherries at it, till it stream'd
With their sweet blood, and look'd like Ares' self,
Dreadful to see, impossible to die!
Well—“Girls may flout us for we cannot fight them,”
At last I cried half anger'd; for their scorn
Jarr'd both my self-love, and my sadder mood;
There's nought so cruel as a merry maid;
Solid with solid measures, force with force;
280
Diversion in destruction; flay live eels;
Stick gilded flies on pins; and do to death
Strengths less than theirs; but Mockery is a maid;
Oh! strengthless beauty loves to wound the spirit!
And in her wanton humours talks as though
Her heart were but a bubble fill'd with wind;
Or thistlehead borne by the winds away;
Or, as an infant with a bunch of flowers
Will take delight to shed them leaf by leaf,
Will pluck out pity in their thirst for power.
But when I turn'd to look on thee, my Sappho,
I saw thee bending o'er that song of mine;
Thy lips were smiling, but thy soft deep eyes
Were dim with tears; and with that sympathy
I felt me comforted, as tho' thy hand
Were laid upon my heart, and thou couldst hear
Its eddying motions beating on each other,
Loves, prides, ambitions, hopes, regrets; and most
That apprehension, like a frore wind, searching
The crevices between, that I perchance
Might no more see those whom I daily saw,
Never more hear the voices that I loved,
Thine more than all; and if I knew that they,
Whose quenchless mirth was as a fire of thorns;
Whose life, untried of any sorrow yet,
Fear'd Death no more, than do the waving flowers
The hands that gather them; that they would mourn me,
Struck down in a far land; Oh! when I knew
281
Remembering me her lost and early friend,
Would shrink from that first sorrow, faint, unarm'd,
And weaker than the wounded heart of age,
The while it prest down all rebellious pride,
Left me as helpless as a weary child,
Whose angers burst in tears; I follow'd her
Into the garden, and I yearned unto her;
The light fell softly thro' the vines, and knit
Gold threads with her dark hair; but she look'd back
Once only, and with a pale unearthly smile
She waved me from her, as though it were in vain
To weave sweet words, and play with pleasant dreams,
While the red cloud was looming o'er the land;
And by to-morrow morn men should forget
All but the one great thought that they are men;
I turn'd away, and sought the house with sighs.
THE BATTLE
Under the shadow of the sultry cloud
Stilly we slept on shore; no tongue play'd truant;
Only the chief deliver'd his brief word
In low clear tones, yet heard along the host
Sharp as the ring of armour, and our men
Show'd scarcely darker than the night behind
Built like a wall of blackness toward the East.
The windless seas fell heavy on the sands
With hollow thunder; and at every burst
Flicker'd a flame that ran along the beach,
And made the blackness blacker than itself.
The armed bands, descending silently,
Grew vaster in the dark and calm, their crests,
Shuddering amid the gloom, still loftier seem'd,
Till in the eye of Fancy they became
The shadows of those heroes, that lay there,
Under the stones of Ilion hard by,
Come sadly forth to fight their fields again.
Far to the North the watchfires of the foe
Throbb'd with a ceaseless motion, like the glow
Of fiery foam thrown up against the shores
Of Phlegethon; and on that sullen light
Flitted their dismal shapes like busy ghosts.
And momentary uproar, like the sound
Of surging fires that scald the strands of Hell,
Blew down upon us thro' the breathless calm.
And in the pauses of the tumbling surf
“Let each man take his rest as best he may,”
Said Pittacus—“the shore is tost in waves
Of sand, within whose hollows ye might lie
By daylight, screen'd from the too curious foe.
And now, or for concealment, or for sleep,
Ye need no other mantle than this night
Whose breath is burning.” At that moment shot
A flash of soundless lightning, pointing down,
As with a fiery finger, to a mound
About a bowshot from me. In that glimpse
I knew I saw the great Pelides' tomb;
And thither I betook me; and within
The darker shadow of its bulk I lay
Fill'd with an awe, half terror, half delight,
At seeing thus my restless boyhood's dream
Bid fair to be accomplish'd. “I accept
The flaming omen, and will rest in hope,”
I cried—“Come to me, son of Tethys, come,
Breathe into me the vision of the past,
Till I awake; and arm me in my sleep
With strength to do thy deeds!” But long I lay
Upgazing at the starless dark, as though
To peep behind the veil, and mark the Fates
At work for me; this was my first emprise,
And all before but prelude to this act;
Chance tumult, dust of stormy accident;
When ofttimes those, who had been friends a day,
Unriveted their love; and friendships, sever'd
Over a cup of wine, again embraced
Across another. This was work for men.
Nations were met, as mountains earthquake-shaken,
That move to one another; this still night,
That roof'd with thunder the heroic land,
Morn with fierce wings would cleave, a bird of prey,
And sweep with fatal talons. Then there rose
Home thoughts of early days, and swiftly pass'd
O'er that dark ground of dreadful phantasies;
Sweet memories, bending like immortal spirits
Their mournful eyes upon me, and turning back
Their radiant foreheads. Ah! we never know
How lovely is the lowly tinkling flow
Of peaceful moments, with their sunny sparks,
Their eddies, and their bubbles brightly broken,
Their little shallow whirlpools, which betray,
Like the clear shells, and tiny gemlike stones,
Humble and pure affections underneath;
Till tempest swings the sudden torrent down
That clouds their beauty. And all my life at once
Mysteriously, as to a drowning man
Come back the thoughts of all that he hath been,
Upon the orbed dark as on a shield
Was scroll'd. My mother's face bent over me,
When Time threw back for me the gates of Life,
And the dark sisters in my little hand
Laid one more thread of the great Mystery;
My father when he led me first to school,
And left me, with dim eyes, and a faint heart,
To struggle with strange souls; that wise old man
Who fed my spirit. Then came moonlit dance,
And noonday feast beneath cool upland trees;
The loving boy still holds the loving hand
Of the fond grandsire, or the fonder sire,
His manly head erect still dark with youth.
Seldom he thinks, or, when indeed he thinks,
He mocks himself, poor fool, and scorns his years,
Those years joy-wing'd, yet slower than his pride,
That takes vain leaps to reach the height of man,
And falls back striving—sighing still to strive—
But arming daily. Then that glorious morn,
When like the Sun's fierce horses, Pyrous,
Phlegon, and Æthon, and Eous, pulsing
With golden hoofs, and outspread mighty vans,
That beat the Orient into fiery drift,
My firstborn Fancies sprang up from the earth
Into a world of wonder; and I ran
Along the shore, delighting in my strength,
The wild wind singing in my hair, my voice
Rising above the waters. And that hour
More memorable, when wing'd Eros took
The reins of the wild chariot of my thoughts,
And made the untamed lions feel his hand
And keep harmonious paces; from his wings
Scattering roseplumes o'er waste, and dusty way,
And making the dun shadows as we pass'd
Radiant with his own light. Again that eve,
When, hasting from a bridal in the hills,
And singing as I rode into the gate,
I saw Death with his finger on his lips
Before my father's chamber; and the threne
Unutterable, as my mother lay
Prone on the bed, her lamentable face
Prest 'neath her long loose hair upon her hands,
And the dread surety of mortality,
Erewhile beheld beside the stranger's hearth,
Like sculptur'd marble on a banquet table,
Unreal image, look'd on and forgot,
Now rose upon me, like a wintry dawn,
That, thro' one cloven cloud, shows far behind
The drear and fathomless Infinity.
Lastly, ascending slowly from beneath
The dust of desolations, and of tombs,
Ambition, like an armed King, whose frown
Pleasure, and Love, and Fancy must obey,
And fight for him, until his throne be piled
Above their wither'd wreaths, and ruin'd shrines,
Seized with his iron gauntlet on my heart.
Stilly we slept on shore; no tongue play'd truant;
Only the chief deliver'd his brief word
In low clear tones, yet heard along the host
Sharp as the ring of armour, and our men
Show'd scarcely darker than the night behind
Built like a wall of blackness toward the East.
The windless seas fell heavy on the sands
With hollow thunder; and at every burst
282
And made the blackness blacker than itself.
The armed bands, descending silently,
Grew vaster in the dark and calm, their crests,
Shuddering amid the gloom, still loftier seem'd,
Till in the eye of Fancy they became
The shadows of those heroes, that lay there,
Under the stones of Ilion hard by,
Come sadly forth to fight their fields again.
Far to the North the watchfires of the foe
Throbb'd with a ceaseless motion, like the glow
Of fiery foam thrown up against the shores
Of Phlegethon; and on that sullen light
Flitted their dismal shapes like busy ghosts.
And momentary uproar, like the sound
Of surging fires that scald the strands of Hell,
Blew down upon us thro' the breathless calm.
And in the pauses of the tumbling surf
“Let each man take his rest as best he may,”
Said Pittacus—“the shore is tost in waves
Of sand, within whose hollows ye might lie
By daylight, screen'd from the too curious foe.
And now, or for concealment, or for sleep,
Ye need no other mantle than this night
Whose breath is burning.” At that moment shot
A flash of soundless lightning, pointing down,
As with a fiery finger, to a mound
About a bowshot from me. In that glimpse
I knew I saw the great Pelides' tomb;
283
The darker shadow of its bulk I lay
Fill'd with an awe, half terror, half delight,
At seeing thus my restless boyhood's dream
Bid fair to be accomplish'd. “I accept
The flaming omen, and will rest in hope,”
I cried—“Come to me, son of Tethys, come,
Breathe into me the vision of the past,
Till I awake; and arm me in my sleep
With strength to do thy deeds!” But long I lay
Upgazing at the starless dark, as though
To peep behind the veil, and mark the Fates
At work for me; this was my first emprise,
And all before but prelude to this act;
Chance tumult, dust of stormy accident;
When ofttimes those, who had been friends a day,
Unriveted their love; and friendships, sever'd
Over a cup of wine, again embraced
Across another. This was work for men.
Nations were met, as mountains earthquake-shaken,
That move to one another; this still night,
That roof'd with thunder the heroic land,
Morn with fierce wings would cleave, a bird of prey,
And sweep with fatal talons. Then there rose
Home thoughts of early days, and swiftly pass'd
O'er that dark ground of dreadful phantasies;
Sweet memories, bending like immortal spirits
Their mournful eyes upon me, and turning back
Their radiant foreheads. Ah! we never know
284
Of peaceful moments, with their sunny sparks,
Their eddies, and their bubbles brightly broken,
Their little shallow whirlpools, which betray,
Like the clear shells, and tiny gemlike stones,
Humble and pure affections underneath;
Till tempest swings the sudden torrent down
That clouds their beauty. And all my life at once
Mysteriously, as to a drowning man
Come back the thoughts of all that he hath been,
Upon the orbed dark as on a shield
Was scroll'd. My mother's face bent over me,
When Time threw back for me the gates of Life,
And the dark sisters in my little hand
Laid one more thread of the great Mystery;
My father when he led me first to school,
And left me, with dim eyes, and a faint heart,
To struggle with strange souls; that wise old man
Who fed my spirit. Then came moonlit dance,
And noonday feast beneath cool upland trees;
The loving boy still holds the loving hand
Of the fond grandsire, or the fonder sire,
His manly head erect still dark with youth.
Seldom he thinks, or, when indeed he thinks,
He mocks himself, poor fool, and scorns his years,
Those years joy-wing'd, yet slower than his pride,
That takes vain leaps to reach the height of man,
And falls back striving—sighing still to strive—
But arming daily. Then that glorious morn,
285
Phlegon, and Æthon, and Eous, pulsing
With golden hoofs, and outspread mighty vans,
That beat the Orient into fiery drift,
My firstborn Fancies sprang up from the earth
Into a world of wonder; and I ran
Along the shore, delighting in my strength,
The wild wind singing in my hair, my voice
Rising above the waters. And that hour
More memorable, when wing'd Eros took
The reins of the wild chariot of my thoughts,
And made the untamed lions feel his hand
And keep harmonious paces; from his wings
Scattering roseplumes o'er waste, and dusty way,
And making the dun shadows as we pass'd
Radiant with his own light. Again that eve,
When, hasting from a bridal in the hills,
And singing as I rode into the gate,
I saw Death with his finger on his lips
Before my father's chamber; and the threne
Unutterable, as my mother lay
Prone on the bed, her lamentable face
Prest 'neath her long loose hair upon her hands,
And the dread surety of mortality,
Erewhile beheld beside the stranger's hearth,
Like sculptur'd marble on a banquet table,
Unreal image, look'd on and forgot,
Now rose upon me, like a wintry dawn,
That, thro' one cloven cloud, shows far behind
286
Lastly, ascending slowly from beneath
The dust of desolations, and of tombs,
Ambition, like an armed King, whose frown
Pleasure, and Love, and Fancy must obey,
And fight for him, until his throne be piled
Above their wither'd wreaths, and ruin'd shrines,
Seized with his iron gauntlet on my heart.
II
At last I sank into unquiet sleep.Again that silent flash, that had reveal'd
The plain at even, shot across mine eyes.
But the light waned not; and behold, outspread
All that heroic region as beneath
A paler sun. Methought the fallen stones
Of Ilion rose up in gigantic shapes,
Immeasurable towers, and walls that sloped
Like mountainsides—each stone a mighty cube
Of adamant, huge as the granite blocks
From their high peaks by earthquake roll'd beneath
A cataract, dashing it to dust of dew,
Then sundering it in streams. And thro' great gates,
Like Alpine Valleys over-arch'd with cloud,
Pour'd forth the sons of Priam—giants now
Huge as their own renown—and their first tread
Shook all the earth to Ida; plumes went up
Like altar smoke, shields, and colossal arms,
That might have redden'd in Ætnæan fires,
287
Wrought for the Gods of that primeval day
Titanic, when unearthly war was waged.
I heard the roaring of their chariotwheels
Make echoes, as they roll'd into the waste,
Like doubling thunders shot from hill to hill,
Or torrents, or great winds from Gargarus.
The battlements throng'd thick with Dardan sons,
And longrobed daughters, tall as Pallas, pale
As marble Sorrow, or ghosts on Stygian shore,
With streaming hair, and arms raised up to Heaven.
And from the vast and column'd fanes behind,
That thro' great clouds o'erhanging skyward clomb,
Wreathed with dim scrolls, and wonderful, there soar'd
Unutterable, from sanctuary and shrine,
Far inwards, awful pathos, and divine
Accents of golden hymn, and longdrawn plaint!
Then, as in storm-tost seas a hanging cloud
Darkens the onward waters, while the near
Soar with their clashing surges, angry-bright
Against that gloomy rim; the gleaming piles
Of that great city in quick night were drown'd;
While nigher flow'd the spectral tumult, fired
With troubled aspects of Achaian chiefs,
And brazen breasts and plumes, and towering arms,
Poising a thousand javelins, that went forth
Over the dark necks of the madden'd steeds,
Swift as the foamflakes shorn from curling seas
Fly kindling in the sun. Unnumber'd shields,
288
With screaming iron; and beneath their wheels
Fall'n giants writhed, from whose upturned eyes,
Afire with agony and with hate, recoiled
The scared horses, and fled faster on,
Whirring the dust like smoke from lava floods
Into the trembling ether, in a cloud
That hid the farther battle, and then show'd
Thro' dreadful rifts torn open by the wind
Long aisles of bloody ruin. And the uproar
Hush'd for a moment; other voices roll'd
Thro' winding ways of that great world of Death,
Like echoes of the nearer, dying off
In dim remoteness; like the endless wail
Of sunken seas borne o'er a wilderness.
Then once again the cloudy curtain rose
From off the leaguer'd city; and the war,
Like the lash'd waters huddled by the wind
Into a cavern's mouth, with roaring sound
Burst thro' the open gates; and I leapt up
And follow'd with the hindmost, hurried on
By strong fatality, and join'd my cry
Unto the universal voice of Doom
Eddying around the piled Pergamus;
“Down with her, down with her unto the ground!”
Whereat its bases and its topmost towers
And holy places shuddered. Far within
The foremost arm'd avengers I beheld
Thronging the battlements; their shields and plumes
289
Of torches, tossing to and fro, that show'd
Their bloody blades illumined from below,
As by an angry sunset. Fast and far
We thunder'd on thro' dark and winding ways,
Shadow'd by steepy wall, and barred gate,
Made sudden visible by tongues of flame
That struck aloft from far up pinnacles
To heaven, and shed ensanguin'd light below
Like lava-streams; column and architrave
Reel'd earthward, leaving all the space within
Swept, like vast furnaces, with howling flame
And blinding light! But what do I behold?
At once the onward tide of ruin ebb'd
At from a greater ruin, and a hush
Held all their panting hearts as 'twere abash'd
With sudden awe; you might have heard them throb
In that tremendous silence. Then I heard
The wail of women's voices from afar,
Wild lamentation, as when hope is past
For ever and for ever: pity-smote
And passionate with grief, I made my way,
Right thro' the hosts of those gigantic men,
As guided by a spirit, and I look'd—
Thro' shafts of blacken'd marble, thro' long aisles
Of regal architecture, which the smoke
Of gilded rafters, smouldering in the glow
Of half-extinguish'd embers, curl'd about,
And floated under the carved roof, and frown'd
290
That stretch'd away for ever—on a sight
That might have made the blessed Gods themselves
Weep over mortal sorrow, and repent.
There in his ancient chambers, stood the King,
Tall, and majestic as a God himself,
Sire of a race of giants, Priamus,
Awful with many winters! his old arms
Lifted against the dazzling sword: “Hold! hold!”
I shriek'd: but, faint as whispers, that wild cry
Out of my sickly heart, poor dwarf of Time,
Reach'd not the unrelenting ears of Gods,
And godlike men. Suddenly I awoke.
III
Those dread dream-thoughts were scatter'd by the noiseOf the Etesian, that came down at morn,
And round the tomb blew with a wailing voice
That broke my rest; and thro' the serried clouds
Burst, swiftly driving them, like routed horse
With weltering manes, across the stars; and soon
Along the East lay, like another sea
Of stilly flame, the quickening dawn; and round
The slumbering host fast on the signals flew.
And fast the warriors, arming in the dusk,
Prepared for onset, ere the growing light
Should show their motions. To the chariots some
Yoked the fresh steeds, while yet they champ'd the grain
291
Or drew their hands across the darkling blade
With knitted brows; then into line they fell;
And, like some monstrous serpent deadly still,
Under the shadow of the city wall,
The faint light shimmering from its linked scales,
They wound into the champaign silently.
Between the barred gates, and hostile camp
Nearer the ships held Citharus a reserve
Of chosen men; and Antimenidas
Struck further down into the reedy plain,
With aim to turn the foe; but soon rejoin'd.
For all the plain to northward was astir
With the advancing foe, in haste to storm
The gates; and their dark helms, and bristling arms
Nodded, like pinewood, in the wind of morn,
And the clear amber onward. On they came
In silence, till the first ray of the sun
Smote on the brazen breastplates of our men,
And made the bucklers glare like angry eyes.
And then a shout arose—as when the waves,
Snarling along a shingly strand, are held
Upon a sudden gust—answer'd at once
By ours; then first they saw us; then unroll'd
Their standards altogether, radiant,
The rippling crimson fleckt with sparks of light,
The tall staves tipt with stars. The hour was come!
I cannot say I did not fear; for Youth—
Like a wild horse that drives with headlong speed
292
And starts back with blown mane, and dazed eye,
At sight of the abhorred gulph, and sound
Of torrents roaring—hung back loth, yet lured
To sound the measureless Futurity,
Where Life and Death, like winged Giants, lockt
In writhen strife with struggles lightning-swift,
Fell thro' the grey abysm of the Unknown
Further than thought can follow: tho' my heart
Within my breast beat solemn pulses, mighty
As thunder-winged shakings underground.
Strong will, proud purpose, and fullarm'd resolve
Press'd down its throbs, like the adamantine hills,
With all-subduing strength; and fear itself—
Like to the wild wave rocking in the storm,
Glittering with sunbows and with sunny stars—
Crested and plumed with glorious phantasies
Forwent itself, and changed into delight.
IV
Then first I knew Death seen is not so drearAs Death foreseen; Death's self is not so dread
As Death imagined: tho' the air was thick
With whirling dust; tho', for the shrieks and cries
Around me, I could scarce hear my own voice.
The aspect of the living battle-plain
Was a fair picture by the side of that
Seen in my dream, the vision by the tomb.
293
Like summer lightnings glorious to behold;
The roar of chariotwheels, the neigh of steeds
Beating the earth, and mingling with the dust
Their flying manes; the surging to and fro
Of mighty hosts full soon became to me,
The thousand thunders a weird harmony,
The many motions as an awful dance!
So that my soul was clothed with wings, my heart
Sang as in triumph. Many fell around,
Both friends and foes: and now with sword in hand
And waving o'er my head, I with my band
In hot pursuit of a retreating troop
Held onward, and mine arm was raised to strike
One close before me; when the dusty cloud
Scatter'd before a sudden gust, and then
I saw another sight, and held my hand.
Behold, as in an amphitheatre,
The two opposing armies stood and gazed
Upon each other, resting on their shields,
While the two chiefs, two paces in advance,
Eyed one another, one the sturdy strength
Of Pittacus, the other the tall form
And bulk of Phrynon, mightiest of his men.
I heard a trumpet sound; a herald strode
Into the middle space between the lines;
And with a great voice he proclaim'd—“The chiefs
On either side are of one mind, to hold
Back their arm'd hosts, and rest upon their arms
294
Our Lesbian leader, not a man of mark
For stature, or for graces; but they knew,
Who met him face to face, and saw the light
In his deep eyes, that he was one who rules
By will and wit, more than by hand and sword:
And they who look'd upon his frame might see
That temperance and toil, self-sought, had wrought
A panoply of sinewy might, enough
To tame a wild beast with a single blow,
Or stretch an unskill'd giant on the earth.
Then forward stood the Lesbian chief and sage.
There was a sudden silence, and he said—
“Methinks, O Phrynon, that enough is done
To save the honour of two famous realms,
Two valiant races; and the earth is red
With blood of many; wherefore should we sow
More mortal seed to grow immortal hate?
When, were we wise, the blood of two, or one,
Of me, or thee, in single strife, might serve,
To set the seal of Victory on the side
Of those whose champion is the better man,
Were all assembled here of the same mind.
Shall we not then, O Phrynon, spare the waste
Of thousands, and ourselves play out the game?
What boots it to pursue the bloody sport
With equal forces match'd against each other?
Hear me, and I will tell thee what befell
Two noble armies striving long ago
295
And yet that right was but a little thing.
They met each other, in their numbers like,
And in their prowess; all day long they strove
Till set of sun; and on the morrow morn
Rose fiercer still and fewer; thus ten days
They struggled, each host vanishing away,
Like cross beams charring o'er the selfsame fire;
Striving all day until the set of sun
Still fiercer and still fewer; till at last
On the tenth day but the two chiefs were left,
Glaring, two hungry lions, on each other.
And then they slew each other, and their bones
Whiten'd the plain with those of half that host;
And none were spared to claim the victory!
Why should we tarry, till the end of war
Leaves us, nor lookers on, nor arbiters?
And then, if thou or I were slain, not both,
The victor, who survives, must crown himself,
And bear home the sad tidings that of all
The brave, he only is escaped; wouldst thou
Do this, and stand before thy countrymen,
Whose love, like a vain woman's, turns to hate,
Veering with fortune? Would I cross the strait
With my one life, when all the rest are dead,
Or fled away, not to be found again?
Not rather hang a weight upon my neck,
And drown in the deep sea than front the shame?”
Then answer'd Phrynon with a curt disdain,
296
“I thought to see one worthier of my arm.
What now I see is like what I have heard.
Art thou their captain? Think thyself in luck
That I forbear to bind thee on the spot,
And tie thee to my tent-stakes; I have heard
Thou art a man of parchments, not of arms;
Wise, as they say, in knowledge; wiser still
In thrifty tricks, and economic arts;
And skill'd to beat an obolus so thin
Thou canst see through it ev'n into next week;
And make a flask of wine, or cruse of oil,
Outlast the weary vinedresser's, who sleeps
At sunset, and awakes before the dawn.
I pledge not mine own friends, if I be slain,
Not to avenge me; let them do their will.
But if thou fallest, what must surely be,
I promise thee, my men shall fall on thine,
And hack them hip and thigh unto their ships.
Ha! ha! and thou wouldst be a swordsman too!
But art thou come to mock me, at thy peril,
That thou art come unarm'd? or is he mad,”
Mutter'd huge Phrynon, “that he meets me thus?
Or doth he dream the Gods, who made him wise,
Will help their chosen in a strait like this,
Which calls for that they gave him, and not laugh,
If now, to honour them, in simple faith
He calls upon them for a miracle?
Will Pallas float down on a cloud for him,
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The tall Achilles?” Then he shouted “Man,
Where is thy sword, where are thine arms, and where
Thy wisdom? Will that blunt my weapon's point
Or sheathe its edge?” He shouted and he laugh'd.
Whereto the sturdy Lesbian Chief replied—
“I saw two dogs this morning yelping strife,
A big one and a small; and, while the one
Stood idly barking o'er the other's head,
The small shot under and bit at his tail;
And as the big one bow'd his head at once,
The small rush'd on and pinn'd it to the earth.
I saw two men in Mitylene meet,
A tall one and a short; and while the one
Stood loudly railing o'er the other's head,
The other look'd up underneath his face
Wagging a long forefinger at his nose.
And, while the tall man watch'd this act alone,
The short man tripp'd his heels with sudden foot,
And laid his adversary on the earth.
I am the small man and the little dog,
And therefore charge thee, look unto thyself,
Meanwhile I do defy thee, and thy bark.”
“Then die, thou fool,” the Athenian shouted—“die”—
And rush'd upon him like a falling tower.
But the hard point of the down-lightening blade
Delved with such dint upon the brazen boss
Of the Lesbian's buckler, that it harshly rang,
And then was shiver'd into fragments small,
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Like shooting stars. The Lesbian laugh'd—“'Tis well;
I find thy bark is better than thy bite;
Come, take another sword;” and, while he turn'd
To his own men, the Lesbian, quick as thought,
Swung o'er his arms what seem'd a fisher's net
Of closely woven cords, and then at once
With forward motion, cast it o'er his foe,
And with a giant's strength drew fast the toils
Till head and breast and sword-arm caught within
Were palsied, and the fish, a man, was caught.
And then he said—“O Phrynon, I have dealt
Not as a traitor with thee; thou art taken
Arm'd by an unarm'd man; and now I bid
My old, familiar weapon, fear'd of fish,
To do its second duty and its best.”
Then, while he tighten'd with one hand the cords,
Running back swiftly, with the other he drave
The sharp points of the trident thorough all,
Thro' net, and shield and armour of his foe
Right to his heart; and with a shriek he fell!
Then rose a shout from all the Lesbian side,
As when a thousand echoes, rolling round
A rocky valley, double and redouble,
Till they faint far away along the wind:
Whereat the Athenian cohorts with a cry
Bursting, like flame from out a smouldering fire,
Raised sword and shield, and swift as eagles wing'd
To vengeance for their rifled nests, they swoop'd
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To tenfold stature, like a cloudy peak
Giving forth lightnings: lance, and javelin flew
A sudden hailstorm shattering crested helm,
Cuirass, and shield. Now came my turn to feel
The pain and shame that I had dealt that day
To others; now my shield was on my back,
And not my harp; but not for long to me
'Twas left to flee from death o'er fallen lives,
And stumble thro' the dying, whose dull eyes
Turn'd on me their last desolate regard;
Whose outstretch'd arms a moment seem'd to crave
Aid of the Gods, then fell, like blasted boughs,
Heavily to the earth; while with parch'd lips
Others were writhing, as tho' but one draught
Of water, even if it dash'd their throats
From the salt sea, whose freshness they could hear
And breathe from far, were heaven, altho' they paid
For it that moment the last hope of life.
So from the fall of one the many rose
And Victory crown'd the vanquish'd: but I heard
The voice of Pittacus,—whose wise essay,
Jealous of him, and eager for her own
Pallas Athena had discomfited;
Or he had saved all that were lost, and won
A peaceful victory—tho' worsted, calm,
And watchful; gathering up the flying bands,
And, like a swift and cunning shepherd's dog,
Compassing front and flank and rear, as though
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Not long 'twas free for me to fly in fear
From vengeance; for a hot pursuing foe
Striding upon my failing footsteps drave
His javelin thro' my shield, and pierced my side.
To aid my flight I flung away my shield;
And then I fell, and for a time I lost
Memory of all; and, when I woke, behold
The plain was all forsaken but by them
Who never more should waken, and by them
Whose cries and curses beat off the dark wings
Of hovering vultures, and the beasts of prey,
Until they ceased for ever. I rose; I fled
Another way than Pittacus had taken.
Meanwhile, from the deep furnace of the West
Fold upon fold of onward tempest roll'd,
Hurricane-swift, its thunder-raiment splash'd
With sanguine crimsons, like the endless smoke
Of burning worlds; far off along the plain
The wind-borne dust-wreaths smit with the red light
Waved like to flames; lower and lower sank
The dying sun; the dust-wreaths seem'd to change
Into grey mist; still over it I saw
The banners flying, and I heard the shouts
Of the onward foe triumphant, and beheld
Their spears and lances drive into the mist
Like drowning stars. I stood upon the shore;
And there a weary fisher by his bark
Lay slumbering, while his nets dried in the sun,
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The dust, and clang, and clamour; he had pass'd
That very morning from his Lesbian home
To mark the issue of the fight, and first
Bear back the tidings, hoping for the best.
Just as I stepp'd into the boat I saw,
Far up above me, where the temple rose
Of Hera, over the Sigeian wall,
Now burning in the last glare of the sun,
The glittering sheen, and heard the clash of arms.
And then a shout came down from near the shrine;
A something flash'd a light into mine eyes;
And then I knew, that, with the spoil of war,
There was hung up the shield that I had lost.
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PITTACUS
On either hand the rolling waters throng,
We thro' the midst are darkly borne along.—
Alcæus.
We thro' the midst are darkly borne along.—
Alcæus.
I
I saw sad eve close on the strife of menWith elemental tumult; from the deep
Swoln clouds drove up, and winds that anger'd it;
While the sick moon anon with troubled face
Look'd thro' the rifts of tempest, and show'd, pale
As spectres, the gaunt headlands, and tall cliffs;
And me unto myself, bedimm'd with dust,
My hands and armour red with bloody smear.
My boatman from the shadow of a rock
With clasped hands turn'd piteously, as though
'Twere vain to seek more knowledge of those woes
My fatal aspect utter'd; but I answer'd
Faintly: “Lost! lost!” unto that dumb regard;
“But I must fly; and not from death alone,
Which now were slumber to me, but those ills
Sharper than death itself, from chains of shame!
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The darkness, though it snare us unto doom
Will save us from the scorn of Pittacus!
From shouts of the infuriate citizens,
And the barb'd arrow of my stricken pride,
Tormenting me in sight of vengeful eyes
Worse than the foeman's iron! away! away!”
“Alas!” he cried—“hast thou escaped alone?
Of all that valiant host sublime with hopes,
Who came with trumpets blowing from the hills
This morn, their crests and corselets flinging off
The sunrise, mix'd with songs?” “O man,” I cried;
“Like a broad blazon'd banner whirlwind-rent
Our host is scatter'd, each man where he best
May find a fearful shelter:” “Woe is me!”
He cried—“I hoped for other close than that
To this long day of evils; all the hours
From morn to noon, from noon to eve, I sat
Listening the tumult, as it wax'd and waned.
The clangours and the uproar of the fight
Sway'd to and fro, and even so my heart
Arose and fell. Sometimes I moved, in act
To join the fray at once, and mark the worst;
For it is better to be borne along
The flood and ebb of war, and thus forget
In acting what is dread, than burn and freeze
With our own fancies.” “Bind this arm, I pray thee;
And give me from thy flask a draught of wine,
That I may bear up till we reach the shore,
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That shall close o'er me soon.” No sooner done
Than he unmoor'd the little bark, and raised
The sail that flapp'd amid the deepening gloom
Ev'n like an ill bird's wing. Then down I sank
In mute despair; the mountains in the dark
Frown'd nearer on us, and seem'd with threatening brows
To overshadow us, and stretch their arms
To feel for us; yet not in love, methought,
But angry hatred to pursue my shame.
And here and there the red fires from afar
Of signal torches fleeing thro' the hills
To wing the terror onward, like the eyes
Of baffled vengeance, glared on me; and soon
The wind, that still had borne us o'er the deep
And starless seas,—no light except the pale
And ghostly glimmer of the moon that show'd
The swelling flood, that clomb upon our bow,
And lighten'd on the black curve of each wave
Grinning, as tho' the yet unsated foe
Rush'd on before us, and turn'd back upon us,
Plumes waving, and a thousand swords upraised—
Changed swift as thought, and blew the drenched sheet
Back on the mast; the vessel from its course
Drifted to leeward, and sea meeting sea
Burst o'er our heads in darkness! “Ah!” I cried,
“Now shall Ambition perish, not in light
Of Day, nor in the eyes of wondering foes,
His broken brand waved o'er his head thrown back,
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Burning in the full sunlight, but alone
In darkness and despair! Give me thy sword,”
I cried, “that I may end with one more pang
And cheat the hungry seadogs of my life;”
But in that very moment shot the thought
Across my soul,—so wondrous are the Gods,—
Of the sweet aspect of a little child,
And its dear mother lifting him to me
For blessing ere I parted; 'twas my own
Fond parent lifting little Citharus up
To kiss me ere I ran away to school.
I turn'd back and he stretch'd his hand to me.
And since that morn I never could forget
The mute farewell, the little loving hand
That yearn'd to clasp me. And so I forgot
The peril, and the midnight; and that picture,
Framed in a rosebough, arching overhead—
Ev'n as the serpents in the Gorgon's hair
Freeze into horror—with its beauty thaw'd
Despair, and iron purpose into nought.
The moon shone out again, and show'd me all
The shadows underneath the precipices
Alive with breakers, that shot up their sides
Serpents of foam, and glanced forth angry tongues,
And fell back howling, or were dash'd to dust
On marble crags beneath. Near, nearer still,
The rudder helpless, and the canvas torn,
Shoreward we drave—a leaf before the storm—
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A temple of Poseidon, vast and dark,
Arose. I cried, “O king of seas, and storms!
I pray not for myself, but them, whose lives
Are knit with mine, and dearer than my own;
Save me for them, whose souls are pure of ill.”
And, in the bursting moonlight, I beheld
The tall dark columns and the frontal huge
Move with a solemn motion, as the clouds
Roll'd up with adverse motion: “If we clear
That little cape, there is a bay beyond,
And a smooth coast; but, if we clear it not,
This night will have no other morn for us;
And great Poseidon will have answer'd us,
Ere thou hast time to pray again; and now
We must be calm, and wait for him to step
'Twixt Life and Death.” Ev'n as he spoke, a wave,
Mighty and black, bore upwards on its slope
Our little bark, as 'twere with greater fall
To fling us down upon the granite teeth
And end us with a moment; but we whirl'd
Past the great rocks, and thunders on the lee;
And, as we swept by on the swirling sea,
We heard from caves, that ran beneath the steep,
Hoarse angry voices, as the hungry cries
Of disappointed dragons, but in vain.
Our hearts beat freely as we backward gazed
On that great danger fled; for now the might
Of the wild waters, as with fury lash'd
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With dying vengeance whelm'd and beat us down
Upon the shallows; in a moment more
The surf flew over the dismasted bark,
And with it we were swept into the coil
Of hissing gulphs of foam; and in mine ears
The roar of thunder drown'd my drowning cry,
As once it rose into the night, above
The winds and waves; then silence and the gloom
Of death; for, wearied with my wounded arm,
'Twere vain to strive against the beating seas,
And thought and feeling fled me as I lay.
How long I linger'd in that death-like trance
I know not; thro' my reawakening soul
Came murmurs of low voices, as they bore me
Up by a narrow way between the rocks
Slowly and softly, through a garden-gate.
And soon the flare of torches to and fro
Flicker'd across my sight; familiar sounds
Sank soothly in mine ears; the sights and sounds
Came o'er me, as half-consciously I lay,
Like the inconstant images in dream
Part sad, part sweet; and mixed with real dreams,
That fill'd the intervals 'twixt sense and sense,
Like the strange-fashion'd clouds that flew across
The moonlight. Sometimes on a mountain crest
I stood—a trumpet in my hand—and blew
A blast so loud, the echoes from beyond
The seas made answer to me; and unnumber'd,
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Far down, so far, I scarce could hear the glad
Acclaim of millions, tho', methought, their shouts
So stirr'd the air above, it waved my plume.
Again I rode in anger, and in fear,
Through a dark pass, whose perpendicular walls
Reach'd to the clouds; and o'er it hurried smoke
And flame with silent swiftness, while the sides
Of adamant, and adamantine floor
Throbb'd to the roof, and gave back iron answers
As we rode on with winged speed, and eyes
That pierced the darkness onward; and behind
With earthquake tread avenging giants strode
Swiftly. Before me yawn'd sheer precipice;
And the wild ocean, lit by lightnings, roar'd
Beneath me; and I leapt with helm, and arms,
And drawn sword on my madden'd horse, down, down
Into—green gardens, whose ambrosial breath
Yielded oblivious peace unto my heart,
And bliss to every sense. Methought I saw
The vaulted vineshade flutter overhead,
Shot with the morning sungold; and the stems
Of laden rosebriers wreathing with the vine
Lithe arms, and lush large clusters with the dark
Ripe bunches of the grape; and flittering sound
Of leaves innumerable in the wind
Whisper'd tranquillity and peace; and long,
Long turfwalks, where the leafy shadows soft
Gambol'd thro' distance endless to the eye,
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Of pale, gold-green. And by me summer bees
Swept with a pleasant moaning; and all birds
Of sweet pipe and gay plume around me glanced;
And with the motion of their whirring wings
Made the air sparkle, as with handfuls thrown
Of many-colour'd gems; and in mine ears
Still murmur'd the seawaters, soften'd down
To a low musical monotony,
And gave the lovely solitude a soul.
Was this the Elysian life? Once more I woke
Into half-consciousness; what did I see?
Ah! tender eyes were bending over me,
And tender hands were clasping mine; I saw
The chamber, lighted by a carven lamp
Of silver, breathing twilight, as I lay
Upon deep cushions overlaid with furs,
Whence I could see across the pillar'd hall
Into the glooms beyond; and whisper'd words
Floated from other chambers. As my sight
Grew stronger, I could pierce beneath the shades
Of green boughs, surging softly in the wind
That bluster'd thro' the garden; and I saw
The helms and corselets of some armed men
Sheening against the lamplight from within.
Some lay upon the turf, and others lean'd
Upon their shields in silence; then again
I sank into deep sleep, that sight nor sound
Could overcome for many peaceful hours.
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Till waken'd by two voices; both I knew.
'Twas Sappho's self spoke first; and then I saw
That they had brought me to her seaward home,
Up from the rocks and breakers on the shore;
That she had tended me; and then I sigh'd,
And would have lapsed into sweet calm again,
But for that other voice that answer'd her.
II
“He sleeps the sleep of weariness,” she said,In a low sad voice, but such as I could hear;
For certain words might waken up the drowse
Of dying men; and tho' mine eyes were closed
Mine ears could tell which was the buzzing fly
That plagued me most. And soon she spoke of that
Which rouses men to kill, or to be kill'd,
The love of those we love for other men;
And I lay there too weak to be avenged!
And yet on whom? She whisper'd to one by
In the cool shadows of a chamber near;
And well I knew that voice that answer'd her;
“I know the son of Caicus,” he said;
“His restless loves, his constant love of change;
His pride of blood, and praise of those, who place
Ambition rather in the hope to stand
By strength among the foremost, than to win
The hearts of men by hearty truth; his eye,
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More than the thing they clothe, adores the show,
As children wonder at a throbbing star
And yearn to clutch it; though he knows it not,
And would be shamed to own it to himself:
Yet wisdom he lacks not, but will to do.
I know him, and have known, and this I know.
The ruler of a state may quicker quench
A midday blaze of public wrath, than slake
The creeping fires of midnight; better bear
The reeling step of drunken rage than feel
The soundless foot of envy; a vain man,
Having well leapt into the gilded chair,
Might all as well have throned his vacant robes,
Himself no better than an empty show
In that particular seat”: he paused, then said;
“Remember how in early youth he strove
Against me and my side, when the clear voice
Of Lesbos spoke for me in her sage men
And simple livers; and when I resolved
To bend my countrymen to other aims
Than flaunting shows, and love of that vain life
That seeks to drown in revelry and wine,
And the hot whirl of everlasting change,
The sense of something calling from within,
‘Man, thou must live, and wake by day, and dream
By night; but if life be but waking dreams,
Such chances may o'ertake thee as befall
Blind eyes, and heedless hearts; some enemy
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May bind thee, and thy reawaken'd strength
May never more cast off the tyrant's hand.’
The pleasure-loving people is a slave
That woos the chain, and wears it in his soul
Ere he hath felt its links upon his arm!
Had not their old men, and the countryfolk,
Show'd me their hearts in natural sympathy?
Whose artless customs were akin to mine,
Who in my proper person taught them all
The wealth of thrift; and show'd them all the leanness
Of wasted treasure, and of squander'd strength;
How the tall pines, our young nobility,
Cast in the shapes the sculptor loves the best,
Are first to fall, and sooner than the brier;
And if the cottar wears a wrinkled front
In the same years when they are marble-smooth,
A few more summers, and the gifted one
Is feebler than the grandsire of his slave.
He and his fellows rose on me and mine,
And were discomfited; I speak of it
Not in resentment; for I pass'd it by,
Seeking no other vengeance than the sum
Of that ill venture working in his soul;
And to this day have met him without scorn,
As though I had no memory of the deed.
But he will spring, for envy never sleeps,
If others wake not; then my double right
Will be, altho' my will be loth to stir,
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While I am ruler in it.” He ceased awhile.
I said unto myself, “Shall I not rise?
Tho' sick and faint shall I keep silence now,
And hear my enemy dishonour me
And not cry out ‘Thou liest’? Should I hear
Her words, like dews of pity on my heart,
Sear'd by the heat of hate, and not exclaim
‘Hold! they are drops of poison falling on
A memory, and a conscience void of ill?’”
Alas! that judge with his inviolate tongue,
Conscience, whose eye is clearest in the dark,
Whose voice is loudest in the silent night,
Echoed my calm accuser; and I stood
Between my judge and him, as one in chains,
My body feeble, and my soul afraid.
Again the pitiless accents came to me
Breathing another spirit: “Yet I know
There is a secret wonder-working spell
Can make the sinews of a giant weak;
Can take ambition captive as a child
Might lead a lion with its little hand;
That, as a sunbeam from a mirror cast
Blinds the eye to the image drawn thereon,
Hides self-hood from itself, and all its gauds.
It is the might of woman over man,
The power the loved one wields o'er him who loves.
Have I not seen, O Sappho, that his heart,
Inconstant as the many-featured moon,
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And when 'tis full turns the same face to thee?
Have I not seen him clothe thy slightest word
With richest meaning, though his ears were deaf
To mighty matters round him? and his tongue
Hush on a sudden but to hear thy voice?
For what is it men seek but sympathy?
And wherefore find they not? 'Tis Good alone,
Like sunshine, that is imaged from without;
Evil, like darkness, is the lack of it,
And hides itself. So, if we seek to know
For sake of pride, to rule for sake of hate,
To gather riches but as limbs of Self,
We find that all around us there is cold,
As if ice mountains were the walls of Time,
And all the glow of life goes out of us
Without return, for others' love is not.
So is not sympathy the soul of all,
Winging all thoughts and feelings to and fro?
And love exchanged is perfect sympathy;
So that a lover leads a twofold life,
The one his own, the other his in her,
And she her own life, and her life in him;
But the unloving, throned o'er others' lives,
Not living in their hearts, live not at all.
If power be woman's star as well as man's,
As thou, O Sappho, know'st full well as I,
She strives to grasp it not by strength of arm,
Or by proud words, but by her subtle wit
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Thou mightest yoke unto thee, one who bends
To evil with the weight of all his good!
If that be left to climb, like a wild vine,
That runs to fruitless waste, about his soul,
And sap his strength in thriftless purposes,
That overlap each other like the sprays
That end in nothing, he will die unknown,
With scarce the fragment left of a light song
To witness to him; one who, train'd to use
By timely counsels and by tender arts,
Like the pruned vine, would fill himself with good
As with new wine; till those who tasted it
Should bless the vineyard and the husbandman.
And your twin names should live in aftertimes;
His for great virtues reap'd by this fair isle;
Thine for those virtues sown by woman's love.”
III
Then was it but a phantom voice I heardIn my dark chamber, or the tongue of her
Whom I had loved so long, whose love I sought
More thirstily than any other boon
The Gods could give me? For she spoke these words
With a low cry; “If I were not first doom'd
To bitter knowledge, which must fall to him,
As it hath fall'n to many, and must fall,
To know that mortal love, like mortal life,
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Flies from us, and is caught upon the winds,
With none to drink its sweetness: so it breathes
Out of our hearts, with none to gather it;
And the heart dies while yet its youth is strong.
For men and women, born for one another,
For ever seem to wander thro' this world,
And never meet; or only, when to meet
Is vain, and worse than never meet at all—
If I were not the first to drink this cup—
If I were free, as once I was, to muse,
Of him, or him, the blackhair'd or the brown,
And wake unharm'd as from a summer dream,
I might bear all, so I might make him free,
And from his sun of passion borrow light
As a pale moon; if friendship were as sure
As the soft moonshine when the sun is not.
Knowing not aught, I might take this for all;
And, as cold waters smit by rosy light
Seem to the phantasy as golden wine,
Dream it was love because I named it such.
But what if I should prove in afterdays
All that he feels for me, but not for him,
And endless rancours should be born of us,
Or sudden fury? But 'twill not be so;
I speak vain words. Oh! I have known it all,
The phantasy, the yearning, and the pain;
All that his soul can suffer I have borne,
But not from him.” Then silence for a space;
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Softly I heard him rise up and pass out,
And she was left alone. After a while
She said, “How could I tell him what I felt?
Tho', when he gives me to another, thus
'Twere time to unfold my secret. Oh 'tis past,
My lonely rapture shall not be unveil'd;
But casketed like some too precious gem,
Which to be seen might tempt untoward hands
To rudely handle it. Oh all is past:
I know not, now he is no longer here;
I know not if he were a god or man,
So glorious more than others. If I spoke,
Pittacus would but wonder or deride;
Yet not deride, for he is mercy's self;
Or ply such counsel as would make me feel
For ever after lesser than myself,
And I could never meet him, or behold
In those calm eyes the thought that I am mad,
To say such words.” This was the end of all.
And tho' my tongue gave utterance to no sound,
My spirit cried within me, “Let me die!
'Tis vain to arm for vengeance against fate.
Tell me not my beloved loves the man
I thought I could have hated without cause!”
Oh! this was only wanting to awake
The smouldering embers! If I lay in hush'd
And seeming rest, 'twas but to steer my course
More calmly thro' the future; while all pride
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Like winds that lull in twilight; yet my thoughts
Flew thro' the coming years, tho' my sad heart
Was faint and cold. Oh! I would fly as far
From all I loved as love had flown from me,
And never more be found. What if the sea
Should swallow me, and quench my burning pain
In its own tumults? Or in some grey cavern,
After long years of silence, I be found
Only dry bones, whose living heart and brain
Had scatter'd round them all that lives again
In others' memories? or a robber's hand
Should steal from me my hated days, and leave
My eyes, that look'd upon an inner sun,
To be plucked out by eagles, and my dust
To flee away, like the last thought of me,
Before the homeless winds? Oh! I would fly!
But first, if I but live, it shall be seen
If he, my judge, who thinks he reads my soul,
If he, who knows me, knows this, whether all
His knowledge of the weakness he upbraids
May shield him from the strength he dare not scorn!
| The Isles of Greece | |