University of Virginia Library

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.’”

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—”

“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—”

“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.

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!’

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.