University of Virginia Library

I

The winds are sleeping on the Lesbian bays;
And scarce the silver of the tideless sea
Lisps on the golden sands. A morn of Spring,
Ægean May, such as we dream of now,
Trembled in light and music o'er the land;
And melted into sunshine every cloud
That peep'd across the azure deep, or plumed
The mountain crests. The little isles are drown'd
In gleamy haze, that after noon shall paint
Their beauty on the waters; shores that shine
With cities, breezy headlands crown'd with towers;
But nearer the still purple of the deep
Pictured with all their hues the garden bowers
Glooming above the carven terraces,
Whose leaves blown back by the soft ocean breath
Softly returned. On sunny roofs were ranged
Many a fair pictured vase, and marble urn,
Burning with disks of breathing flowers that lean'd
Their large leaves; and from open chambers flow'd
Clear voices, sometimes converse, sometimes mirth;
Or flash of fiery song, as tho' the sun
In that swift heart had turned itself to sound.
The fisher that went forth before the sun
Sleeps in the shadow of his bark, or streams
His nets along the beach, well satisfied,
While his young boy goes singing by his side.
Here, in the quiet of a windless cove,
The stately argosy from farthest isles,
Egyptian wharf, or mighty moles of Tyre,
Stays with all hands astir to gather back
Its weary wings; and hark! there comes a cry
From homesick hearts, as the great anchor falls.
And where the champaign with its wavy hills,
Its goodly orchards curtain'd with the vine,
And carpeted with harvest, slopes toward
The city gate—amid the dusty cloud,
Tost up from trampling hoof and chariot wheel,
To the crimson mantle, and the starry helm,
Of one that thrusts aside the stream of men,
And cries with note of warning—to the band
Of market girls that bear aloft fresh fruits,
Fresh flowers; to dames that bring their homely urns
Fill'd from the fountain hard against the gate,
Upon whose plashing steps, Cythera stooping
Within the hollow of a wreathen pearl
That tilts her up just risen amid the foam
More than all mortal beauty, marvellous form,
Rains on the marble conch eternal dew.
The old wives on the carven wonder lean
Their wither'd arms, the while the pitcher fills;
And laughing damsels listen to the sound
Of island ditties, and forget to fill;
And the barefooted children shout and gibe
All in the sunlight and the dew of morn:
And over steep, and shore, and mount, and vale,
Hovers a murmur, like a low-toned song,
Sent up from quivering leaves, and moaning wave,
And thro' the silvery light, and azure calm
Soars, like a hymn of joy. Not far away
There is a cape, that dips its verdurous fringe
Into the waves, and from amid the trees
That crest it I can see the gracious front
Of a fair home, its threshold hid with vines
Of ancient growth, and pale-eyed jessamine,
Its lattices flung open to the morn.
But who are these that by the curving path
Move down toward the shore? one is a form
Tall, and of that soft aspect which they wear
Who drink into their veins the unclouded suns,
And in their dusky foreheads seem to change them
To moonlight. Her large eyes and crimson lip
Burn'd with the fire which through her tawny cheek
Lighten'd but seldom; those dark dewy orbs
Quiver'd with arrows of the spirit fast
As fireflies in the gloom. The other lean'd
Her frail old age upon the younger arm;
And yet not feeble, for the restless light
That ever trembled in the young girl's eyes
Seem'd drawn from deeper fountains in her own;
And neither years, nor sorrows of the world,
Shadows of coming death, nor many tears,
Had quench'd those lamps that burn'd beneath her brows
As tho' they saw thro' far millennial shades
Of cycles down unto the end of all.

II

And Sappho stood, and linger'd for a while,
Shading her brows to look upon the shore,
The piled city, and the purple hills.
And with a sigh that seem'd to wing her soul
Back to the dawn of Youth, thro' joy and tears
Commingling, like the dews and light that lay
On land and sea betwixt her and the sun,
Sweetly she said; “It is another morn;
And yet I live, tho' many days like these
I cannot hope to breathe; yet all the more
The blessed hours that give me rest from pain
Are openings into Heaven, thro' which I see
The lovely hopes, and phantasies of Youth,
Waft down to me from the blue arch of day,
Melodious as the skylark's sundrown'd song,
And radiant as his earthward-fluttering wing.
Yet dreams, however fair, are only dreams,
Tho' from the Unseen, where the Immortals are,
And they are flown, they look back for a moment.
Ah! can they raise the stricken flower of Life,
And bring back Youth? oh! tell me not of bliss
Born of Imagination, the great eagle
Whose eyes may dare to look upon the sun
And are not blind; oh! tell me not of Fame,
Although its outspread wings may hide the earth,
And with their shadows touch the walls of Time.
Tell me not of those moments in our lives,
Which, like the troubled seas that flash with light,
Mix glory and despair, but leave the heart
Still as the deeps from which the storm is pass'd,
And not a wave is heard; for in my soul
The pæans of old triumphs faintly heard,
The voices of departed joys, loves, hopes,
Power, honours, exultations, are but ghosts,
And, like thin ghosts that vanish in the sun,
Charm not so much as that diviner spell,
That from the heart of Nature speaks to ours.
Now, as I breathe the spirits from the deep,
And see these shores that first I saw, the hills,
The azure isles, the selfsame pulse of old
Thrills me again, and tho' the arm of Death
Daily advances its cold shadow o'er me
Nigher and nigher, moments like to these
The first I felt, the last I hope to feel;
Such moments, O dear girl, make it appear
As tho' to die were to be born again.
Ah, lovely land, perchance in days to come,
When I am dead, and thunder-bearing change
Hath left, of all this proud Time in full sail,
A crazy wreck, some lonely, listening Muse
Shall mark thee thro' the cloud of Ages flown,
As I, behind the veil of many years,
Behold my proper life; and of my songs,
Faint echoes of the fiery life within,
A few sad notes shall tremble, like the light
That strikes the zenith when the sun is down.”
With that she stay'd midway between the shore
And that vine-mantled home, a little space
Of musing and of calm; then with fond hand,
Tenderly laid upon the sunny brow
Of that fair one, she said—“My little Kleis;
Tho' thou art taller than thy mother is,
So call'd because she was the silver key
That should unlock my heart of hearts; my Kleis,
Oh let me look into thy face awhile,
If so I can recall the thing I was
When thy few years were mine; yes, in thine eyes
I see the stars of mirth, the lamp of thought.
On thy smooth brow the free winds from the seas
Have laid their cool wings, night and morn, until
Spirits, less pure than Honour, Hope, and Love,
Find no rest there; but kinder Fates than mine,
Under the links of graver sympathies,
Have chain'd the God of Fancy in thy soul;
So that his darings shall not lift thee up
Above the lights and shadows of thine home,
Its cares, its consolations, and its joys,
The tender memories of the parted year,
Hope of to-morrow's sunshine, and a time
Of ample harvests, and fair vintage days,
And songs when toil is o'er. Thou shalt not feel
Swift passions toss thee, like midsummer storms,
That snatch the green leaf from the virgin vine;
No, nor those thoughts, like Autumn winds and rain,
That rend the naked boughs, and strew the leaves,
Or weep them off in silence to the ground.
The great soul of thy grandsire, now at peace,
Descending thro' thy mother's into thine,
Tempers within thy heart the throbs of mine,
Its glories, and its anguish. Come with me;
Yonder he sleeps, within an urn he sleeps,
Lull'd by the music of an endless dirge,
Upon yon slope that dips into the blue
Its green the soonest in the days of Spring.
The hyacinths cluster there, as though athirst
To drink the azure seas; the anemone,
And violet tremble, and four whispering planes
Make an immortal temple o'er his dust.
Not far apart he rests, but just so far
As makes the thunder of the waves below
A pleasant murmur, a deep harmony,
Wedding the treble of the surf that wails
Among the rocks, and shells, and the soft sighings
Of the broad leaves that rustle over him.
Come thither, Kleis, with me; come hear that hymn
Sung to the spirit of a noble man,
Who wrought in act what I in many a song
Have mock'd, like echoes in a narrow place.

III

Thither I bore his urn, ten years ago,
By moonlight, sadly claspt unto my heart;
And I could hear my sighs, for every wind
Was still; it was a dreaming Autumn night
Nigh unto Winter, in the latter days;
And the full moon rode stately up the seas
Of purple, caught at intervals thro' rifts
Of sable cloud; and then the illumined Earth
Smiled on me a funereal welcome stern,
And sorrowful; and from the city rose,
Thro' the pale hush of night, sounds that to me
Were sadder than a banquet skeleton,
Of festal jubilee, of harp and voice,
Unto my widow'd heart disconsolate
Like shadows of the Dead, fantastic ghosts
Seen pale and cold far over Lethe's stream.”
Just then they rounded a thyme-breathing hill,
Infolding to a valley gay with flowers,
And mossy-green and cool, for it drank in
The spirits of the seas, and multiplied
Its sighs, its lamentations, and its thunders,
With manifold echoes; nothing fill'd it now
But an unsleeping murmur, holy-sweet,
Much like the weird tongue of the midnight silence,
Muttering to wakeful ears that wait for Death.
And halfway 'twixt it and the yellow beach
A little temple, open to the sea,
Stood under shelter of four whispering planes.
They enter'd by two marble steps, and heard
The melancholy music of the waters
Wax loud, as in the hollows of a shell.
Upon a pedestal beneath the dome
Rested an urn of gracious mould, and round it
The doubling echoes loved to swell and fall,
An inarticulate utterance, as of grief
Made musical with love. And “Here,” she whisper'd;
“Here do I joy to linger, and to feel
The presence of his Shade; here, oft and oft,
I have held converse with Elysian dreams,
And heard the voices of the Gods go by
In melody; here have I wept unseen,
Alone, and sung my songs unheard, and drawn
From Nature something of her spirit pure.
Hither the Hamadryads have come down
Out of their arching coverts, and cool grots,
And talk'd with Nereus; here the darksome steeds
Of the Sea-king have joy'd to plant their hoofs,
After swift travel o'er the snowy crests
Of roaring seas; and the surf-slinging wheels
Have rested, scattering off their pearly rain,
While Tritons wound their rosy conchs, and startled
The winding solitudes, and mountainheads,
And gave wild welcome to the Woodnymphs there.
Here have I sat forgetting, and forgot,
Morn, noon, and even; and on summernights
Have mark'd the ripplets twinkle in the moon.
Here have I woven passionate songs, and sung them
With loud clear voice unto a symphony
Of the sea-music, sweet as Summer, shaking
His timbrel in the valleys; desolate
As Winter, when the first storm-winged winds
Rush out thro' closing portals of the West,
And take the Ocean Giants by the hair.

IV

Methinks the Summerday when I was born
Flows back to me with its felicities,
Oft as I look upon this pleasant land,
And morning sea. Methinks the days between,
With all their hues and shadows, like vain clouds
That shatter into atoms in the light,
Melt off, and leave my vision free to Heaven;
Heaven, or that Earth that seems to breathe of it
Whereon our eyes first open. Oh! I wake;
'Tis Morn! the low winds 'twixt my lattice bars
Plain silver-sweet; and soon a balmy gust
Hath thrown them back, far over the treetops,
That with a whispering sound, like sighing ghost,
Answer the wailing waters swinging soft,
And make their shapeless motions in the dusk
Of twilight. My dim eyes, but half unclosed,
Over whose lids the plumes of some sweet dream
Are hovering still, follow the purple plain
Of the great Deep; along the Oceanfloor
Tapestries of gorgeous tissue are let down,
Which my half-waking fancy seems to tread
Right to the gate of Day. 'Tis morn, 'tis morn!
And herald Winds are strowing for the Sun
The golden road, whereon his wheels shall roll
Far off along the East! the God leaps up
In strength renew'd! I hide mine eyes from him!
And all the thin-wing'd phantoms of grey Night
Fly forth from mine illumined orbs; hark! hark!
The waves begin to sing, the winds to blow;
And from the vines into my chamber climbing,
And from the green glooms of the gardenwalks,
And from the forests on the mountainside,
Goes up the anthem of the Morn! awake!
For I am waking! I am singing; sing!
And with a jubilant gay smile the shores
And capes flash out, and temples by the sea!

V

Ah! sad Old Age, that, like the stem, survives
Leaf, flower, and fruit; Old Age, that not alone
Quenches the Soul's bright signals in the eye,
Pulls down the heart's warm banners in the cheek;
But, in the heart itself and in the soul,
Leaves only memories, that, like winter winds,
Howl thro' the roofless halls, and desolate courts
Of sometime Temples; memories, wither'd leaves
Of Summer roses; pale discrowned Kings;
Thin-voiced ghosts. Yet will I not lament
That I have spoken with the Dead in life;
That I have seen the Teian crown'd with flowers,
Changed with the wild Alcæus glorious words;
That I have kiss'd Erinna, and on the shores
Of Himera talk'd with grave Stesichorus.
What if the grey sea part us in this world,
Or Acheron in the Shades? they cannot part
Our souls, which blissful thoughts, and golden words,
Have link'd for ever. I will not lament
That I have tasted the good things of Time,
Tho' their remember'd sweetness seems like sorrow.
This mystic Life is as a soundless sea,
The tempests shatter it, the thunders shade;
And inarticulate voices from the clouds
Roll over it, and the winds run riot on it;
Yet are these passing moments heavenly-fair,
Breathings of Spring, Midsummer glories, hues
Of Autumn, trembling showers of light, and smiles
Of moonshine dimpling; and, when storms have ceased,
Hope, like the halcyon, sings; and I have lived
Through all, and glass'd within me every change.
I will not murmur. Yet, oh! could it be,
That I might see once more before I die,
But one of those, whose songs, like vesper airs
That flutter among harpstrings, keep my soul
A trembling with the sympathies of old.
If I could touch the hand of one I loved
Just as mine eyes grew dim, that bliss would be
More full of hope in Death, than pleasant dreams,
That kindle in the brains of drowning men.
Better the twilight of a day of June
Than noontides of December without sun.
Better to die for love, so that we lie
Upon the breast of Hope, than live for ever
Beneath the starless void of loveless thoughts
And phantasies that darken to despair.”

VI

She spoke; and with the passion of her heart
Her aged cheek was flushed, her eye was bright;
And soon the tears that she imagined shone
In her upturned eyes. And while she stood
Full of unutterable tenderness,
Wistfully gazing o'er the sheeny sea,
As tho' she thought of that unfathom'd deep
Deeper than the deep sea, that must be broken
Ere those she thought of could be render'd up—
Lo there! a bark at anchor in a bay,
Doubling itself with all its cordage clear,
And motions in the blue; and two or three,
Into a shoreward shallop stepping light,
Sway'd with the surf toward the strand; and she
Look'd idly on, and as she look'd, she sigh'd.
They stood together by the ripple's edge,
Mother and daughter, and they heard the keel
Gride 'mid the shells and sand, and one came forth,
Leaning a youthful shoulder to the hand
Of an old man, a weary man and sad;
Yet more with toil and sorrow than with years,
As feebly he stept down upon the shore.
And when he felt his feet upon the earth,
His brow he shaded with a trembling hand;
But underneath they saw some stealthy drops
Glitter and fall; but they were quickly exhaled
Amid the fire of his upgazing eyes,
As roundabout he look'd with such grave love,
As might a child, who had not seen for long
His mother, and now saw that face again
Familiar to his soul, and now restored
To his adoring eyes. So he, his palms
Cross'd on his staff, his face a little raised,
Round to the mountains turn'd, the woods, the streams
Glancing afar, and underneath them all
The marble city gleaming by the sea.
And dropping on his knee, he said: “Great Gods,
I thank ye, oh! I thank ye for this sight,
More than if ye had spared me half the ills,
That in my homeless heart, and vexed frame
Have housed since last I left this lovely isle.
Ye from that altar have inhaled the smoke
Of my continual sighs: have seen the flame
Of wasted passions, and have daily heard
The murmurs of my soul-consuming care.
Spare me henceforth, and be content with that
My life hath offered up of grief and pain;
And suffer me to rest a little here
Where I was born, until the day I die.
If I have been rebellious; if I blamed
Your hard behests, this moment is to me
A bliss, that like a flower amid the snow,
Springs up from mine affliction and my tears;
For which I bless ye; 'tis a moment made
More than much joy by contrast of my sorrows;
I thank ye, oh! I thank ye. Home, my Home!
If thou wert not, sweet Island, what thou art,
Fairer than fairest; if thou wert a rock
Barren of all things but the surfweed cold,
And tortured by the storms, now, well I know,
Thou wouldst be dearer to me than the blest
Hesperides, or, in great Babylon,
The Imperial Gardens that ascend to Heaven
By steps, that seem each like a happy isle.
For, as the day comes back in sweeter dreams;
As we remember a beloved face
Most kindly when afar; as barren crags
In the blue air look blissful as the sky;
With every imperfection thou wouldst be
The Elysium where my heart was free of ills,
Whither it turns to look upon itself
In days when effluence of diviner spirit
Went from it, like the exhalations pure
Breathed from the flowers at dawn. But oh! thou art
Most beautiful; no Poet's fancy thou,
No Patriot's idol, but a cradle meet
For birth of Gods, and for diviner men!
Now as I see thee set with mountain towers,
Like many crowns, the lovely Queen o' the seas,
I feel the ancient spirit of the clime
Lift up my heart like wings; the breath I draw
From thy deep valleys, and thy breezy hills,
Seems like flown Youth relapsing thro' my veins,
Impossible to die; and all my soul,
A harp to Nature's tender cunning, breathes
Rapture, and at her bidding seems to sing!
Oh! if my living love for thee might be
The measure of my glory after death,
Thy young men and thy maidens would forget
No song that I have sung, as from my heart
No aspect of thy beauty hath been lost,
My native isle; and Lethe's very self
Shall only wash the bitter from my heart,
And leave my love the purer. Even now
I have forgot my poverty, and cares,
Anguish, and agony, and the hissing tongues
Of evil Fortune, as mine aged eyes
Follow once more the curving of thy shores;
As the omnisonous seas, whose nearer waves
Are thunder, till far off, and farther still,
They die into a sweet monotony
Much like a mournful song. Oh! it is thou,
My Mother, and thou only that canst lull
Asleep disastrous memories, with thy touch,
Thy magic, and the music of thy tongue.”

VII

Sappho stood leaning forward, like a child
Who hears far music, and would catch the song,
Her fond eyes overclouded, and her heart
Visibly stirr'd: they caught her ere she fell.
And while she lay in trance, the old man pass'd,
And look'd with a strange meaning on her face.
A moment more knowledge, as lightning, shook
His soul, and quiver'd o'er his limbs, and joy
Moved in his unaccustom'd heart like pain;
And with a cry that ran along the shore
He claspt her in those weary arms; he kiss'd
Her pale cold brow; he laid his heart near hers,
And breathed low loving words into her ear.
Whether it was the sound of that great cry,
Or those low-breathed words, she woke, and saw
Him kneeling by her, and she dimly smiled,
As the last glimmer of a wintry sun,
And faintly said—“Speak to me, I am faint;
I may not speak, though fain I would; for now
Life fights with Death within me; speak, but spare me;
Else shall I die, and my o'ertasked spirit
With its excess of feeling cease to feel!”
He soothed, he raised her up, and with his arm,
Staying her as a tender brother might,
Till she could freely go, into her ear
He dropt such tokens of old time, dear words,
Forgotten memories, snatches of sweet song.
He brought back sunbright mornings, jocund evens
Drown'd long ago, fleet rivulets, in the sea.
Out of grey corners of the Past he raked
Such buried dreams as lighten'd forth, when stirr'd,
Like diamonds in the dark, such sparkish mirth
Of Wits, that once had laugh'd at feasts, and now
Seem'd in his echo, to laugh o'er again,
And change the sun into a golden lamp
Over a banquet-table. Oh! she listen'd
And thought she heard the music in her ears
Of festal hymns, and shouts of jubilee;
And thro' sweet melodies, the noise of storms,
Thunders of battle, sound of civil jars
Rise from oblivion; as a morning mist,
That vanish'd in the glory of noonday,
Out of the hollow darknesses beneath
That once were bowery valleys, soars again
And floating round the desert peaks of snow
Takes colours from the sunset. As he spoke,
All her old heart, a lovely ruin touch'd
With mossy green, put forth a shoot of life
Kin to the sprays of Youth; she smiled; her cheek
Mantled with sudden rose that made her seem
To him a moment as in days of prime,
That vital bloom illumining her face.
He thought he saw her as she stood before him,
Such as she was in the young April morns,
When she ran out upon the tufted capes
Over the sea, dancing upon the thyme,
And violets, with a timbrel in her hand,
Her loose locks streaming landward like a Nymph
Come down to charm a seagod. And they turn'd
To one another, laughter in their eyes;
And those two faces lighted from within
Seem'd as two ancient lamps of cunning mould
Lit for a farewell festival. He said;—
“Old friend, as I look down into thine eyes,
Methinks soft plumes from the flown wings of Time
Fall back upon my heart; for I have been
A wanderer, and a guest at many hearths,
And heard strange tongues, and pined on desert shores,
And rock'd on the wild seas; from mountaintops
Have look'd on rare new lands, and slept beneath
The curtain of dread forests, and beheld
The glory of the islands. I have been
A restless bird, that flies from Spring to Spring,
In eager search of what I never found,
Joy, when the hearth is darken'd, and the Gods
That keep the house are scatter'd. Oh! this heart
Is rich with many pageants, but no peace;
And all the hollow of departed Time
Seems to my backward vision like the sea,
Shower'd o'er with splendours from the gorgeous clouds
Of even, after sunset, and my Fancy,
A stately temple set through all its aisles
With hues and forms of beauty. But my soul,
That thirsted for the Unattainable,
Knowledge on knowledge piling art on art,
Fares as the poor man that hath stored up wealth,
And, when the wither'd hand of Time presents
The cup he craved, he cannot taste the wine.
I have seen all things; I have drunk of Life,
The water and the wine; but in the crowd
Of memories that o'ergrew my heart, and shed
Their blossoms off untimely, still one thought
Is changeless there, the holy sense of Home,
An evergreen that bears no purple flowers;
Yet evermore, tho' torn and shower'd with tears,
Sweeter than the wild roses. Oft I said,
‘I'll lull me with the poisons of despair,
Till my dead life become a living death,
And feels, on earth, the eternal sleep come on.’
Sometimes I thought ‘When Fate hath will'd, 'tis best
To bow the neck and make the best of Ill.’
'Twas vain; for under all good thoughts, or ill,
That earthquake of the heart, the fiery thirst
Of change, like everburning sulphur, toil'd.
My will hath been the sceptre of my Fate,
An evil glory glanced from the midheart
Of the red star of War; thwart influences
Sway'd me, and call them by what names ye will,
Pleasure, or Glory, or Ambition; mean
Disquiet, fatal to the Poet's heart;
Not like the tempest of a summernight,
That leaves a lovelier world at dawn; but fierce
As the hot blast that withers at midnoon;
And, as the rude hand of an aimless child,
Jars the sweet music of a lyre well-tuned.

VIII

Then all the mystery dawn'd upon my heart,
Solemn as moon-lit silence broke with hymns,
Of those, that from the dust and coil of things
Standing apart, with shadows of old years
Whisper, or gaze as from an inland peak
O'er the vast kingdoms of the days to come,
Hid in pale glories like a midnight plain;
Of those who listen to the charmed tongues
Of the Pierides, from laurel walks
Peeping with amaranth-woven hair, and eyes,
That glance across the twilight, as the stars
That never set. I sigh'd, and pray'd for peace,
To keep my Fancy like a vestal lamp
Unshaken of the winds; for eyes, to see
But Her; for ears that should be deaf as sleep
To every pulse of change, and hear no sound
But her still utterance; for that holy calm,
That o'er my heart, as on a sunny isle
Wall'd in with mighty rocks that flows within
With clear sweet rivulets, set with moss and flowers,
Should rest like Summer, though all things beyond
Should rock the endless tempest, and the winds
Should whirl the waters to the thunderclouds.
I yearn'd to sit in such sweet solitude,
And make the music of an inner life
Soar o'er the clash of arms, and the shrill cries
Of worldly Passions, and the witching tongues
Of Sirens, holding forth the cup of Life,
And purple Pleasures. Idle were those thoughts;
Tho' rosy-bright with promise as the Morn.
There is no bliss on earth so true as Hope,
Tho' she be false as rainbows; and her wings,
Swift sails that follow in the wake of Day,
Must never rest, or see the sun go down.”

IX

Thus as he spoke, she stood, as one who hears
A melody, breathed to her in a dream,
With waking ears, and sees the vision true.
And with her folded palms, and earnest eyes,
She seem'd as one who utter'd in a prayer
A blessing, or thanksgiving: and she said—
“Speak on, oh! speak; thou canst not tire mine ears.
Such words I never hoped to hear from thee.
Such thoughts have ransom'd thy sad heart from death,
And set the desert of thine Age with buds
And hues of Spring; as when the tender hand
Of Autumn lays for the white feet of Death
Young flowers, and April green; and roses glow,
And hyacinths peep from out the dead oakleaves.
So was it in the days, when thou and I
Strove with each other. I was fain to taunt
Thy boyhood into prowess, in thine eyes
Flashing the silver arrows of my song.
And thou, my rival in the joust of Arts,
Didst make me blush for my rose-wreathed lyre,
With such proud answers, as the sound of steel
Ringing on brass, or trumpet with the lute.
Ah! then thy brow was smooth, and thy dark hair
Cluster'd around the palace of thy thought,
Like Pallas' marble temple in the shade.
Thy breath was as the spirit of the seas,
Through all the inland valleys streaming life,
Stirring the little lilies and the heads
Of the dark pines into a sombre joy;
And bearing with it, from the Infinite
Of Youth and Fancy, music like the sound
Of many waters. We heard the tread of men
To battle, and the neighing of the steeds,
The burning axles, and the chariotwheels
Flashing amid the dust, with the blown hair
Of warriors leaning forward on the foe.
In sweeter notes we heard the songs at eve,
The Pæan, and the sacrificial hymn;
And laurell'd captains in their iron sat,
Or beat the earth with armed heel, or drain'd
The red cup, listening to the thrilling strings.
Again the notes of freedom stir thy tongue,
As when together, that sweet morn of June
We sail'd forth gaily for Arion's bay.
Gaily with garlands of fresh-gather'd flowers
We hung the prow; and, as it clave the foam,
And flung it back on the wine-colour'd sea,
Scattering the purple with a rain of pearl,
We sang together what Arion sang
When Music vanquish'd Fate; we sang the World,
With all its shows, its tumults, and its pride,
Laid like the stormy crests of rolling seas
Under the dark hand of Oblivion;
Yet leaving the poor Poet, with his harp,
Safe, as of old Arion on the sands.”

X

They pass'd by haunts which they had loved and scorn'd,
First loved in childhood ere the pride of years—
Tho' but a few more added to the few—
Trod underfoot their broken toys; then scorn'd,
When flattering hopes, like sunbeams cast before,
Outstripp'd them, swifter than their little strength;
As tho' their firstborn fancies had not been
First flights most apt to knit fresh-plumed wings
For eagle darings. Now they turn'd again
To their first loves, and laugh'd to think of all
Their after prides, now seen as vanities,
Which memory now could scarcely follow up;
While every little bliss of infancy
Lit up again, as on the eastern hills
The setting sun casts back a loving smile.
Here was the mountain brook that sought the sea,
Where in a backstream they had thought to swim
Their shallop fashion'd with an earnest care,
And borne down gravely in their little arms,
But carrying too much sail, so that a gust,
After two voyages around the pool,
Laid it on its beam-ends, and the main stream
Caught it, and whirl'd it into the great sea,
Deaf to their cries and groans. Here was the reach
Of smooth sand, where the old man once had run
A race with his dead brother, and had left
The little Citharus ill at ease, and vex'd
With a self-scorn, when Sappho came to him,
Winsome and playful; “Let us try together,”
She whisper'd, “and I wage that I shall win”—
Tho' well she knew that his must be the palm—
But he avenged himself on her, poor child,
Muttering, “Go to, a girl is but a fool!”
“See,” said Alcæus, as they pass'd along,
“There was the schoolhouse, in whose little span
The soul of Homer lived, and fired again
The hearts of children, mine beyond them all.
And when I heard his music roll, I seem'd
Expanded unto Godlike strength, and dream'd
Of shouts, and fluttering manes, and wheels of war,
And starry-helm'd Olympians, frowning o'er
A thundercloud, or lightening thro' the dust;
While the shrill clamours of the rest at play,
Fill'd all the space beneath the awning vine
That shadow'd us, with twinkling of its leaves
Chequering the little court: till all at once,
While musing thus of arms, and foughten fields,
I grew Achilles to myself, and frown'd;
And held my head so high, that others laugh'd,
And gibed, and vex'd me with quick taunts; till one,
A pigmy cousin, felt my angry palm,
But render'd overmeasure, with such speed,
That my long limbs undipt in Styx, were proved
Not proof against Thersites; and at last
I came to strife with one who was my friend,
And barter'd love for glory. Oh! I stood,
One foot in triumph staid upon the neck
Of fall'n Patroclus, till a grey-hair'd man,
Like sudden Deity, came down upon me;
And with a cloudy brow, but gentle words—
Alas! they were the very words I loved,
The sounds of that weird harp, that, oft, and oft,
Have moved me unto tears—I blench'd with shame,
And hung my head; he show'd me what I knew,
The great Pelides striving for his friend,
Not striving with him; and I wept with shame.”

XI

Then Sappho, parting from him, sought her home.
And after some few days they met again;
Said Sappho to him; “Hast thou seen once more
Thy brother and his mate?” He answer'd her:
“At length I sought my old ancestral home
Slowly, and softly, as though I paused to hear,
From the old haunts and dear familiar ways,
The tongues of kindred and of friends, and dreamt—
So potent was the magic of the past—
To see again the faces, and the forms
Crossing the paths, or peeping from the doors,
Of those who long ago were only dust.
Was Citharus there whom I had left at home
To keep the house?” Then Sappho said, “Alas!
If thou hast seen him, and canst truly say
He lives, 'tis but that living death when hopes
And memories fail together; and the smile
That flickers o'er his face is but the joy
Of the caged bird that sings to see the sun,
And turns to sadness when he sees it not.
And when he sees thee now 'twill be, as though
He saw thee not; such is the mortal man.”
Alcæus said, “I knew by letters writ
At long, long intervals, and only read
After long years—so aimless were my ways,
So restless were my motions,—that no child
Was born to him—and so I had no fear
Of meeting at the gate unwelcome looks
Of those who knew me not: still less that he,
Whom I remember but a lisping babe,
Who look'd upon me from my mother's arms,
And knew me not, should look upon me now
With the same eyes unconscious as at first;
That I should see him seated by the gate
And know him not. Was this the little one
With blue eyes and with curly locks, who heard
No sound until I shouted in his ear?
Who made a sign that he was not the man
I sought, that his was not a home of mine?
Whose snow white hairs shook in the wind; whose hand
Trembled with fear that I should do him ill?
I made him hear my name; he shook his head.
I show'd him an old mark upon my wrist,
Dealt by a flint flung from his careless hand,
And when he saw the red blood from the wound
He wept with fear. He gazed with steadfast eyes—
Well had he known that mark in other days—
Then sigh'd, as tho' the childish trouble stirr'd
His aged heart again; in vain; at last
Baffled and sad I sang into his ear
A simple ditty I had sung to him
When he was but a babe, and I a boy,
Who threw him up, and caught him ere he fell,
And laugh'd him into laughter: then at last
He seem'd to wake up, and he reach'd his arms,
And fell upon my neck, and spoke my name;
And all my great age did not hide from his
That something of the boyhood that had been;
And memories in a moment kindled up,
As from a spark among the sapless leaves,
And chaff of the last Autumn days, a fire
That runs along the ground. While we embraced
His aged mate came forth; she was not changed
In aught that makes true beauty beautiful.
Her tender, loving spirit beam'd the more
Through her worn aspect, ev'n as when unworn
That would have shone forth all the lovelier through
A beggar's weeds; even as a summer rose
Is all the dearer seen at wintertide;
Come with me thither, come with me again.”

XII

Sappho went with him; and they pass'd across
The outer court into the inner house,
And met the aged inmates at the door.
They stood within the armoury again,
Four aged forms—the last of those who heard
The voice of Pittacus that bridal night—
They stood, like spectres after all those years,
Rather than living, on the very spot
Where Myrsilus had fallen; and once more
Their tongues were heard within the armed walls,
That glitter'd, as of old, with sword and shield;
For not a speck of rust was suffer'd there
So watchful was the housewife he had left.
Yet not more careful to keep fair his home
For his return, if ever that should be,
Than the fond brother, faithful, as of old,
To send by trusty hands the stored wealth
Of thrifty years, whenever it was known
Thro' merchants passing to and fro, or friends
He chanced to meet, that he had fix'd his home
In mainland city, or island for a while.

XIII

Far into the calm moonlight night they sat
Together, and remember'd the old life;
Then Sappho spoke unto her aged friend;—
“Thou hast not told me of the lands afar,
Thy cares, and perils, and long wanderings.
The thoughts and acts that in thy memory seem
Pictures half hidden by the dust of years,
And seen in dusky halls at close of day,
To me would be as paintings, bright and new;
I pray thee tell me of thy past and thee.”
Alcæus paused awhile, then spoke again:
“O Sappho, ere I speak to thee of that,
Pardon me, if I fain would learn from thee
A few clear words, that would be as a light
In a dark corner of this heart, that still
Was dark, whatever momentary joy
Cross'd my wayfarings; ay might be as no
To my worn heart;—but, as the eye is fond
To pierce the shadows, where imagined shapes
Lie crouching—so my soul desires to know,
Though knowledge might be nothing to me now.
O Sappho, now that we are met again
In our old age, like two who might embrace
Across an open tomb, what need to hide
The secrets of our hearts, as in the days
When pride and fear go hand in hand, and shun
The daylight? For 'tis moonlight with us now:
'Tis memory only. Oh! I will confess
I loved thee once as lovers love; and now,
As men may love who first have loved as they;
A love as sweet as summernight, with stars
After the sun of morn, not less divine
But more serene: thou knowest how I strove
Against the foremost Lesbian, him who was
In peace or war the noblest man of all,
As though he was a traitor and a foe?
Dost thou remember the ill-fated hours
Beneath thy roof, when sick and sad I lay
Long days and nights oblivious, and ye thought
The lack of speech was loss of hearing too,
And freely spoke of me? Did I not hear
What pierced me worse than the Athenian sword,
Than any poison'd shaft, than death itself,
And would have brought the doom which then I craved,
Had it struck sooner? That thy love had been
Given to another, never could be mine?
Whether it were the voice that reach'd me then,
Or my o'erfever'd brain, or envious thoughts
Of one who was my master, jealous fear
Possess'd me that the treasure I desired
Was given to him, the man who spoke with thee,
Ev'n Pittacus; 'twas well I was too weak
To slay him that same moment! And when youth,
Like the strong swimmer's arm that cleaves the surge,
Had rescued me, and I rose up again,
He was the moveless star that none can reach;
He was the honour'd ruler of the realm,
The centre circled by the love of all;
And what was I? Disown'd by her I loved,
Despised by him I hated; for my heart
Bore this man's pity, and his kindliness,
As weights that sank me deeper in despair.
Long after I repented; and my scorn
Wreak'd itself on myself alone; meanwhile
How could I rival one worthy of aught
Thro' worth of soul, or be avenged on one
Who vanquish'd ill with good? So I resolved
To work against his power, that in my turn
I might wreak pardon on him; if he fell,
He should take mercy: well, thou know'st the rest.
How many days, and weeks, and months of guile
I practised to win o'er the noblest men
Of Lesbos, luring them by subtle speech,
And wilful masking of the simple truth,
To deem the stoutest heart and wisest head
Of all our countrymen a slave to lust
Of lucre; one whose instincts fitted him
Better to chaffer o'er a sheep or steer,
Or price a bunch of potherbs, jar of wine,
Than handle kingly matters; one whose arts
Lowborn and base dishonour'd lofty station.
But most I sought to kindle and to fan
The fiery heats of pride; for in the blaze
Of that unruly passion man is blind,
Swerves from his constant motions, and disowns
The fixed conclusions of habitual reason,
Nor sees the heavenborn light of his own soul,
More than the dazzled eye the shape of things.
I shamed them by reproaches and reproofs,
And flatteries of their old nobility,
To gnash their teeth against him; till they all
With one consent made me their chief of war;
Till, from a whisper'd breath of slander, grew
A thundercloud that shook the isle. By stealth
The arm'd retainers of my house and theirs
Grew to a host; we thought he knew not of it;
And in our madness risk'd our all. We met:
And one long day the valleys and the hills
Echoed the warcry; but wise Pittacus
Had mapp'd the conflict in his chamber, ere
The bands encounter'd; and his skill forestall'd
Our hasty motions; few were wounded, fewer
Slain, and the day was his. When it was done,
He sent a herald who spoke fair the crowd
Of the discomfited, and with brief words,
Kind arts, and promises of grace drew off
The disaffected, or who seem'd as such,
Because they did the bidding of their lords.
And we were taken, and disarm'd; the end
Came, not by death, or chains, but in a voice
So mild, dispassionate, deliberate,
It seem'd to speak to us of things to come,
As tho' they were the past; so long had he
Foreseen the issue of those words of his,
Spoken in thine ear when I was lying low
In the next chamber wounded, and perchance,
Ye thought, not like to live. ‘Depart,’ he said;
‘I thirst not for the blood of men, who once
Were friends, nor seal ye as my foes by death.
We shall not meet again, except it be
Among the shadows of the dead; and then,
When all is memory only, ye will think
I was not what ye deem'd me, and once more
We may be friends’: and turning unto me,
With this last word; ‘Alcæus, know thyself;
Till this, the greatest work that man can do,
Be done, all other tasks are vain’: and then
He lift us to the scorn of our own souls,
And to that bitter thought that all was lost.”

XIV

Then after a long silence Sappho spoke;—
“I marvel that within thy memory dwell
Words that I have forgotten many a year.
Yet it is well that thou canst mind me of them.
And, if the words come back to me, the truth
Shall not be hidden from thee, aged friend;
For if wild fancies have possess'd thy soul
It must bring peace.” Alcæus answer'd her:
“When the two voices in the chamber ceased
Softly I heard him rise up and pass out,
And thou wert left alone; after a while
Thou saidst ‘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.’ I heard thee say such words.
And tho' Death stands between us and that man,
And beckons us to follow, still this heart
Oft as it hearkens the remember'd sound
Echoes the deathful throb that shook me then!”
He ceased; and Sappho, with a smile, as sad
As the last glimmer of a wintry sun:—
“There are some moments in this life of ours
When the Gods pour into the heart of man
Phantasy, that like to fiery wine
Dazzles the sense, until it sees all things
Thro' golden ethers; and so wings the soul,
That, what the eye looks on, the spirit lifts
Into a very heaven; and so this world,
The old familiar nature, clothes itself
With sudden and great light; this weary life,
This grey monotony of daily acts,
Changes, as mountains under shadowing cloud,
That flood with warmth and music in the sun.
And so the spells of that enchantment strong
Transform the shapes and aspects of mere men
To semblance of the Gods. And thus it was,
One day, with me, as I went forth at morn
Along the shore, rejoicing in my youth,
And singing to myself, as tho' that joy,
Fearless and strong, were immortality.
Like the great sun undimm'd at dawn, but doom'd
To drown in sudden thunders, that same hour
My joy was changed to sorrow; that same hour
Came lightnings out against me, and I saw,
Or thought I saw, a son of the high Gods
Step on the sands, who held me in his thrall,
Till I went mad: 'tis o'er, I know no more;
Ev'n memory fails me; I should strive in vain
To tell thee more than this; between that day
And this the Furies hover'd, and cast down
Great darkness on me, and have hid from me
The glory of it, like a misty sun
Whose half is blotted out. Ah me! I know not,
I know not now, if what I tell to thee
Have so much actual in it as might serve
For something of a stem round which might climb
The leaves and tendrils of the eager vine
Of phantasy; substantial truth enough
To feed the quick flame of a poet's love;
Or whether it were not in very sooth
One of those clearer visions of the night,
That haunt us strangely, ev'n at noon of day,
And after many years, until they seem
Familiar as the story of our lives.
I know not now; and so can speak to thee—
If this were actual reality—
As though I sang unto thee a true tale
So wreathed with fancies I forget the facts;
If it were not, as though I told a dream
Told me so well I deem it living-true.
And those far words, my own forgotten words,
Burning, as 'twere some lamp within a tomb,
Deep in thy memory, tho' not in mine,
Old friend, were utter'd without thought of him,
By me, unworthy of him, our first man;
Utter'd of that fair vision, god or man,
Or phantom only; thou hast heard my tale.”
And, as she told him that weird tale of love—
Not all, but the one fragment that still shone
Like a star through a cleft of cloud—she spoke
In low sad tones dispassionate, as though
She brought out toys or pictures she had loved
In infancy, and clapt her hands to see,
And show'd them now unto another child.
And, sooth to say, that wanderer full of woes
Had leant his ear, like to a very child
To listen to her voice. Sometimes she paused,
And seem'd to hearken, as tho' she might hear
Some whisper; hid her eyes behind her hand,
As tho' she might wake up some vision lost.
And then she shook her grey locks, and she sigh'd,
As one who cannot charm back into life
Ashes and dust that once were beautiful.
How strange it seem'd to him, how mournful-strange!
He wonder'd now to look upon himself,
So changed since she had spoken: where was he,
Lash'd by the Furies over sea and land,
Believing his own madness to be true,
As Sappho her love-dream? And where was he,
The guiltless sage, who had provoked the wrath,
That burnt through a whole life? And what was now
The worth of truth itself to them, whose steps,
So far down in the valley of grey Death,
Can never turn again? “Ah me!” he thought;
“Sure, if the Gods that rule o'er mortal life
Have pity for our sorrows, and our sins,
Methinks they might forgive the yearning prayer,
‘O! to live over some few years again,
That I might sail in sunlight, and soft air,
My bark flung on the rocks thro' mist and cloud!’”
Once more she spoke: “See, I have told thee all
That I have power to tell, scant though it be.
For fear, or shame, that might have stay'd me once,
Are vanish'd, as a meteor of the dawn;
And I am old, and nothing shakes me now;
And we are nigh to darkness evermore,
When all the voices of this evil world
Will be less than the falling of a leaf;
And other hopes, and other cares have held
My heart long years, and that more constant flame,
That kindles from a little spark at first,
But burns for ever; not the fiery sword
That cleaves the heart, and when it passes out
Leaves ashes only. These two loves at last—
Differing, as stormy morn, and peaceful even—
Are memories only; neither now can stab
Thy heart with jealous hate; and he, the wise
Who, while he lived, dealt thee imagined wrong,
Waits thee among the shadows; all are gone.
And we may join together with one voice,
To honour him who was the first of men,
Although he was not loved by me or thee.
And he, the patient and strong-hearted man,
I learnt to cherish with that better love,
That is the perfect flower of womanhood,
That links less sense to sense than soul to soul,
He too is gone for ever! Even Kleis,
My little Kleis that was, is far away
From her own land with dear ones of her own,
All but this girl, her first-born, who, like her,
In beauty and in sweetness minds me of her,
Young Kleis, Kleis of my Kleis, who brings back to me
My Kleis when she was young. She too will part,
Ere I part from her, for her sire will come,
And bear her from me, if she wed not one
Of our own countrymen, and make her home
Among us:” “Fear not,” then Alcæus said;
“O Sappho, surely she shall wed the boy,
My brother's heir; for I have mark'd them both;
And ere their tongues gave utterance to their hopes,
Their hearts flew thro' their eyes; I saw the sign.
And if I saw not, still am I a seer,
And see what shall be, if I have not seen.
For, if they love not now, yet shall they love;
And, if they love now, they shall love the more.
For he is valiant as his father was,
And bears his mother's image on his face;
And she hath the rare beauty of a Muse;
Her eyes inherit the deep love of thine,
Her virgin voice the music of thy songs.
So our lost loves that wander'd far apart,
And never found a resting-place on earth,
At last shall meet together in these two,
Their kindred hearts shall be a home to ours.”

XV

Again they met by moonlight, he and she,
The aged minstrels, and discoursed again
Of the old days: again Alcæus said;—
“I promised thee the story of my past
Since last I saw thee; but 'tis little worth,
When separate from the motions of my soul,
The ceaseless ebb and flow of hopes and fears,
Prides and regrets. So, after those last words
Of Pittacus, all just and merciful,
I stood, as one who finds himself alone
In utter darkness, after the last flash
Of stormy night. Next day at break of dawn
I pass'd aboard, my hand before my eyes,
As one who would not bear the sun of heaven
To mock at his despair, and childish tears.
Once more, once more, O Sappho, the white sail
Flies in the wind, the billow from the prow.
The shores and mountains of my native isle
Vanish behind, seen dimly thro' my tears.
Once more my wild hopes have been wither'd up;
Once more my pride hath broke its eagle wing,
Our glory drags its plumage in the dust.
My friends in evil fortune—the best men
And noblest in the land—are here with me;
And to forget myself and my despair
I stand with folded arms to look on them,
And make a mournful pastime for my soul
In noting the strange humours and diverse
Aspects of one despair. Some loth to leave
Their loves, and their delights, and bid farewell
To their souls' idols, weep and curse by turns.
Some peer with dark eyes into the dark sea,
As though, once underneath the sunlit waves,
At least they would be nearer the loved land
Whence they are driven, and feel no sense of pain.
Some drown all bitter thoughts in biting jests;
And some with golden flagons of Methymna,
Like the sweet blood out of their island's heart,
Would fain light up brief sunshine in their own;
And stay that Lesbian nectar on their tongues
With tender joy, as tho' they thus prolong'd
The blissful savour of the happy days
Sped in the happy valleys, whence it came,
Which they shall taste no more. And every drop
Brings back some living picture to their hearts
Of its green vineyards, lawns, and waving hills,
And takes them back unto the past of youth;
And fancy, love, and glory, feast and song,
Stand on the grey cloud of adversity,
An Iris of all colours. I am still,
Because my lips refuse to utter half
The fulness of my heart. Then suddenly
I seem'd to lose all sense of outward things;
The voices, and the faces of the rest
Were hidden from me, as tho' sleep had veil'd
The sea, and sky, and islands; with a cry
I stretch'd my hands, as tho' my well-loved friend,
My Melanippus stood before me there,
And I spoke to him then: ‘O days of youth!
O days of promise! I shall see no more,
And thou, O early friend, whose gentle heart
Was ever faithful to thy poor Alcæus,
Tho' little worth that love; on whom I lean'd
In grief and joy; who ever gav'st me back,
For spleens, regrets, remorses, raptures, fears,
Those quiet words of counsel, and of comfort,
Refreshing to this fever'd heart of mine
As evergreen, and ever-fragrant leaves,
When all the crimson roses of the year
Are fall'n and scatter'd; tho' we met not oft.
I joy'd in tumult, and the fiery speed
Of rapturous moments; but, whene'er we met,
Thine eyes were as the ever-fixed stars,
Which bring us into deeper meditations,
When the great sun is sunken in the west,
Than all the proud magnificence of noon.
Thy words were as the virgin spring, whose voice,
That still small voice, lives in the wilderness.
O Melanippus, how fill up the dark
Of being without hope—that frozen calm
Which is not peace—my tablets I will take,
And write, as on a pale cold sepulchre,
The evil records of those latter days
Of passions and of pains, which, gone and fled,
Seem, in this twilight of confused thoughts,
And purposeless despondency, as strange
As the remembrance of a stormy morn
In the hush'd gloom of even. Long ago
I told thee of my envy and my pride;
And pour'd my lawless thoughts into thine ears,
Receiving back the wisdom of the just
For answer; and the earnest love of one,
Who sought my honour as a part of his.
Oh! that I had but listen'd to those words
Patiently! oh! that I had never striven,
Rebellious as a fierce and thirsty flame,
Against the solid adamant of truth.
Oh! would that I had listen'd and obey'd,
For now I should not be a wanderer!
Till when? and where? Alas! my heart is blind,
As are my weeping eyes! O friend, I know not,
And cannot paint, the future ev'n in dream;
Whilst thou perchance, out of thy mountain home,
Green refuge blest, and thro' the bloomed boughs
Of thy rose-laurels blowing softly, seest
This parting sail with every moment less.
Ah! if thou breathest hopeless sighs for me,
My follies and my frenzies, still forget not
One who forgets not thee, my Melanippus.
It may betide, my friend, that this lorn scroll
May never reach thine eyes; but if it do,
Thou wilt be sure that I have blotted out
All puny fears, all lean self-loves, reserves;
And only see myself as I am seen.
Once more, O friend of youth, once more farewell,
Perchance for ever; exiled I depart
Weigh'd down less by the arrows of my foes
Than by my own dishonour; how is shame,
The ignominy of self-damning thoughts,
To be removed for ever? Will great deeds
Wash out the stains of wilful guilt? Can honour
Atone for shame? The Future for the Past?
Alas! where may I flee, where shall great deeds
Henceforth be done? My own dear land shall see me
No more for ever, or listen to my voice,
Or hear ev'n of my deeds. And strength of arm,
Or might of spirit, put forth in the sight
Of strangers, when already years have writ
Their pictures, and their shadows on the heart,
Ev'n could we put them forth, when that sad heart
Burns low with wasted efforts, and the arm
Is wither'd with the pitiless frosts of Time,
Are but as flickering fires blown on by winds
Of Winter, not the noonday glory, welcom'd
By glad eyes, and a thousand happy hearts
And living tongues of well-beloved friends.
Ah me! 'tis only solitary tears
Can cleanse the heart gnaw'd by remorseful pains,
Till Death, that comes to all, comes doubly welcome
Unto its weariness. And even now
Methinks this heart is dead; no future passion
Shall fill its hollow calm, no rapturous moment
Expand it as of old, and lift it up
Above the evil day, and passing cloud.
Ev'n hope, the star that follows the sunk sun,
Shall set, and leave it in the gloomy hush
Of apathy's cold night. Alas! alas!
For he, who fights with justice and the just,
Fights with the Gods, who turn his strength, and counsels
Against himself, and make him his own fate.
This have I done; and envy, like a dream,
That starts the troubled dreamer from his bed,
Led me with shut eyes, and with naked feet
O'er perilous ridges, over starless roofs,
And when I wake, I find that I am fallen
And creep away, wounded and wondering.
My eyes are open'd, and the Fates have drawn
The curtains of my soul, and shown me there
Dark mystery within of prides and hates,
So that from mine own presence I recoil
As from an outward horror! O my friend;
Time, whose swift plumes are never swift enough
To youth, and hot ambition, when we lie
Under a load of our own evil deeds,
Seems all too slow, as to a wounded man,
Whose racked moments are alive with pain,
And in their agony dilate and grow
To days, and months, and years; yet even then
I pray him still to linger in his flight
That I may feel once more some touch of peace,
Ere I go down unto the twilight shores,
Where wretched ghosts are wailing. Let me live
Till I have wept enough to cleanse away
The bitterness that eats into my heart;
Or until memory, in the deeps of age,
Loses the shape and substance of midlife,
And only o'er the torrent of those years
Sees the green shores of Youth. And then come death,
And not till then; that I may not lament,
Whatever penal fines await me then,
That I have died too soon. I warr'd in vain;
I warr'd against the Gods. I warr'd with Right,
And that just man, whom the according tongues
Of a whole people throned and look'd unto,
As to a fixed sun; I have done ill.
But he shall never hear that I have named him
Henceforth with slanderous words, or breath of scorn,
Or made his virtues look like hunchback'd dwarfs
In the thwart lens of envy; twisted words
Of wisdom, till they seem'd as foolishness.
But, in whatever lands henceforth I tread,
Though he may hear no more of me, my voice
Shall pay him back the debt of gratitude,
The sumless debt of gratitude for life;
That men may know that better men than I,
Proud restless heart, grow under Lesbian suns.
One man at least is there, who in his soul
Together binds together all men's virtues,
Knowledge, and fancy, modesty, and strength,
Love without fear, and wisdom without scorn.
This, Melanippus, might seem strange to thee,
And thou wouldst say; Is our Alcæus mad;
Or hath some great enchantment wrought this change
On pride, and fury, and the thirst of power?
Strange it may seem, but it is even true.
Yes, I am changed; but not the thought alone
Of wasted years, and disappointed hopes,
Ambitions quench'd, humiliations borne,
And boastful strength turn'd into impotence,
Have made me thus. No, friend, thou know'st enough
Of sad Alcæus, to know this at least,
That, as a raging flame will hiss and roar
Against the pouring clouds, and burst again
To tenfold fierceness after, so with me,
Disaster, suffering, wounded vanities,
And public scorn, ev'n retributions just,
Kindled but to a more concentred heat
This savage heart of mine. Bear with me, Sappho.
Stript naked, and become a common mark,
I should the more defy the vulgar eyes
Of little hates; and, coil'd up in disdain,
Die as the scorpion pierced with its own sting;
But never yield to natures less than mine.
Than mine! What was it work'd this wondrous change?
Thou art my friend; to thee I may confess,
'Twas not the arms, nor arts of Pittacus,
Nor common voice of men, nor common sense,
That might not stint the honour due to him;
'Twas not his power that conquer'd this ill soul.
No! no! 'twas something they had never dream'd,
Stronger than thunderbolt, or adamant,
An old familiar word, a homely virtue,
And little thought of in this fiery time;
'Twas kindness, lovingkindness!’ Thus I wail'd,
And murmur'd, seeking shadowy silence most,
As though apart I spoke unto my friend,
As though he heard me, and could answer me.
But when I look'd up in the light again,
I saw no more the fair home of my friend;
The mountains lay beneath the purple sea.

I

Be sure it was Miletus that I sought
Before all other haunts; for there I knew
Were many friends and true; there, boy or man,
Full oft I linger'd days and weeks, and gazed
With wonder on its wealth, and gorgeous shows,
And divers pastimes. There in her own home
Dwelt Anaktoria; for her sire was dead;
And she walk'd in her palace halls alone.
'Twas so I dreamt. At even, as I stood
Beneath the portico by open doors,
I heard a sound, as of a festival,
And music wafted from within; and one
Came forward whom I question'd; and he said;—
‘Know'st thou not 'tis a bridal? That the queen
Of beauty wedded was this very morn
To one of eastern fame, a Lesbian man,
And yet a man of war, of noble race?
Know'st thou his name? 'Tis Antimenidas,
A brother of the bard whose songs are sung
Ofttimes beneath this roof:’ and, as he spoke,
I heard the very hymeneal hymn
That I had writ erewhile, long since forgot,
And hid away beneath the daily dust
Of many cares and memories of pain.
I stood awhile to listen to that song,
And sigh'd to think what other moods had ruled
My spirit when I wrote it. Then I pass'd
Swiftly beyond the vestibule, and found
Many among a goodly company,
Who hail'd, and welcomed me; and foremost she,
Link'd to the swordarm of the warrior bold,
Whose last and veriest triumph was that heart,
That had escaped from all the silken toils
Of feebler hunters, all the blandishments
Of the highborn and comely, golden showers
Of city merchants, minstrels, artists, lords
Of matter and of mind; and felt its pride
A captive to the strength that was not hers,
That ruled o'er men, as she o'er women won
A matchless victory. She laugh'd, and said;—
‘If Citharus bore off a low-voiced bride,
It was that he might lead her gently on,
Gentle himself; what had he done with me?
And yet I shall not be a rebel more
Than she (whom I remember good and true),
If she shall clothe her nature with the strength
Of will, that lay conceal'd beneath the grace
Of him her model. One who ruled himself,
Before he headed armies, shall be mine!’

II

The selfsame night, when all the guests were gone,
I bade my brother tell me of those wars
By Babylon; and how he won his prize,
That ivory-hilted scimitar, that made
All other weapons in my armoury
Playthings for children, and which he drew forth
That mournful midnight when our feast was broken,
And Myrsilus fell dead. ‘To thee,’ he said,
‘Who know'st I would not breed myself selfscorn,
By boasting of myself, I may relate
How that befell. Thou mayst remember well,
O brother, how in early days we sat,
And held long converse under boughs at noon;
Or in the moonlight, wandering by the shore
Of the great sea, and listening to its sound.
I too remember thine own words, ‘It seems
They tell a tale of other lands to us,
And to those lands they sing of ours;’ ‘Ah me!’
I said, ‘if I could wander free as they,
And look upon the cities which they lave,
And touch the shores of Afric, and look up
At the immortal marvels of that land
Of Egypt; pass beyond the utmost gates
Of the known world; or inland see the walls
Of Babylon—and well I seem to see
What I have heard from others, men who come,
And pass, and come no more—I should have won,
Methinks, a crown of memories, worth the weight
Of all thy silent fancies, tho' they be
Fresh-springing flowers, while those are but the leaves
Shed by the parted Summer.’ So since last
We met, I went forth fix'd in that resolve;
And, passing by the Troad, first beheld
The skeleton of the great capital
Cold, still, all but the many winds that blew
The dust of ages o'er its crazed towers,
And ashes of the burning. Here and there
The song of fishers, spreading in the sun
Their nets before the huts, built underneath
The vast grey walls, mix'd with the ancient cry
Of the wild fowl that hover o'er the plain,
And haunt the streams as in the days of old.
Days, weeks, and weary months I made my way
Down through Assyria; and, from men I met
Of my own language, evil things I heard,
That constant rumours, as a gathering gloom
Of thunders, spread thro' all that troubled realm;
That it would be divided, and become
A spoil of nations from the south, and now
The end was nigh. The tempest in mine ears,
I pass into the Babylonian plain,
Mesopotamia, where another cry
Made me deaf to the first; for now it was
Great Nabuchodonosor rising up
Against the Egyptian King, fullarm'd to grasp
His portion of forlorn Assyria,
And strive for it with warlike Babylon.
Since I had listen'd to that old man's tale,
The faithful warrior from the streams of Nile,
My heart was set against the Egyptian King;
And, rather than win honour under him,
Even could I foreknow that he would win,
Would choose to be defeated with his foes.
I held my way along the river plain;
And first beheld the palm imperial,
Towering above the lesser growths, as King
Nabuchodonosor o'er the world;
And marvell'd at the abundance, seldom found
Under our paler sun; the brighter fruits
And darker leafage; and the dusky brows
And swart limbs of the thronging habitants.
The cities mirror'd in so vast a stream
It seem'd a flowing sea; but, as I near'd
The famous capital, and, thro' the dust,
And o'er the heads of castled elephants—
Enormous, unimaginable shapes
Of sumless strengths, impregnable to arms—
Saw its vast spaces, and the ascending steps
Of its great temple, making all things less,
Ev'n towers and palaces; and, with the crowd
Of chariots and of horsemen, pass'd beneath
One of its gates within the massy walls
Unscaleable; methought, it was not least
Of mortal honours to be least among
The warriors of so great a king, and strive
More sure of victory under him supreme,
And the strong will that ruled from such a throne,
Than if I led without him all his men.
And, if I lifted up my eyes above
The host that flooded thro' the open gates,
I saw, far up along the shadowing walls,
Swift crowds that cross'd each other; and I heard
The noise of rolling cars, and neighing steeds
Tossing their heads into the light, and saw
The sheen of arms and banners; and there rose
A sound of shawms and sackbuts, and all kinds
Of music; for the king was passing by.
And all the multitude about me stood
Fix'd in a mute astonishment, and all
Bow'd down their heads in awe; all day, 'twas said,
The bands of the imperial army flow'd
Along the walls, and the sun smote their arms,
As when it trembles on a running stream
Dazzling the sight. There the great king sat throned
To look upon them, and behold at once
The countless warriors that upheld his power,
And the vast city spread out underneath.

III

It boots not now to weary thee with words,
That tell of weary hours pass'd in the courts
Of chiefs, and nobles; low obeisances,
To win a moment's glance of grace, forgot
As soon as given; of honey'd words that taste
Bitter in memory, forceful flatteries
That leave the pale lips writhing with a curse,
And hateful smiles that wither to a sneer.
Till one who was a man of war himself,
And cast a soldier's eye upon the form
Of one who, like himself, was tall and strong,
Earnest of prowess; and he whisper'd one,
Who bore it onward to a higher lord,
Who bore it to the king: so I took rank
Among the captains of his host. No more
I seek to weary thee with many words,
That tell of toilsome days, and wakeful nights,
Of march, and countermarch; of victory won
Over the driven foe, nights of alarm,
Encampments lifted suddenly, surprise,
Repulse, recover'd triumph; till at length
We lay in tents beside the river-stream
In front of Carchemish; the Egyptian host,
Routed, had fled the plain, and refuge sought
Behind the walls; and, while we slowly moved
Our battering engines, rain of arrows shower'd
And slew our men; oft as our warriors fell
They shouted from the battlements, and stirr'd
Our souls with scorn. At last we saw a man
Of mighty stature, head and shoulders higher
Than all the host; a starless night he seem'd,
But for the fiery eyes within his head,
A son of Afric; yet from whence he came
No man could tell. Of massy might, he seem'd
Dark Aidoneus, King of Erebus,
Come up for hate not love into the light.
With a great voice he shouted; by him stood
A herald, who interpreted his speech
In divers tongues; he laugh'd, and ‘Come,’ he cried.
‘Ye strive in vain; come nigh, if ye be men;
I challenge ye to fight, but not with arms.
Send me your lithest wrestlers, men of skill
To grasp, and grapple, and by strength of limb,
Tho' less by strength of limb than tricks of art,
To overthrow; and I will wager ye
My single life against a host of ye;
Although I make no boast of any worth,
Save that which Nature gave me, strength alone
To break through all your sleights like bands of straw;
That not a man of all your chiefs shall stand
Against me; and mark this, if he falls he dies;
And if I fail, oh! ye may take my head!’
A truce proclaim'd, seven Babylonian men
Stood forward of the craftiest, each man skill'd
To bear to earth, by nimble motions join'd
To stalwart strength, a mightier than himself
Less crafty in his art. But when I saw
The dismal giant pass into the midst,
Between the city and our host, it seem'd
As though each Babylonian held himself
Too frail to dare such conflict; and they stood
Motionless for a brief space. Then the king
Commanded that their valour should be spurr'd
By warlike music; and the sound arose
Of cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and
All kinds of music; suddenly each man,
Shamed into action by the other six
Standing beside him, hastened, and they pass'd
In single file; and then the foremost closed
With his vast adversary. Soon they found
His simple speech and feigned lack of skill
Was but a mockery, for the art disclaim'd
Was rival of his strength; and so they fell
O'ermatch'd; and, as they fell, he took the sword
That he had laid aside, and one by one
He slew them ere they rose; by that same arm
Was the huge ivory-hilted scimitar
Held o'er the throne of Myrsilus that night
Before the war with Athens. The great king,
From under his pavilion, saw that sight;
And, waxing wroth, call'd for his chiefs of war,
And held a council; and his words of scorn
Were sharper to them than the Ethiop's blade.
And then he bad a herald thro' the ranks
Proclaim, that whosoe'er of any race,
Assyrian, Babylonian, Mede, or Greek,
Could vanquish the swart giant, should possess
A chain of gold about his neck, and take
One of the fairest daughters of the land
To wife. I heard it, and a sudden thought
Tempted me to the trial; for I knew
That I had won in the palestra oft,
In days before, by a particular stroke
Known only to myself, an elbow-thrust,
That when mine adversary was inclined
Forward, in act to throw me, struck his side
With such a thrilling keenness, that his strength,
How great soe'er, grew faint, and he was fain
To writhe himself contrariwise; and so
He gave me the occasion that I sought,
And snatch'd so swiftly, that he fell at once;
And I remember'd that I never fail'd.
Ev'n then, in sight of all men, to myself
I whisper'd, ‘'Tis too much; and I have dared
A deed too bold for any sober man;
What Fury drives me to it?’ Then I pray'd,
And a new spirit whisper'd into me;—
‘What! wilt thou cast off manhood? Wilt thou fly,
And forfeit, not the honours of the king,
The chain of gold, and the fair maid,—for these
Are nought to thee, and specially the last,
And Anaktoria knows the reason why—
But all the strength that self-approval brings,
The meed of thine own soul? And, shouldst thou fly,
Will Nabuchodonosor spare the life
Of one poor Greek who thought to save it thus,
Nor rather make thee a burnt-offering
To his own Gods, as he is wont to do?’
It seem'd as tho' the helmed Pallas stood
Beside me, uttering, ‘Strive for Greece, and win,
For I will aid thee!’ Then I raised my head;
And strode straight on to death or victory,
While yet the jeers of those whose comrades fell
Were hissing in mine ears. I ran upon him,
And let the dark man clasp me in his arms,
While mine were free; but in a moment more,
So swift was the dread venture, as he stoop'd,
And sought to sway me with his bulk alone,
The fatal thrust was dealt, and he recoil'd
As though a serpent fang shot through his blood,
A swift and mortal poison; as he lay
Still binding me with unrelaxing arms,
So that my ribs bent inward to their might,
My hands were on his gorge, and all my strength
Methinks, redoubled by a power unseen.
And, as a dungeon whose foundations fail,
I felt the prison of those iron arms
Lapse slowly downward, and the life depart
That was so surely to have compass'd mine.
Then up I leapt, and seizing the great sword
In both my arms, I sever'd the dark head
Whose bloodred eyes, fierce signals of the hate
Of one, who feels himself subdued at last
By him he had disdain'd, were fix'd on me
Ev'n after death; the horror haunts me still!
And, when I lifted up the head, a shout
Rose from the Babylonians, less forsooth
In honour of the deed done by a Greek,
Than that my arm avenged them; and the king
Call'd me into his tent; and thro' the array
Of judges, captains, counsellors, I pass'd
Up to the throne. And if they look'd askance,
With evil eye on one who came from far,
When I had cast myself before the king,
He bade me rise, call'd for his treasurer,
And bade him hang the chain about my neck.
And for the damsel—‘Know,’ I said, ‘O king,
That when the war is ended, I shall haste—
With warranty thereto vouchsafed by thee—
Back to my own land, where another waits
My coming; and why should I wound her heart
By such disloyalty, made tenfold more
By showing her one born in this fair clime,
More beautiful than any maid of ours?
(And yet, in truth, I would not vex this one
By showing her the beauty of my own.)
Why make an exile of some happy girl
Whose eyes might favour some far better man?
But I will keep with thy consent, O king,
The weapon that hath slain so many men,
In token of the deed that I have done,
And memory of these wars, O king of kings!’
Said Nabuchodonosor, ‘Be it so.’
And I went out in wonder at myself
That, after such grave perils, still I lived.
But, as I went forth, a new terror drew
All eyes upon it. From the city rose
Smoke mix'd with flame, and uproar from within;
And from the walls and battlements withdrew
The Egyptian armament, and left but few
To meet our onset; the ill-guarded gates
Were forced; and thro' the doomed city ran
The Babylonians eager for the spoil.
And the swift fire, as hungry as the sword,
Took its own share, while palaces and towers,
Seen for a while above the cloud and flame,
Went down with thunder, and both friend and foe
Were lost together as the city fell.’

IV

From this fair home, after long tarrying there,
Drinking rare memories in, and fancies new,
And weaving them to song, I shipp'd at last
For the mainland of Hellas; and there on
For many a year I linger'd, and well nigh
Forgot my own Æolic tongues in theirs.
Honour and welcome from their foremost men
Awaited me, and hospitable homes
Were open to receive me; noble chiefs
And men of wealth repaid my ready songs
With lavish gold; and, wheresoe'er I went,
Fame had gone on before me, and prepared
A dwelling for me. But my restless muse,
Full oft impatient of the shadow cast
By city walls, sought sunshine, and the breath
Of vineyards, and the carol of the brooks,
That wander'd thro' lone valleys, and the voice
Of the oak forest on the mountain slope.
And more than all, when gusty Fortune veer'd,
And ragged raiment shamed me from the doors
Of prosperous men, I shunn'd the haunts of pride.
So, in the days of youth, when I was strong,
I loved to go from land to land, from isle
To isle, from seaward dale to mountainpeak,
From the great city to the hamlet wild,
With scrip and staff, and rough Molossian dog,
And nought beside; tho' many a day scant fare
Befell me, sometimes none. I blest the Gods
Who gave me mirth, and strength, and joy of heart,
And fared right onward. With my songs I smooth'd
The rough way up the steep, or by the shore;
And laid me down at sunset under shade
Of some great rock, o'er which the landwind blew,
Rustling among the heather, the wild thyme,
And furze, to be awaken'd by the bleat
Of the wild goat; or in a murmuring cave,
That open'd on the ribbed shore and shells,
And took the whispers of the waves, that rimm'd
The hot white sands with pearly bubbles clear;
Or by the ragged roots of lonely pines,
That moan'd me to my rest. But when the days
Were brown with Autumn, and the viny ways,
And hillside slopes, were ringing with the mirth
Of village vintagers, I laid me down
Amid the ancient men beside the spring;
Who gave me gladly of their flask to drink,
Their barley bannock, and fresh-gather'd fruits;
And saw afar and near the busy time
Of pleasant toils; and listen'd to the charm
Of country ditties answering one another,
From dale and upland, till the sun went down
Behind the dark hill overhead, and threw
Its gold on wood, and tower, and purple isle,
And 'twixt the cypress shadows; and I heard
From living lips the stories of their lives,
Their loves and hates, their passions and their pains,
Wrongs and revenges. Many a time and oft,
Hopes, purposes, were whisper'd in mine ear
That to a native had been secret still.
But I was but a wind that whirls the leaves
Now here, now there; they knew not whence I came,
Nor whither went; they had no fear of me;
They gave me welcome, and plain cheer, and took
For meed my wild adventures; and a weight
Was lifted from their hearts, opprest with care,
And penury, oft as I in simple song
Told them of wonders I had heard and seen.
For they were fain to hear of others' haps,
And dreamt not that I bore away their own
For the like uses, when betwixt us lay
Mountains and seas; and yet I did not play
The traitor to them for their bounty; no,
But under other names, with tricks of art,
I served them up; so that I sometimes brought
The selfsame accidents back to their ears
Who first did make them known to me, so wrought
With variation, that they scarce might know
Their own again; and they would stare and laugh,
Or weep the more to hear of that akin
To their own weal or woe. Sometimes I met
A brother wanderer like myself; and then,
Like weary pedlars laying down our packs,
We show'd our several wealth unto each other;
We made each other merry with our tales,
And borrow'd of each other, as we lay,
At noontide under shade of oak or plane,
On mountain green; or by a runnel swift
And bright, that gush'd from alpine cave hard by,
And fed the valleys from its breasts of snow,
And rush'd through arched rose, and tamarisk,
And April asphodels that lit the fields.
Ah! then my poverty and merry heart
Stood as a panoply against the shafts
Of Fortune; and she turn'd away and laugh'd
To see her random arrows blown aside,
Or given back to her with their broken points.
For sometimes, in the homeless silent wastes
Of the high mountains, armed men came forth,
And with wild words, and frowns, and threatening hands
Uplifted, bade me give them gold; and, baulk'd
Of their unlawful purpose,—for I own'd
No more of this world's treasures than the blithe
Midsummer grasshopper, that wings from shade
To shade, and sings,—they dragg'd me unresisting
Into their secret cavern, with resolve
To avenge my guilty want upon myself.
But when they saw that all I had was theirs,
My songs, and many tales, and mirthful mood,
Like lions fronted by bold innocence,
They bated their brave speech, and let me lead
Their reckless spirits as I will'd, and took
The impress of my fancy; and themselves
Shouted and laugh'd, and clapp'd their hands, and made
Deep chorus to my minstrelsy, that shook
The vaulted darkness, and roll'd back again
In monstrous echoes; while the bloodred flame
Smote on the jagged faces of the rocks,
Making them glare and grin, like giants waked
From centenary slumbers. And when wine
Had lit a fire within them, and made bold
Their thwart and crimson consciences, they told
The stories of their many evil deeds,
Their sleepless nights of lawless hopes, their days
Of broken slumbers, evx'd with noonday fears,
Swift shadows dropt from tempest-ridden clouds,
Their stealthy and hush'd onslaughts under screen
Of moonless darkness, and the alarmed cry
Of consternation, choked in blood; with flight
Of trembling women through o'erhanging fires,
Their children clinging to them, from the gleam
Of naked iron, as the spoilers strode,
Laden with wealth, across their murder'd sires.
And when their dreadful jollity had ceased,
And they sank down in slumber by the fire,
And in the cavern every sound was hush'd,
Saving at intervals a curse, or groan
Mutter'd in dream, or hissing of the pine
Piled on the coals, or bursting of its sparks,
In silence I arose, and took my way
Forth from the robbers' hold, and swiftly trod
The winding way into the plain again;
Thanking the Gods, that, if my lot was poor,
I could not envy them, altho' they pour'd
The rich man's vintage into his gold cup
Rifled when he was slain, and cushion'd them
On his Egyptian purples. Better drink
The brackish spring in singleness of heart,
Than, with the blessed Samian at your lips,
Turn round, affray'd at shadows! So I fared,
Till the kind hand of some old islander,
Friend to us both, brought me from the kind heart
Of Citharus fond words utter'd years agone,
And from his bosom drew forth a worn scroll
Pale as a sere leaf, and from laden chest
A welcome store of Lesbian gifts and gold.
One day I found myself upon the shore
Of Troas once again, and heard the waves
Mourn in the solitude, and saw the wind
Scatter the dust of Ilion; and the songs
Of old Mæonides began to sound
Within me, and a yearning seized on me
To visit the near isle where he was born.
The passion of my boyhood stirr'd again.
I wonder'd then how any lesser thoughts
Could have so dimm'd into forgetfulness
That hope so early cherish'd, ‘Ere I die
I will look on that cradle of renown.’

I

We used to think of him, as of a man
Nobler in stature than the sons of men,
When men were nobler; with a brow, between
His flowing hair, like morning from beneath
The unfolding clouds; we never dared to bring
Each holy feature into likeness clear
Of common visible humanity;
Or shape the foldings of his robe, or hear
Aught in his musical, imagined voice,
Aught more familiar than the mystic tones,
Heard amid the lone mountains, or along
The starlit seas. But here were those who shook
All fancies off before the very man;
So was he, of such aspect, with such eyes.
And, tho' long cycles lay 'twixt him and them,
The love, that fed upon his presence once,
Drew in all hearts such picture of his form
That they could paint it into other hearts,
A never-dying memory; tho' the isle,
What time he lived among them and was seen,
Was peopled with the many forms of one,
According as he came to him or her,
Diverse in lesser moods, the same in great.
But one great image haunted every eye,
And spoke in every tongue, his last great day
Of sorrow and of glory, when he left
All whom he had delighted, all on earth
That had delighted him, and fed his soul.
Long days I linger'd in the rocky isle,
Feeding my soul in silence; for it seem'd
The haunts of men were idle, and their ways
A weary waste of life, their pastimes vain;
Their passions, kindled at the passing hour,
But fires of straw; while I could fill the time,
They call'd the present, with the mighty past:
Make pictures under shadowy rocks, and near
The wayside fountain; underneath the pine,
Or figtree branching o'er the garden wall.
And hear a voice they heard not on the shore,
Speaking to me out of the sounding seas,
Whose music long ago had answer'd him,
The blind old man, led by the hand along
Familiar places, which he could have traced
Alone; so well was every winding path
Known to him in the days when light and life
Began together, and the love of all
Fair things, a vision once, a memory then.
And not in vain I wander'd here and there,
Hoping, as 'twere, to waken once again
An echo of that voice; to see pass by
A shadow of that form. And so it chanced
That, lost amid the windings of a vale,
Weary I enter'd by the garden gate
Of a fair countryhouse, and sued its lord
To suffer me a little to repose,
And gather strength—for the midsummer sun
Smote on me—and the knowledge of the way.
But he gave welcome with free heart and hand.
And not an hour, but many days, I pass'd
Under that roof, and listen'd to a man
Among the noblest of that place and time,
Who came from ancestors who number'd him
The bard of Ilion of their kin. He said,
‘One near to him, heir to his very soul,
A sister's son, who led him in his walks,
And drew in, as it were, the vital air,
The breaths he utter'd—one who lived not long—
So finely chorded was his tuneful frame,
That, like a harp clash'd rudely, 'twas unstrung
By the first onsets of the angry world—
And, as the music shaken from the strings
Vanishes in the aery void, his life
Fled after the flown soul, and yet he lived
Long enough in the light of it to learn
The love and secret of sweet Poesy,
How yearning passions shape themselves in song,
As smouldering ardours burst away in flame—
How the rapt soul, in vision spiritual,
Lights up the Past when all its days are gone,
And the dark Future ere its deeds are done—
He stood by when the giant took his flight,
And clothed the solemn, unforgotten hour
With his own melody.’ To my wondering eyes
My host unfolded the immortal scroll;
And in my memory, as in his, the tale
Burns like a picture, every tint aglow.
So, what I tell thee, Sappho, is as true
Now, as it was three hundred years ago.

II

These are the words the youthful minstrel sang,
In honour of the aged bard he loved.
I have transcribed them, but my memory bears
Each written word, as surely as the scroll.
‘In the cool twilight of a seaward cave,
That open'd on a floor of sunny sand,
Lapp'd by the silver waves, whose ripplets faint
Tinkled among the rocks and curved shells,
Some fishers linger'd in the drowsy noon,
Some slumbering in the shadows, their swart brows
Kiss'd by the golden stars, that glanced atween
The tangled leaves that curtain'd up the grot:
And some, their morning toil refresh'd with sleep,
Sat murmuring of old songs, and weaving tales,
The while their nets before them in the sun
Hung dangling and the wind. They sat together,
And gazed along the deep with purple laid,
And emerald, far into the misty clouds;
And saw the soft sky-tinted isles, the shores
Under the mighty hills crag-turreted;
And saw the sunlight fall upon the walls
And towers of a fair city by the sea.
And one was there, a deep-eyed man and old.
O'er his broad shoulders hung his ancient locks,
And touch'd the reverend beard upon his breast,
And stirr'd in the warm air; tall was his form
As of a warrior, tho' the storms of Time,
Much travel, and more thought, had stoop'd his brows
Earthward; but from the dark heaven of his eye
Soft lightnings glanced, and tender tears would fall
To hear a mournful tale, a lovesong sweet,
Or wreck, or feat of arms, or realm of wonder.
In youth he pass'd from land to land, and knew
All the blue inlets, and the stormy straits,
The rivers, and the mountains by their names;
The Egean isles, and the Egyptian seas;
And pluckt gold fruit from the Hesperides.
All cities fair, that shadow'd in the sea
Their marble columns, from Phœnician shores
To Gades west, he had beheld, and knew.
And North and South from the Great Pyramid
To breezy Mitylene; and he had look'd
On the red ruin of the Etnæan surge,
And heard Charybdis rage, and Scylla bark;
And he had talk'd with kings in carven chambers,
And with the beggar at the palace gate;
And in the rugged mountain shepherd's hut
Slept by the piny torrent, and had heard
The nightly lions roar on Afric's coast.
And he had spoken with dead chiefs, a boy,
Who, in their boyhood long ago, had touch'd
The armed hands of heroes, that had warr'd
Beneath Troywall, and saw the temples fall.
And trod among the dust of Ilion;
And in the courts of Hecatompylos;
And heard the whispers of the oracles.
So that his heart was as a holy tomb
Lit with a quenchless lamp, and in his brain,
Swathed with perennial fancies of his own,
Lived the dry bones of cycles; and he spake
Of ancient things as though he had been by.
And now that lordly man, so wise, was old
And blind; and all the beauty of the World
Brought him no more its gladness as before;
Tho' still he loved to sit upon the shore,
And quaff the breeze, and hear the waters roll.
And he would listen to the fishers' song,
And tell them marvels he had seen in youth,
And wonders he had heard; and they would lean,
Charm'd by his raptured eyes, and glorious voice,
All the hush'd noon to listen to his words.
Low at his feet there lay a bright-eyed boy,
The guardian of his steps; who, as he spoke,
Turn'd on him upward looks of awful love,
And lived within the shadow of his soul,
Whose steps he tended; and he raised his brows
With a sweet smile, as though he blest the day
He once had seen; ‘And thou,’ he said, ‘glad Light,
And ye blue Isles, and thou melodious Sea,
Mountains and shores that are so beautiful;
Ye marble cities gleaming by the waves;
Thou, Nature, that hast nurtured and attuned
My heart to thine; oh! would that I could see
Once, as of old, the blessed summer-day,
And feast once more my low-declining age
With sight of that which made my joy in youth.
Then would I yield my soul without repining,
With the rare memory of that parting look
Pictured upon it; and my harp should sound
To the sad ghosts the world they see no more.
O sunny islands of the ebbless waves!
It is so long since these dark eyes beheld
Your hills and valleys, thymy slopes, and bays,
That, out of memories, Phantasy hath wrought
A world of wonder all her own; O isles,
Bright isles, that once look'd on me from the blue
Untroubled sea, methinks I see ye now;
So blessed is the sight of these blind orbs,
Clad in such beauty as the soul alone
Delights to fashion smiling the mix'd light
Of all rare fruits and flowers that ever zoned
This earth of ours. I seem to see ye now,—
So marvellous the living light within,—
Fit home for Gods, or for immortal men,
Who have thrown by the sorrows of the world.
Ye cradle Summer all the year in vineyards,
Rose-vestured plain, perennial palmy bower,
In laughing hillside, and in fadeless garden.
I seem to see ye, not as once I saw,
Reckless of half the joy that met my eyes,
When first my boyhood wander'd in your ways,
Though all this world is hidden from me now;
And I see nought but gulphy Night; it seems
I look up at the azure deep above me
Through the translucent and ambrosial dome
Of blossoms, buds, and sprays that overspread me.
In your fair aspects I behold the soul
Of Nature's perfect beauty, and am happy.
In the warm air around I feel the spirit
Of an all-present love, so soft, so vital,
So plenteously outpour'd on all, infused
In all things; in its breath my heart goes forth,
Wing'd with the essences of all things glad,
Rapt from broad ocean, earth, and sky; your Sun
Seems as an holy universal Eye
Undimm'd, all-glorious, an Eternal Life.
I love to look upon ye, as ye lie
On the great deep like many crowns, and breathe
Upon the waters from your balmy shores;
And shed on them the colours of your flowers,
Your waving vines, your myrtled crags, and lawns
Of asphodel and amaranth; and with gold
And purple light illuminate the sea,
Till its unnumber'd gardens, link'd together
By their own lustrous images, shine like one
Perennial chain of garlands; like to gems
Set in a zone for Amphitrite's breast,
Or everlasting Iris in the waves.’

III

My mother and my sister stood apart
Some paces from him, marking every change,
That pass'd across his face, in silent fear.
Just then a blind man begg'd with piteous voice
And many a prayer; and, tho' that noble pair
Walk'd in the crowd as if unconscious of it,
The youthful daughter turn'd to that sad note,
And listening bad her mother drop an alms.
‘Mother, mother,’ she said, ‘if we forget
The woes of others we may not forgo
The memory of our own; and that might serve
To mind us of them’; ‘Daughter, I forget not.
But Truth is hard to find in this ill world,
As fountains in the desert; if it dwell not
With greatness and prosperity, no more
Does it inhabit lowly ones, and poor.
And thus the heart grows iron at the sight
Of falling tears, and customary sighs,
Hypocrisy, the serpent peeping out
From every bosom; so that love at last
Is curdled into doubt; and doubt is frozen
Into a wintry silence of despair
Of all good things.’ ‘But, oh! they bless us, mother,
Oh! they commend us to the blessed Gods,
And we have need of blessing:’ ‘But they curse us
As often. If their curses and their blessings
Bear answering fruit, then our calamities
Will have no end; their blessings are not hearted,
Their curses be; for there is pride too, pride
Ev'n in the humblest, that is none the less
For all its rags; and the proud heart records not
Good acts, though it resents an oversight;
And ofttimes in its secretest heart of all
Pays ill for good received. Alas! alas!
That it should be so. Such is man, my child;
But if it be so, what have we to hope
From poor men's prayers?’ ‘But he is blind, O mother,
Ev'n as my grandsire; he is in his prime
Of days, if misery hath its youth at all.
And to the lack of eyesight adds the void
Of all the good things of this evil world,
Knowledge, and power, and glory; think of that!
And through his senses he hath never drawn
That bitter food that strengthens the ill passion.
His days and nights are darkness; he sees not
The sun in heaven, the beauty of the earth;
Nor vain distinctions between man and man.
To him the hut and palace are the same,
And smiles and scorns. The chariots of our kings
Roll by him, and their horses fling their heads
I' the wind proudly, and pass us like the wind.
He sees it not, nor glittering arms, nor gold
Apparel, nor the vain magnificence
Of this world; all is empty nought to him,
As one day it shall be to us; meanwhile
His life is death, or worse; he envies not
Beauty or Strength; for Envy is a dwarf,
That cannot see but giants; Envy looks
Out of his watch-towers in the eyes of men.
He bears not Hate, he dreads not the cold eyes
Of Age; then tell me, wherefore should he strive
With his own soul, which, if unforced, will turn
With kindness to the hand that he may touch,
And to the heart, that stretches him that hand,
As freely as the butterfly comes forth
To spread his wings in sunshine, or the flower
Its morning bells?’ ‘And yet, my child, he hears;
And knowledge enters thro' that single gate
Faster than if he had another sense
Brought him from heaven by Hermes—to make good
The lack of vision,—and to him the sounds
Inaudible to us, are clear and loud.
He stirs in a new world; the whispering winds
Have voices for him, and he hears the wings
Of wild birds, and the feet of creeping things.
The gamut of man's voice hath notes for him,
As many as a lark's, which tell him all
The subtlest shades of feelings; and he knows
The heart thro' hearing. Will not wisdom then
By that one entrance pass as freely in,
As tho' it hurried in thro' many gates,
Like as at portals of a theatre
You see the ignoble jostle one another,
Tho' doors be open; so confusion grows.
Tho' if one narrow adit let them in
They must pass one by one, or not at all.
Hence if he catches an ill tone, with him
It dwells, and multiplies its evil echoes
Till he is ev'n as others—and at war
With all men.’ ‘Oh! but alms are given in silence,
And if he cannot see the frown that kills
The charity of many—neither sees he
The smile that makes it welcome. Shall I sing,
My mother, something that my grandsire loves;
And, while it trembles in the poet's soul,
May shed a moment's light into the heart
Of the lorn outcast, and may serve instead
Of gold pour'd on his hand? For, mother dear,
Methinks that one whose spirit only takes
The impress of sweet sounds, must needs draw in
Such blisses from sweet music, as belong
To them, who hear Apollo witching up
The sun with song, enchantment tenfold more
Than that they feel who pasture their delights
From all the springs of Day. To him a song
Breathing divinely, or a harp well struck,
Or flute, by cunning fingers touch'd with art,
May bring Elysian foretastes; his dark morn
Fill'd with such sounds may serve instead of sunrise,
And out of Nought bring new-created forms,
Fancies, and feelings, fresh, and magic worlds
Lit by another sun. I love to sit
Ofttimes in darkness, that I so may learn
Sweet music better.’ ‘Yet, my child, its spells
Work best, when they bring back remember'd acts.
Great landscapes we have seen, departed moments
Of loving, tender converse we have held,
Trances of glory, festal evens, dawns
Of bridal days; all things the memory holds
Take shape, and colour from sweet-flowing sounds
Of a diviner beauty, as stones and shells
That lie beneath a clear and rapid stream
Look clearer still, more beautiful than those
Scatter'd along the sands.’ She paused, and mused;
And said unto herself, ‘Ay, but this man,
Born blind, and poor, whose lifelong days have been
Darkness of body and of mind, hath not
So much, or aught that my blind father owns,
Sweet memories to be waken'd: blessed Gods
Avenge him not on me if I have spoken
Cold words and pitiless.’ And then she turn'd
Upon the loving girl her tearful eyes;
‘Bless thee, my child, thou art more wise than I.
I will be guided by thy liberal heart;
My heart shall follow thine, or it may drown
In darkness darker than the blind man's eyes.
The pity in thine eyes shall be my star
When I am like to wander; better die
Than like a frozen fountain issue nought,
Nor hues, nor motions, or the melody
Of pleasant sounds, till all things round it perish.’
She said and pour'd into the beggar's wallet
All that she had, so that he wonder'd more
Than if hard words had driven him from the place.

IV

Then spake the dying minstrel from his chair.
‘Daughter and daughter's child, while yet ye spake,
The lingering life within me ebb'd and flow'd;
And joy and pain have mingled in my heart;
But joy hath triumph'd in me, as I hear
That love hath won a victory over fear.
That the child's heart hath stirr'd the timeworn mind,
The daughter drawn the mother to her side.
Bring him to me, the blind man to the blind,
That I may bless him while I yet can bless,
That he may bless me, and remember, when
The gulph of darkness lies between us two,
For then perchance an everlasting chain
May bridge the interval; as when a voice
Comes back to us in echo from beyond
Some deep dark river we have never swam,
Or mountain summit we have never scaled.’
That poor man with blind eyes, who had no gold
To handle, and no wisdom in its stead,
Knelt down before the blind man who had both.
The one stretch'd forth his hand unto the other,
And laid it on his head; the other took
That hand in his and kiss'd it; while his voice
Utter'd his love, one treasure of his soul.
And so the first time, as twin majesties,
They met together in equality,
On this earth; and the love unfeignedly
Given and taken crown'd them both, and made
Their statures equal in the sight of Gods,
The lowly bramble lofty as the pine.
Then spake again my mother: ‘Sing, oh sing!
My daughter, for few voices are like thine
For power and sweetness; waken his sad soul,
Who hath no memories of the earth and Heaven,
Of summer trees that surge, and fling their blossoms,
No pleasant pictures of beloved ones,
No thoughts of the sun rising o'er the hills,
No glowing gorgeous evens in his heart,
No Mayday floors of emerald, nor starr'd nights
Stored in his fancy. What the Gods may yield him
In compensation for his grievous ill
We may not know at all: but who would change
The unexhausted treasurehouse of day,
Piled by the nimble hands of all the hours,
And ever furnish'd with freshgather'd spoil,
For all the glimmering shadows of a mine,
For all the wonders underneath the earth,
Or all the stars of midnight, couldst thou clutch them
And hold them in thy hand? Then sing, oh sing,
And let me hear thee, sweet one; for thy voice
Sounds as the voice of one whom I have lost
And ne'er shall see again; even myself,
When I was as thou art. The morn is fair,
The waves are running in, the fresh green hills
Breathe down ambrosial spirits to the deep,
And snatch up the wild freshness from the seas,
And all the soul of Nature is astir
With life as fresh as thine. Sing, let me dream.’

V

She spoke; and that fair girl began to sing
A weird, sweet song of Fate and Time; she sang
The dazzling daybreak of prosperity,
Of wealth and power, and praise; of mirth and joy;
Of moments fled like waters in the light.
She sang the past, a bright midsummer dawn,
The future nobler than the past, a sun
Soaring into the zenith; sang of youth,—
As full of golden promise, of sweet hopes,
Of ecstasies, as when a slumbering babe
Holds forth his palm, to catch a rain from heaven;
Of roses shed upon him from the hands
Of watchful, waking Gods, whose loving eyes
Sphere him like stars;—a time of day, that hears
Nothing but music, and the birds that sing
Are sinless thoughts and pure—not yet awhile
Waked by the troublous world—and if there be
Less welcome voices they are all unheard—
Her voice rose high, and changed. Again she sang
Of sudden tempest, sweeping down the white
Springblossoms; of the forward-stretching arms
Of sorrows, flying from the wrath to come,
And dread pursuing thunders; of the heavens
Sunder'd with fire, and the gigantic shape
Of Nemesis, her javelin poised to strike;
The laughter of avenging Gods; the fall
Of skyward towers amid the dust of doom;
Then lamentation like a weary wind,
Then silence, sadness, moonlight, and a calm.
Methought, oh! in that silver virgin voice,
On earth I heard the disembodied soul
Of mortal sorrow pleading to the Fates.
The old man bow'd his head on his white beard,
And tears fell slowly down his wither'd cheeks.
He too perchance had fallen from the peak
Of prosperous pride, or mourn'd for those who had.
His blind eyes glitter'd through his scatter'd locks,
So that he seem'd some noble forest tree
In latter Autumn, stript of half its leaves—
The stars of heaven shine through it, and the moon
Rises behind its dark majestic arms.

VI

Once more the young girl took up that sweet song
In minor mode. Now 'twas no more of hopes,
Like flashes of the dawn that kiss the hills,
Before the valleys and the woods between
Are lit with sunshine; but of quiet hours
After a tempest, when the evening beams
Tremble among the raindrops on the vines,
And the full roses droop their heads, and sway
Before the westwind. 'Twas of hearts resign'd,
And folded hands, and yearnings after peace,
Peace only, such as broken hearts may feel,
When the last lightnings of calamity
Are sunk to windward, and still death, like night,
Shall cast its shadows on the troubled life;
Sweet peace, more welcome than the noon of joy
Broken with storms that rend the leaves and flowers,
Broken with passionate griefs, that waste the soul,
And leave a silence after like despair;
Peace, as the low light of the setting sun
Which two long wanderers, weary of the world,
Look to with eyes that have shed all their tears,
And hands entwined, and hearts that beat together.
She finish'd—she had sung a song of his,
Mæonides the aged, writ in youth,
Well nigh forgotten.—Did he still remember
All those fond words, writ when the youthful fancy,
Weary with overgladness, turns at times
For pastime ev'n to sorrow, and delights
To picture that it never thinks to feel;
And in the mimic moods of boyhood mocks
The wakeful Fates, perchance provokes their wrath,
And is an oracle, but unawares?
Had he remember'd thro' his vexed years
Those early words? from that sweet tongue they flow'd
So vital with her melody divine,
That for each word he paused, like one entranced,
And strove not even to outrun in thought
The thoughts that were his own; so well they sprang
From those young lips, as sweet they seem'd as new.
‘There is yet one more verse,’ the maiden said;
‘But it hath 'scaped my memory:’ as she spake
The blind old man took up with his deep voice
The last link of the chain—so that I wonder'd—
‘Farewell to fortune, and farewell to fame.
Let Time sweep onward to the dark, dark sea,
Honour, and wealth, and glories of the world.
While there is one who loves me by my side,
Two tender eyes that answer unto mine,
For all the rest my spirit shall not pine.’
Then spake the dying bard: ‘Beloved one,
My words on thy sweet tongue have moved me so,
That I remember'd all thou hadst forgot;
For it was utter'd ere these eyes were dark.
Ofttimes I have repeated it with tears.
But now the pain is past, for ye are here,
Ye dear ones; if I cannot see ye now,
Ye see me, and I hear ye, and your words,
For many a year, have been as the kind rays
Breathed from the sun whose light I cannot see.’

VII

‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘bring me a cup of wine;
It is the last that I shall quaff on earth.’
Whereat she rain'd into a carven chalice,
Borne from some banquet-house, a kingly gift,
Rich amber drops, that glitter'd as they fell,
Like precious gems; and for a little space
The flickering life within him flash'd again.
Now there were many roundabout his chair,
Old men, their foreheads deeper delved by time,
Albeit their years were many less than his;
Young mothers with their infants in their arms
And parted lips; and men of war there were,
But now return'd from foughten fields, who leant
Silently on their shields, and look'd on him,
Unsceptred monarch of their very thoughts,
With awful reverence, such as Aias, nor
Pelides would have challenged, had they served
In days of which he sung. And now it seem'd
As though his lamp of thought, long burning low,
Was for a moment fed, as in his prime,
With the old loves, and raptures: Oh! he seem'd
That day, altho' the morn was night to him,
To see once more, as with some inner eye,
The ancient deeds that he had sung to men;
As though in his strong youth he stood and saw
The silent past, with all its sights and sounds
Awaken'd in a moment; and he rose
Half from his seat, as if he heard the cry
Of the great striving from within the walls
Of sacred Ilion fated to her fall;
And the proud voice of onward foes, and groans
Of Dardans trampled underfoot, and saw
The dust of tumbling towers, and smoke, and flame.
‘Hark! hark!’ he said, ‘I hear a piteous voice,
That pierces thro' the hosts of armed men
Sharper than the sharp arrows; spare that head
That towers above the rest, touch'd with the snows
Of many winters, as the cloudy crest
Of Ida o'er the lesser hills; oh! think
Of all the memory of so dire a deed.
Oh! think ye if it be a little thing
To slay an old man of an hundred years,
Who hath not wrong'd ye; leave him to that hand
That soon must gather him; else what shall hide
The dreadful image from ye here on earth,
Or underneath it?’ Then it pass'd away,
And still another phantom took its place.
And now 'twas the pale widow at the spring
In a far land and desolate; and tears
Fell from those blind eyes, and he stretch'd his hand,
As 'twere toward the unutterable woe
Of that forsaken captive; and he cried;—
‘Daughter of kings, bereaved one; am I
To sit by here regardless, while I see
The homely urn on that dishonour'd head?
Come, I will bear it for thee day by day.
Alas! she passes with the mute regard,
That shows how vain have been my pleading words;
Deaf are her ears save to the silent tongues;
Blind are her eyes save to the dread unseen.’
Again the dust of battle bears away
All other pictures, and he bends his head,
And seems to see a dead man on the ground,
His helm unfasten'd, and his youthful hair
Blown o'er the sands. ‘See,’ tenderly he says,
‘How the tall warrior, as an infant, sleeps,
No frowning brow, no anger on his lips!
He smiles, he smiles; I wonder what he sees.
Haply he sees thro' glooms of death, where they,
The unforgotten chiefs and ancient kings,
Take the sweet rest denied them in this world;
And the delightsome vision draws his soul
Beyond all shadows of mortality.
They stretch their arms unto him and he smiles!
But, if he sleeps in peace, another wakes
Tenfold his equal, as a giant strong,
And as a God in beauty! See he comes!
As one who is aroused from evil dreams,
And, though he breathes the morning from his tent,
Looks on two vaster evils, death and dole.’

VIII

Again a smile comes over his pale face,
Tearful and sweet, as though he saw a sight
That mingled tender things and terrible.
And then he sigh'd, and said: ‘Alas! alas!
For mortal man in this drear world, when all,
That stirs the heart most fondly, is a beam
Of wintry sunlight, which the gloomy clouds
Shed forth a moment, and then close again
In stormy darkness. Fear upon the face
Of the sweet child, that shrinks and hides its head,
Mix'd with the yearning love, that fain would fly
To the strong arms that are stretch'd out to him,
Is but a jocund thing, that wakens up
The last pale smile upon the parents' lips.
They gaze together on the little one
And that last tearful glance of their true love
Gives a fresh hope to her, fresh heart to him.
O Heaven! did he remember, as he fell,
That glimmering moment? did she dream of it
In the far land? And where was he, the boy,
The hope of both, whom loving arms infold
From no worse terror than a glittering helm?’

IX

All on a sudden his dilated eyes
Seem fix'd on something dreadful, and he gave
A cry that echoed mournfully, and raised
His palms as tho' to hide it from his sight.
And then he spoke out. ‘Ah me! is it thus
The mighty show their might, to spurn the weak?
Heap wrong on wrong, and send the troubled dead
To wait their advent in the realms unseen,
And give them ghastly welcome? Shall the first
Of men dishonour what can arm no more
A hand against him, and so wreak his strength
On nothing? Shall the kingly father bend
Earthward, and mix his waste tears with the dust,
That thou may'st do a deed to be abhorr'd,
That cannot harm the dead that was thy foe,
That cannot heal the dead who was thy friend?
Alas! how dismal is the rushing sound
Of brazen wheels; I hear it, oh! I hear,
As though I heard it on that very day!

X

And thou, O thou false woman, triple-crown'd
With beauty, and with glory, and with shame!
Whom brave men, fearing only the great Gods,
Saw and were vanquish'd; whom proud women pass'd
Without a frown, as one enthroned above
This world in majesty! What hast thou done?
Didst thou too see the widow in her woe?
And hide thy fair face in thy vesture, lest,
Ev'n in her deep humility, she should curse
With her wan lips the monarch of her woes?
Or didst thou scorn the captive, fallen lower,
For all her goodness, than thou in thy sin?
I know not; but this lamentable world
Seems to me, in my sore perplexity,
As though it took its fortunes, and its fates,
Dealt to it by blind eyes, and thriftless hands;
Else thy disastrous brows had never borne
A crown, or she her sad captivity.

XI

Oh! that my words, like drops that never cease,
Until the marble rock, as old as Time,
Yields to it, falling on the pride of man,
Thro' countless generations, might subdue
Ambition harder than the rock, and cool
That quenchless thirst of glory, which is hate
Hid in a painted mask! (Poor human life
Too brief for any good that it can do
Wasted in fever fires!) That the strong man,
Arming for victory, might hold back, and hark,
Amid the beating hoofs, and rushing wheels
Rolling to battle, the first trumpet-note
From ghostly Ilion far away behind
Millennial clouds; and think that what is done
Haply in lands remote, with other arms
And other races, hath been done before
In times, as dark and silent as the sky
Of the orient at midnight, and by hosts,
Whose arms and armour glitter'd as the waves
This summermorn, as these blind eyes have seen,
Whose very dust hath shrunk to lesser dust,
Whose very bones will be unsearchable
As leafless forests swept by hungry fire!
Then might he muse, and ask of his own soul,
‘Have wars brought peace, or hath the seed of blood,
Sown in the earth, for ever grown the crop
Of hatred and of sorrow? Will the spark,
Blown from thy burning ruins, city of woe,
Still burn into the future? Will the tears
Of weary captives toiling in the dust,
Of widows and of orphans, fail to quench
The flames of evil howling thro' the deeps
Of many thousand years? Or will the woes,
Begun with Time, stretch on for evermore?’
What matters it that these old eyes are blind,
If those, whose hearts are blind and not their eyes,
Shall feel them soften'd by the oldest tale
Of the old sorrows, and relent, and look
The first time on the madness of the world,
And listen to the whispers of the dead?
Pardon me, friends, if I have utter'd words
Less than heroic; scorn not what I say,
Tho' for the first time ye have heard my words.
For I must leave ye; for my thoughts have been
For many years companions of the dark;
And other voices than these busy times
Have call'd unto me, and breathed into me
Counsels unheard of in this armed age.
And pity for the pains I cannot heal
Hath shut my mind to deeds I cannot share,
And made me deaf to any sound but sighs.
I see no more Achilles, or the bulk
Of Aias, or Sarpedon; they grow dim
And dimmer; but I follow her in dreams
Whose doom was desolation, and I plead
Beside the ruin'd king on bended knees.’

XII

He sat awhile in silence, for no voice
Broke in upon it; so he heard the sea
Lapse mournfully along the shore, the wind
Sweep thro' the whispering caverns, like the hosts
Of Aïdoneus, and he seem'd to lean
His ear to listen. And so suddenly
The old harp, falling from his heedless hand,
Was shatter'd with a wailing sound; and when
He knew it lying on the rocky floor,
Its well-known melodies no more to ring
Again for evermore; oh! when he mark'd
The sudden omen—for his age was great—
He clasp'd his palms in silence, and he sigh'd.
And then he seem'd to wake up from a trance,
His voice was changed: ‘'Tis well,’ he said, ‘I come;
Thy tuneful strings were twined about my heart
So fondly, that the two, so link'd in one,
Must break together. Bear me out, O friends,
And set me in the sun upon the sands,
That the last murmur in mine ears may be
The song of the blue sea amid the isles:
And the soft wing of the sea air may stir
My hair, and kiss me on the brows. I come
To send forth to ye, liberal elements,
My own freed spirit, and to sweep with ye
On wings more swift than yours, the hills and isles,
The winding valleys, and the viny plains,
The sounding seabeach, and the rivershore;
To see, with other than these sunless eyes,
The world shut out from them this many a year.
For still I hope to visit oft again
The cities I have sung; to come with them,
Whose earthly ventures I have clothed in words,
And given immortal names; and if my thoughts
Be fancy wandering still in pleasant ways,
And only fancy, oh! let me rejoice,
Ev'n at these utmost moments, in such dreams
As flatter me with light, and rather feel
The sweetness of a vision than the truth—
If truth it be which all my heart denies,
Which hath no welcome from a living soul—
Than see no shapes beyond the shore of Time,
But joyless shadows; hear no utterance
But sighs, and vain repinings; when the heart
Hath not a hope to feed on; and the day
Is but a ghastly twilight, and no change,
But to behold fresh armies of pale ghosts
Come weeping to me, who can give them nought,
For consolation, but the tale of years
Remember'd, till at last the memory fails
Ev'n of that Past which is the All to them.
Still do I hope to be at hand when Pride
And Vengeance strive together on the earth;
And Patience battles with unequal arms;
And Pity is not heard amid the storms
Of struggling Hates. My pleadings, though unheard,
May still be felt about the hearts of men,
And touch the worst of evil with some good.’
Again he paused, and they bent over him,
My sister and my mother, not to lose
His last last breath. But, though all sounds were hush'd,
They scarce could hear his voice that even now
Spoke in its strength; it seem'd the utterance came
From deep within, as though a spirit sent,
Out of the Infinite, to mortal man
In winged words faint echoes of a world
Afar, first tidings of things heard and seen.
Tho' faint the voice, his words were fast; he said,
‘Hark! there is music; hear ye not the sound?
And, tho' mine eyes are blind, I see a light,
A light as from another sun; and lo!
The light is music, and the music light,
The one infolds the other; do I see
Great hosts descending, nearer, and more near?
Oh! now I see whence the glad music came.
And, in the centre of the brightness, ranged
A godlike company in festal robes,
And, throned above them, one who gives a sign;
And they rise up, and take their harps of gold,
And strike them suddenly; and sing a song
That once came to me sweetly in a dream,
And from behind innumerable flow
The mingled floods of voice and instrument,
As from a spanless and harmonious sea.
Apollo, King Apollo, is it thou
I see at length? Are these—?’ He spoke no more.
And, when the last tone of that golden tongue
Had died, and there was silence, all the crowd
Look'd on the old man; many eyes were dim
With unaccustom'd tears; and brave men sigh'd,
And women wail'd; and still his sightless orbs
Gazed upward; still his palms, as though in prayer,
Were clasp'd together, and his lips apart,
As though he would have spoken; and a smile,
As though his latest thought had been of joy,
Linger'd thereon, sweet as the last sunbeams
Upon the deep. But nevermore was heard
That voice that shook the nations, and would shake,
Ev'n with its echoes, when it was not heard,
The unborn ages; and there was no sound,
But the wind sighing, and the murmuring sea.’

I

“I told thee how Miletus was the first,”
He said: “of all the cities that I saw
In that long age of my self-banishment:
And so it was the last. Ah me! what need
To tell thee more of the long years between,
Of penury, of sickness, and of care?
I saw it in my youth, and in my age.
I bore away with me into far lands
Fair memories of a happy home, and songs,
And bridal jubilee. When I return'd,
I found but ashes of long-quenched fires.
The spectres of the first realities
Were full of life; sweet memories throng'd the heart
To overflowing; the last realities
Were spectres only. Where was she, the proud
And blissful? where was he, the brave and true?
Dost thou remember Anaktoria,
Whose beauty was the wonder of us all,
Sometime in Mitylene, when she danced,
And sang at our high island festivals,
The proud heart, and the liberal hand—thy friend,
O Sappho? Who should rise up, in my thought,
Before Milesian Anaktoria,
When after my long years I found me here?
Ev'n at Miletus when I thought of her,
'Twas but the picture of her past perfections,
Her large dark eyes, her girlish bloom, her brow
Fair, smooth as virgin marble, her tall stature,
Her swift step, and her lovely motions—all
As though an imaged ideality,
A Nymph, should leave her carven pedestal,
And pass in glory thro' the midst of us,
And bid us see and wonder. I forgot
The years between; where was she, and what now?
Queen she might be as she was born to be.
And then I painted her in Tyrian robe,
The golden circle round her brows, her hand
Grasping the sceptre of Ionia.
Then later memories gather'd o'er the first.
She was a wife; and round her chair might stand
Fair sons and daughters, fruitage of a vine
That overshadow'd them, and promise Time,
Through endless generations, to bear down
Her own imperial beauty—like perspectives
Of endless walks of roses. Then again
Came sadder thoughts, waves of an ebbing tide,
That sons and daughters would be born to them,
So many were the years between. Ah! then
There came the saddest thought. ‘Perhaps,’ I said,
And shudder'd as a sudden gust blew up
The dust around me, and in a murmur ceased
Much like a sigh—an inarticulate dirge
That haply bred in me that mournful forethought
‘If she be dead!’ and a last look of her
Awoke in my remembrance, of the best
Of those brief lightnings of divinity
That for a moment scatter from the earth
All cloud of ill; ev'n then I stood awhile
And stay'd my steps, as though I saw again
That vision radiant.

II

'Twas a morn of May;
And once more the old haunts, the well-known streets,
The fountains, and the gardens of this bright
And lordly city, brought back ev'n to sense
The hours of wondering bliss, when, but a boy
Curious and eager, I had revell'd here.
Again the voices of the passers by
Seem'd those I then had heard; and, often struck
By some familiar tone, which wrought on me
As 'twere a spell, and brought up from the dead
Of long oblivion moments rich and rare,
I turn'd round to the speaker, when, alas!
I saw but some strange face; for those I knew
Were mostly old and changed, their voices now
Unlike what I remembered, and for which
I took the happier tones of younger men.
Their eyes were sunken, and their cheeks, dry beds
Of torrents, show'd the strength of many winters;
And some were bow'd with grief, and some with pain;
Some stared with large eyes, and would beat their brows
To recollect my name; and many, ah!
How many, now were fallen from Fortune's wheel,
And trodden under foot, their woods and fields
Made over to the stranger, and their palaces
Struck with decay; and many more, how many
Were dead! and some were mad and knew me not,
Or mock'd and threaten'd me, and their young heirs—
The good sometimes inheritors of ill,
Oftener the ill of good—were shown to me.
And tears would dim my sight as I beheld
Their faces like their fathers. But hard eyes,
And laughing lips, untemper'd with affliction,
Would cross me, like the cruel morning wind
To one aweary with a sleepless watch,
And faint with pain. Rather would I have sat
Down by the pilgrim's side, and heard his moan;
Or with the bruised soldier stood, and talk'd,
Or listen'd to the story of his woes;
Or with the grey old beggar, as he wiped
The dust from off his forehead, and again
Took up his lowly plaint. To them a word
Of pity, or a slender offering woke
The concord of a human heart with mine,
That after those drear dissonances came
With something of sweet music. Now, the while
I linger'd sadly by the city gate,
Watching the passers by, and naming them
Fondly by names of friends I knew of old,
Oft as I mark'd in them similitude
Of motion or of aspect: as I stood,
Came by a lady, and her daughter, one
Aged, tho' yet unbow'd by years, her stature
Majestic, and her noble features told
Of her young beauty, and her youth of triumphs.
But she who walk'd beside her, still in flower
Of girlhood, and in virgin loveliness
Fresh as an Oread or a Naiad—she
Was daughter to that mother—but how like
Fair Anaktoria, as she had been,
Ev'n like as is the morn unto the morn!
Who, as I look'd upon her, held me there
As by a charm. Not only that proud beauty,
Those large eyes, and that forehead marble-clear,
Were such as might take captive old and young;
But in that mould she seem'd so fully cast,
That I, methought, beheld the selfsame form,
That marvellous creature, taken at her prime
Of all delights, and from that hour endow'd
With immortality. So like she seem'd,
As tho' great Aphrodite had forgot
For once her envies at the sight of her,
And, smit with admiration, crown'd her thus
With a perpetual youth. I felt as though
All days since then had been a moment's sleep
Dilated by a painful dream. I stood
Again before the selfsame city-gate,
The selfsame happy boy; and mark'd as then
The flood of men, the motions, and the tumult,
And the gay festivals come forth with songs
And garlands; and her too the fairest flower,
Daughter of Agathyrsus, whom we paused
To gaze on as she pass'd. A sudden thought
Urged me to simulate a poor man's state.
Yet 'twas not all unreal, for my cares
Were grave, and my necessity was true,
My bow'd and wrinkled age, my snowwhite hair,
Ev'n from my Melanippus—were that friend
Still living—might have hid, as in a mask,
All traces of my other self, that boy
Whom he had known. My worn apparel sprent
With dust, and tatter'd, left no likelihood
That he who sued for alms with a sad voice
Was not a lowly beggarman, but one
Of the old Lesbian nobles. As they stood
To look on me, and gave into my hand
Their bounty, I gave utterance to the words
Of an old song, a flower of hope and youth,
Which Anaktoria full oft had pour'd
Into the morning air; before two rhythms
Were well exhausted, they had given a cry
Of mere astonishment; and, ‘Who art thou?’
The young girl said, ‘for oh! that dear sweet song
My mother sang, and I have learnt it from her.
Alcæus writ it, ere he fled away,
No one knows where; he was my father's brother:’
‘Then art thou my own niece, for I am he!’
I utter'd; and I lifted up my voice,
And wept, to think that I was not forsaken,
And that the moonless night of my dark years
Should lapse into, and kiss the morn again!
O wondrous Life! O Time, and Change, and Death!
I look'd upon ye now, as one who stands
In the last days of autumn, and looks down
A vinewalk, scatter'd with the fallen leaves,
Which in the spring made arches overhead,
And gambol'd in the wind, with promise hung
Of lordly vintage, and the end of all
Sunshine, and song, and dance, and jubilee,
But not a shade of sorrow. Then I knew
That I was old; ah! then I had no need
To look into a mirror to be sure
My hair was white, my forehead delved with care.
I stood as one who treads a forest aisle,
Where once tall trees o'ershadow'd either side;
They are laid low, and far away he sees
Green undergrowths, that shake their leafy sprays
In the low light: the race that met my sight
Was the third generation after ours:
My brother and his mate long since were dead;
So was their offspring; for they left one son,
Who early took to wife a maid of Cos,
And he died early; now the widow ruled
In the great house of Anaktoria;
And he too left a daughter and a son.
I found this boy my nephew's youthful heir,
And brought him here to see the famous land
Of his forefathers; his sweet sister soon
Shall wed one worthy of her. When I saw
The young girl stand before me, ah! it seem'd
To my old eyes a miracle, that wrought
The resurrection of the loveliness
Of Anaktoria, when first I saw her
Step from her bark upon the Lesbian shore.
And that dear image started forth again,
As some old picture, thrown aside, and marr'd
By time, and dust, and darkness, touch'd once more
By the same hand that drew it, leaps again
To its first life with all its colours true.”

III

Far into the calm moonlight night they sat
Together, and remember'd the old life
That once was new; when thro' the dawn of days,
They look'd, as one to the unrisen sun,
And fill'd the gold haze of futurity
With dreams, as vain as the sweet-colour'd clouds
That melt ere noonday. Now they turn'd their eyes,
And saw, in place of their imaginings
That had no life, and yet were beautiful,
Realities, once living, and now dead.
He told her of long years in some few words,
Long years, that cut their shares into the brow,
And leave no other sign to mark their course;
Eventless changes, but, when past and gone,
No longer worth the utterance; things to see
While passing, as one looks into a street
To mark its motions for an hour, looks on
The acts and moods of men, as in a picture,
And straight forgets; for all the life of man
Mirror'd in memory is an evening plain
Where lesser things are drown'd in gloomy nought;
And only a few years of pain and joy
Stand out like towers that catch the setting sun.

IV

A few days more, and in the afternoon,
Two hours ere set of sun, a step was heard
In Sappho's garden, and a well-known voice,
Beneath the porch where they in childish days
Had gambol'd, waking blithest echoes there.
“Come, Sappho, come, it is a marriage-feast
As in the days before,” Alcæus said.
“O Sappho, we are changed; but they are not,
Summer, and Winter, Life, and Death; and so
I gather from thy garden, ere we go,
A dewy garland of young budding flowers,
That smell as sweet as the first roses did,
To wreathe the brows of the young bride withal,
Thou heldest in thy hand that fateful day
That Citharus was wed; and look, they are
The same in colour as that very morn.
These are as they were, yet, 'twixt these and them,
Our lives have pass'd, our days and hours are fallen;
And half our memories of them, like their leaves
Shed in the dust that day, and found no more.
And yet there are twin hearts, that wait us now,
As full of blisses as these stainless flowers,
As full of hope, as were the aged ones
That hail'd us then; come, Sappho, let us go.”
Silently along the well-known walks
The two old minstrels pass'd, and arm in arm
Went forth in silence. All the earth was still;
The western sunlight bridged the waveless sea;
But, ere they left the garden, came the sound
Of mountain waters, rushing to the main
Heard underneath its leafy walls, a low
Melodious, friendly, old familiar voice,
Dear to their childhood, and the golden light
Danced on the waters. Sappho prest his arm,
And in a low voice musical and sad
Spoke gazing on the sunlit watercourse;
“Cast thou thine eyes along that river-stream
That charms the valley with its voice, until
It laughs out flowers; ah! well I know that stream,
Ay, every bank of violets that it feeds,
And every secret of its winding course,
Up to its clear cold fountain in the hills.
For many a day, when all the town, astir
With some new pomp, was busy with its gauds,
I have been wandering on its shore alone,
And singing to myself, the low-toned chime
Of those sweet waters burthening my song.
There have I shaped, in shadow of the trees,
Blissful imaginations, and held talk
With phantoms of the Past, and thought I saw—
Like clouds that, soaring o'er far mountainpeaks,
Were pictured in the waters near me—forms
Of unborn years, and greater things to be.
Look on it, how it dances, how it flings
Its bubbles up into the light, and twines
Its silver arms about the lucent necks
Of the young lilies, and the savage roots
Of secular oaks, that joy to feel its touch;
And lightens back the sun-flashes, and paints
The deep sky, and is soft with imagery
Of bending bowers! now follow on its way,
Far as the opening 'twixt yon purple hills,
And mark how from the shadows it comes forth
With a dim tender light, kin to the gloom
Of the grey uplands whence it hath its spring;
And by and by the azure, and the gold
Of the broad day are lavish'd over it.
Fresh rills flow to it, and its lisping tongue
Swells to a clear glad music, and the pines
Nod o'er it, and the clouds are pictured in it,
And little billows curl upon its face.
But thou, sweet River, ere thou reach the sea,
Art doom'd to other fortunes; hark! the sound
That flows to us at intervals, and seems
Like the sea murmur, is the changing voice
Of peace and hope to passion and despair.
Upon the other side of this green hill,
A hundred paces ere it reach the sea,
Yonder it leaps into a howling gulph
Cumber'd, and dark with ruins of great rocks,
Splinter'd with earthquake, black with thunderbolts,
That part its lovely streams from one another,
And turn its melodies to desolate cries,
Plaints, angers, agonies; and from its face
Sweep all the glory of the earth and heaven,
For ever rend it with tormenting pains,
Shake it with sobs, and waste in stormy tears.
No more on its torn bosom the calm face
Of sun, or moon, or star shall see itself,
Nor shadow of the leaves and soft-hued clouds
Lean, till it falls into the great salt sea.
But whither do I wander, like the stream,
In words that to thine ear seem vain and strange?
O aged friend, it is that the gone days
Of the poor poets have been as the windings
Of that same stream 'twixt dark and bright; and so
Have fallen into sweet vicissitudes,
And sad, and in the fairest of their course,
Under the odorous shade, and golden flowers
Of Phantasy, and in the noon of Honour,
Have been, as lightning (so the Sisters doom)
Dash'd down, and shatter'd on the pitiless edge
Of Passion.—We are tortured like soft dew,
Broken upon the crags; and heart and mind,
That flow'd together in one harmony
Of Poesy, are rack'd and torn asunder.
For when the spirit is at war within,
The mirror of the Phantasy is crack'd,
And never more can show divine affections
Clad as the Iris when she flies from heaven
In vesture of sun-colours; and the harp,
And voice that charm'd in the sweet early days
Can never join again. O aged friend,
'Tis that the old song of the running brook,
Its lights and shadows, and its eddies swift,
Its limpid windings, and its sudden falls,
Will tell our story better than our tongues.
And, as the mighty overhanging oak,
Or the tall pine, is but a shadow on it,
Its leafy whispers, and its summer sighs,
Its stormy voices, and its singing birds,
But lifeless images without a tongue;
So do the great deeds of our busy lives
Live only in the pictures of the soul.
Our fiery passions that are dead and gone,
The hopes that went before, the crowning joys,
Are phantoms only to be fill'd no more.
The soul flows on for ever, as the stream;
And, as the stream, still changes, still the same.
Behold, we stand together on this hill,
The selfsame spirits present here of old,
Our hearts transparent as the mountain spring,
Now dark with many sorrows, like the stream
Bearing down its swoln waters to the sea,
Thro' gulphy darkness hidden from the sun.
This wandering stream, born ere the firstborn man,
Eternal as the hills, as old as time,
Sang of the future to our childish ears,
As now it seems to echo all the past;
Its murmur is the music of a life,
Its surface seems the mirror of our souls.”

V

Once more together in the Hall of arms
The aged and the young. We full of years
Look'd up again to the high walls, o'erlaid
With panoplies of war; the flow of time,
But for the care of Citharus and his spouse,
Had darken'd the old shields, and spears, and helms,
With rusty dyes; now once more they recall'd
The marriage banquet, and the midnight fray.
We heard a hundred voices without tongues
That now were hush'd for ever; Sappho show'd
Where the pale girl had sign'd with her weak hand,
And slain the tyrant; where the bloodshed flow'd
Over the marble floor; and how the hand
Of Pittacus had drawn aside the veil
When his cry rent the darkness, and a host
Had thunder'd back their answer: all the past
Was present; on the stage of memory all
Came back like life; and would this marriage feast
Go before death and anguish, like the first?
We knew not, but it seem'd that nought could stay
The merrymaking, or affright the guests,
Mixing the wine with blood; what were we now
So full of glory then, of hope and might
With starry eyes, and dark locks? We were there
In the dear children; she, young Kleis, a flower
Such as the weary Sappho once had shone,
Such as her mother in the days between.
And there was he, my kinsman, second self;
I saw his face, as 'twere my own again.
Why should we not rejoice? Although my own
Best loved ones were no more; although her Kleis
Long since had parted? For we seem'd to see,
In the twain images of the far past,
As 'twere the resurrection of ourselves.
They seem'd to say, “Look on us, as we are,
Ye were;” again we seem'd to say to them;
“Such as we are ye shall be, when the years,
That seem so vast before ye, fleet away
In days, and hours, in minutes, and in moments,
Ev'n as a river far away is hush'd
And moveless, but, when we look down upon it,
Comes and goes by like lightning:” Young and old
A few years hence shall mingle in one sleep
To those who shall come after, as the streams
Of the same river lapse into a calm
Without a sound or motion; if such fears,
Regrets, and yearnings tremble in man's heart,
Such as no other life on earth can feel,
Breathe without tongues unutterable things,
Are not his sighs oracular? Will the Gods
Be deaf to Nature's everlasting plaint,
Nor share the immortal life with mortal men?
What if the joyous youth, and damsel fair,
Images in the present of the past,
Be symbols of the Future? What, if Life,
Mysterious star that dawns, we know not whence,
And lights the dim earth and its ways of grief,
And sets we know not whither, shall outlive
Day, night, and dust, and darkness? What, if Life
Can never die, but clothes itself again,
And gives us back our beauty, as of old
Elysian youth, and joy, and peace again,
After the racking world, and throes of Time?
“Come hither to us, little ones,” she said,
“And let me look into your dawning eyes,
Once more, ere mine, like setting stars, are sunk
No more to rise; come to me, let me look
Upon your faces, if I may retrace,
As in a picture wrought by cunning hands,
In your unwrinkled aspects the sweet youth
That once was ours; and, while I see ye, feel
One sympathetic moment of that life.
To us the only joy left in this world
Is to behold ye, as unwither'd flowers,
Last of a garden stript of summer blooms.
And, if I seem to be the thing I was
In looking on ye, haply in the days
Unborn, there shall be other gladder eyes
Of some far generation, to behold
A daughter of the ancient house again
Apparell'd for the bridal, as thou art.
Haply some yet unfashion'd tongue may say:
‘If she, whose songs be in our hearts and homes,
Were standing where thou art, such would she be.
Such was her shape, her lips, her hair, her eyes,
Her stature;’ and if then the dower of song
Should bless her with a happier fate than mine,
And she should lift up a sweet voice and sing,
Haply my soul would hear it, and rejoice
To know that I was born again in her.
And if so be in other days remote
Of far-off generations other eyes
Should look upon some dark-eyed heritor
Of thy fair name, young bridegroom, and the dower
Of song should bless him, with a happier fate,
Haply some other bridal like to this
May join the two together; and the earth
May listen to the concord of twin souls,
Giving and taking music from each other
In years to be; which in the days of old
To us, dissever'd minstrels, was denied.
And he who sits beside me may rejoice
To see a happier self reborn in him.”

VI

She paused, and for a while she bow'd her head
Upon her hand in silence; then took up
The broken links again in solemn words,
And yet not sad. “My children, we must part;
Yet may it be without regrets or fears.
For I would fly into the deep Unknown,
Hopeful, and glad, ev'n as the nightingale
With songs into the dark, or wandering bird
That seeks the south, and leaves all death behind.
Methinks it were a lovely thing to sit
Clad as a Bride, my grey head wreath'd with rose;
To sit beneath a vine beside the sea,
From morn to noon, from noon to set of sun,
Talking with joyous friends, as old as I,
Talking of ventures and vicissitudes,
Fair accidents of life, and happy loves,
And merrymakings in the good old time;
Telling quaint tales, and singing some sweet songs,
While the sea-murmur mingled with the sound.
To wait till Death should knock for me at eve;
And when the cypress shadows, eastward thrown,
Were lengthen'd to my feet, as tho' to lay
A path for him, and a chill-breathing air
Should moan thro' the dark branches ‘Come away!’
I would unlatch for him the garden gate,
And bid him enter with a smile of welcome.
And He should come, but not as he is wont,
A pitiless presence with a spear and crown,
A king unshakeable with prayers and tears,
But like a bridegroom, with a lovebright eye,
Who comes to bear away his bride at even,
And kind sweet smile; and I would say,—‘dear friend,
Come hither, but, I pray thee, in passing down
The garden-walk atween my cherish'd flowers,
Spare them, and touch them not, lest they should faint,
And hang their heads, and shed their bloom, and weep.
Come hither, and be welcome.’ I would see
In parting nothing that seems sad for me.
Oh! let my last looks see them as of old;
Wither not one green leaf, one crimson rose;
Steal not one diamond from the fount, nor hush
One smooth note of the blackbird's summersong.
‘Come hither.’ Stay a little there apart
In shadow of that pine, while I shall sing
A few brief parting notes, a last farewell.
O my beloved, we have often met
And often parted; why should this farewell
Leave sorrow? Often last words lightly spoken
Were pledges of glad welcomes still to be.
So let it be to-day; but, if ye seek,
Ye shall not find me here to-morrow morn;
But in the pleasant fields of asphodel,
Lingering to breathe eternal sweets of Spring,
Spring, that as vainly flatters my poor heart
On earth, as when its earliest breezes kiss
A trembling sere leaf of the parted year;
Spring, that to-morrow shall fly back again
To part no more upon the swallow's wing.
Thither I go to find for us, O friends,
Some garden seats where we may sit, and hear
Each other speak as now: and so farewell.
I will provide that with the immortal Life
Of tearless Youth, and unrepining Love,
Wing'd with swift hopes, and tireless phantasies,
Something shall mingle of the days of old.
There shall be rustling leaves, and, 'twixt the stems
Of the tall trees, some azure peaks afar;
And there shall run bright waters, with the whir
Of wings, and turtles mourning in the shade;
And wandering ghosts should pass us by, and turn
To look on us, and stay to hear us sing;
Farewell, dear friends, farewell! I would untwine
Softly the roses, giving one to each,
And, taking Him my bridegroom by the hand,
Into the cypress shadows I would turn.
Then would they rise, those well-beloved guests,
And catch me by the robe, and weep, ‘Ah! no,
Say not farewell, say not that word farewell.
That word, however toned, is still an arrow
Wing'd from Despair's pale hand, though armed Time
May step between, and glance the shaft aside;
Are we not old? Then wherefore should we part?
Have we not gather'd first flowers in the vale
Of Youth together, and together clomb
The thunder-shaken summits of midlife,
And downward wander'd to the other side?
The Sun is set behind the snows of Time;
And we are here in shade together still,
Then wherefore part? oh! say not thou farewell.
Wilt thou be glad in the Elysian Spring
Without us? And shall we who look'd to thee,
As to the morning and the evening star,
Live in that darkness that comes after thee?
We will go with thee, we will go with thee!’
Then would I take the harp into my hand
As though it were a trumpet, and would shake
The strings with notes of triumph, while the tears
Of rapture, trembling in my sunward eyes,
Should flash back the last glory of the Day;
And Death, brought nearer as my swelling voice
Soar'd into victory, should leave his shade,
And wonder at my song! and as the fires
Of eve were quench'd amid the purple isles,
He should put forth his wings, and we would flee
With him and the last sunlight o'er the sea,
I and mine aged friends would flee together!”

VII

She paused, and for a while she bow'd her head
Upon her hand in silence; then took up
The sever'd links again, in solemn words,
And yet not sad; “My children, we must part,
And leave ye this fair world; the time is nigh.
Yet, when it comes, be joyful, as tho' we
Pass'd on before ye through a golden gate,
Into a land where darkness is no more,
A clime of endless spring, and fadeless flowers;
And let your last words be a true farewell.”
She gazed around, and smiled a wondrous smile.
And then she took that harp into her hand
Which just before she had but feign'd to do.
She took the harp as in the days of old,
When the gay-hearted Menon, laughter-eyed,
Joked with her at the banquet, and she sang
In pride of youth; and with a prelude low,
And silvery-sweet as ripplets running in
To kisses of bland Zephyrus, she woke up
Her heart and voice, till they who listen'd heard
No other sound and all forgot themselves.
“Bear with me, for I sing ye a last song;
I sing a song of home, and happy Love.—
It is the breeze of Even curls the sea,
The tuneful wavelets ripple on the shore,
Under the shadow of his native hills,
Thro' breezy vistas cloven in the bowers.—
He sees the golden harvest hills; the sun
Burns thro' the amber leaves against the East,
And the big bunches stooping from the roof.
He hears the murmur of the bees; he hears
The laughter from the vineyards in the vale;
And all things breathe into his spirit peace.
He calls unto him his sweet mate; and she
Takes place beside him under arched rose,
Her braidless tresses flowing o'er his arm;
And the fair children, kneeling at their knees,
Look up with eyes of hope where fear is none.
The sun sinks lower, and the winds are still,
And all things to their spirits whisper ‘peace.’”
Hark! she lifts up her voice in the clear air,
That thrills to the swift arrows of her song;
“O Phosphor, sweet art thou between the peaks
Of the dark hills, that whisperest of the dawn;
Glorious, thou daybreak, scattering off ill dreams
With shadows of the night; divine, thou Sun,
Though old as Time creating all things new
With each new morn; that bidd'st all things awake,
Callest forth hopes, and armest them to act;
Callest the hunter to the field and fell;
The fowler to greenwood, afire with song;
The fisher to the waters deep and clear;
The warrior with a shout and trumpet-sound;
Part'st the young lovers striving against tears;
And makest farewell a sweet word and a song!
The sun sinks lower, and the winds are still,
And all things to their spirits whisper ‘peace.’”
Again she tunes her tongue to softer tones,
As she looks onward to the golden west;
“O Hesper, blessed is thy dewy breath,
And silver star, more blessed than the morn,
Whose glory drinks up all thy tender tears,
Scatters sweet dreams, makes void the silent home,
That calls the shepherd to the mountains frore;
That calls the fisher to the perilous seas;
The hunter to the wildbeast and the waste;
The warrior, or to slay, or to be slain;
And ev'n the young child from his mother's arms,
And makes farewell a sad word and a sigh.
Thou bringest back all that the morn hath stolen,
And into welcomes turnest all farewells.
The sun is sunken, and the winds are still,
And all things to their spirits whisper ‘peace.’
And now the moon shines on them, full and clear.
Still are they seated there, they have not stirr'd.
She sings no more, the children are asleep,
His voice is hush'd; not yet the nightingale
Hath ventured on a note; the silver light
Shines on their faces, and their moveless forms;
Is it a living group or marble cold?
The sun is sunken, and the winds are still,
All things have whisper'd to their spirits ‘peace!’”
She ceased upon that word “peace” as it were
The last faint ripple of a restless sea;
And the last echo from the walls was “peace.”
She held the silent harp between her arms;
And the last glory of the setting sun
Smote on her bright and upward-glancing eye,
Ere it went down. But when the light was gone,
They look'd upon her, and her eyes were dim,
And not a motion stirr'd her; so they rose
And coming near they saw that she was dead.
And what they look'd on now with awful eyes
Was but the ruin'd temple, whence the voice
Of Love's own oracle for all those years
Of her long life came forth in music: dead!
The Muses' home was dark and cold, and still;
And in a moment all the gates were barr'd,
No more to be reopen'd evermore.
And what, and where was the sweet soul that moved
Therein up to that moment? Should they mourn?
Upon the wings of that last day of joy
Her soul had flown; and, ever after, they
Who thought of her would first remember that
Her last word “peace,” as one remembers best
The last sweet sunbeam of a winter day
Parting the clouds: her aged lips had breathed
Peace, then were hush'd for ever; but that word
Seem'd as a charm that blest the speaker's self,
And them that heard her: something that her soul
Bore off with it in parting, something spared
Of bliss to mortal sorrows left behind.

VIII

Alcæus rose, and pass'd amid the guests
Swiftly, yet silently, his head bow'd down
And hidden in his robe, as tho' the hand
Of kingly Death held up another dart,
And beckon'd him away; and he could hear
A voice unheard by all but him, a voice
That made him deaf to lamentation, blind
To all that changed the merriment to mourning,
Swiftly as day to darkness, when the breath
Of winter pours into the golden vales
From the icepeaks in the last autumn-days.
The tongue once hush'd, that best he loved to hear,
All tongues were silent, and the eyes that shone
Their last life-light as though it were the first,
Once closed, the sun would rise on more for him.
He wander'd forth into the twilight air
Still purple with the sunset, and stood long,
And look'd upon the sea till it was dark.
Then took his way along the starless strand
Under a night of cloud; he took his way
Into the darkest darkness, for he knew
All winding paths among the rocks, the home
Of utter silence; or at intervals
Listened the hoarse wind, and the moaning waves,
Until he found a place amid the gloom,
Shaped as a seat for giants, where he loved
To sit in early days, and mark the sea
Through the rent cliffs, as through a portal huge,
And hark its many voices. Now he saw
No light, but only heard the threatful swell
Of gathering winds, and waters; with a voice
Of thunder, as a king that led them on,
The tempest roll'd on swiftly; but amid
The tongues of the dread ministers of night,
A fearful fisher in a helmless bark,
Borne wildly by the wind, in passing by
Heard a lone cry, and saw by lightning-light
As 'twere a monarch falling from his throne,
With his right hand uplifted in his fall.
And here they found him on the morrow-morn,
The sunlight on his face, where yet a smile
Linger'd, as though that last and midnight cry,
And that uplifted hand above his head,
Had been, nor fear, nor anger, nor despair,
Nor fatal call that drew the bolt that slew him,
But a glad answer to a welcome call,
The voice of one that saw what none can see
Till the great gates unbar the loved and lost,
The cry of one who said—“I come, I come!”