University of Virginia Library

Classical Sketches.

ULYSSES IN THE ISLAND OF OGYGIA.

Ulysses.
A thousand cities canopied by heaven
Hive in the hopes and fears of toil-worn souls;
Yet draws man wretched breath in one to match
My sorrow, mine endurance? I have warred
Nine lagging year-rounds at Old Priam's gates;
Fate in the tenth o'erthrew them, tho' a God
Had welded their Cyclopean masonwork.
Thence to the deeps we launch'd our homeward ships
Whose thirsty keels unwonted ocean tasted;
Intricate seas we helmed, but man by man
My comrades laps'd thro' folly from the light
Mostly, yet some of heavier fate dragged down;
Till the weak remnant of a thousand toils
Foundered when Zeus' white lightning cleft our ship,
To rift her storm-strain'd timbers in mid seas,
And splinter mast and mainyard hundredfold.
I, sole survivor, billow-washed for days
Upon a plank of chance, at length with pain
Attain this isle-beach. Thrice-loved Ithaca!
Thy thought can make me weep—thy rugged shore
Outlined in hills more beautiful to me
Than this enchanted island, whose delights
Out-parallel description. I could wail
The dawn to dark remembering thee, and those
That loved me and are perished! yearning pain,
For fatherland and homestead eats my heart,
Refusing ruth or rest, and curds to gall
My small and honest joys; the salt of life
Drops savourless, as uninvited dreams
Usurp my fancy, brooding on past days,
And by comparison this present mar.
Have Gods assigned a never-ending pain,
That I abide reluctantly enslaved
By adamant Calypso? All day long
Across unmeasured sea I strain mine eyes,
Watching and watching every crested wave,
Mine eyes tear-heavy, desolate my heart.
And so life wanes—time changes—years, long years
Shall roll their course, and Ithaca become
A memory in forgetfulness. I trace
Nor term nor end to these unfruitful days,
My permanence of sorrow-bounded age!

[Exit.
[Hermes alights on the island.]
Hermes.
From skimming the green shallows I am lighted,
Like to the dusk sea-dripping cormorant;
For Zeus, who balances the scales of heaven
Destiny-poised with hair-adjusted beam,
Hath urged me down the bright crags of Olympus,
Since this Ulysses multiplied in cares
Hath touch'd the seldom grieving ear of Gods,
To whom I carry first-fruits of good days!
Calypso's prisoner lover. Yet methinks
This were a pleasant bondage, if delight
Of natural sense could mitigate from pain
Intolerable bondage. I consider
Amazed this isle's deliciousness, this cave
Worthy the Goddess. Tenderly young vines
Enlarge their hornèd tendrils, to the whisper
Of lulling bees and myriad-noted birds;
Here plash the summer's crystal rivulets,
Sun-thwarted into rainbow'd waterfalls;
Or rosied fountains drift from where beyond
The violet meadows deepen. Here the air
Stores heavy freight of kindling frankincense,
And odorous cedar. In her state the owl
Above the entrance perch'd enchanterwise,
Kites on the elms, or solemn ravens brood,
A quaint assemblage. But Calypso comes
From the recesses of her inmost bower,
And hitherward her grace-abounding limbs
Advance her nimbly.

[Enter Calypso.]
Calypso.
Wherefore art thou here,
O herald Hermes of the golden rod?
For seldom on our island have thy feet
Wandered ere now: but I will not delay
To set before thee hospitable fare,
Ambrosia, with red nectar; afterwards
Thou shalt declare thine errand, guess'd by fear
To bode me little pleasure!

Hermes.
Awful nymph!
I may not taste thy banquets till I tell
Unerringly the word of heaven's stern king!
Thou hast by thee a widely wandered man,
Heroic, patient, versed in many toils,
Whose much-endurance after ten years' fight
Hath pillaged Priam's city. 'Tis with him
Mine errand hath relation. I am come
No zealous messenger; else who would pass
Salt breadths of will and herbless continents,
Whence no fair savour from choice hecatomb
Delights immortal nostrils? Yet constrained
I come, constrained repeat—thus Zeus commands:—
“Forthwith dismiss Ulysses, 'tis not fate
For him in dalliance to consume his age
With thine embraces; rather shall he wend
To Ithaca, nor perish far away,
Forgetful of return, his home unseen.”

Calypso.
Jealous and most resentful are ye, Gods!
Merciless, iron-hearted, envying me
My scanty grain of pleasure. Mortal spouse
Ye will not tolerate. Orion died
Artemis-wounded for the fatal love
Of rosy-fingered morning: thy bright locks,
Demeter, thundered down the gleaming bolt
Upon thine earthly lover, where the fields,
Deep with their sacred furrow-gilding corn,
Gave tryst to secret love, and summer winds
Crisped tenderly around you, as all fear
Melted to ecstasy; but on it came,
Zeus' lightning, arrow-wise, and white past snow,
Scorched up his quivering heart! then not thy tears,
Earth-mother, touched one corner of his soul,
The Great All-tyrant! So with me it fares.
The restless waves threw out before my cave
This mortal drenched and drowned. I drew him forth
Beyond their hungry reach—with food and raiment
I cherish till I love him, making poor
My soul with benefits—and more than this,
Immortal years, unwitting of old age,
I would have guerdoned. Now Zeus bids him go;
And I, most deep in injuries, obey!

Hermes.
Look thou dismiss him speedily, or dread
The after-vengeance of exactful Zeus!
Now wend I towards Olympus.

[Hermes ascends. Re-enter Ulysses.]
Calypso.
Lament no more, Ulysses! pitying Gods
Have compassed thee return; thy wrestling prayers
Have worn consent from their out-wearied ears;
Wearied they mark the oceans of salt tears
That day by day thy peevish eyes distil,
With childlike whine for thy much boasted country,
Some nest of barren crags. Since thou must go—
Go, and be happy. I will teach thee skill
To frame a timber-raft, while hurtless gales
Dimple thy sails behind despatched by me!

Ulysses.
O Goddess! I mistrust, lest some great wrong,
Contrivance-woven for my patient soul,
Result in ruin rather than return!
These seas are terrible, most hard to pass,
For equal balanced ships: what madness then
Frail raftage trust, unless thou noddest faith,
Adding thereon some formidable oath,
Thou plottest me no mischief!

Calypso.
Thou art held
Of crafty mind, yet far thou errest here;
Lip-wisdom thine no deeper than a phrase!
Witness this overblue, this under earth,
E'en to her inmost roots, and Tartarus-gloom,
And ye, pale current-streams of baleful Styx,
I purpose now no evil. Syrups none
Of witchcraft, no, nor spells of chanted song,
Could win thy silly bent from silly love,
Besotted love of Ithaca! My breast
Pulses not steel, where throbs a tender heart,
And so thou shalt depart; yet couldst thou learn,
Unwisest hero! half the bitter teen
Thou must fulfil ere this desired return,
Thou wouldst not slight my love, but stay with me,
And love would make us happy; sweet love dreams
In amorous fancy should beguile our days,
And we scarce heed their lapsing; and old age
Should never reach thee, but thou shouldst attain
The priceless gift of immortality,—
My gift, that love thee well,—and never more
Should there be question of Penelope,
Whom thou art ever babbling for. Perchance,
My goddess form lacks lustre in compare
With her wan earthly beauty! Are her locks
More bright than mine? or do I love thee less,
Ungrateful mortal, that thou wouldst begone?

Ulysses.
O Goddess, lull thine angry soul, secure
That by thy form ambrosial my poor wife,
Whose beauty time and trouble's fret must fade,
No longer in the summer of her days,
Wanes in comparison. Eternal youth
Is thine, nor blemish any, such as taints
Earth's daughters' comeliness. Yet mortal I
More fitly mate with mortal. For thy bounty
All thanks are feeble recompense. Thy love
Thou hast outpoured on one, tho' not unworthy,
Yet still who may not comprehend the gift,
Thro' imperfection of his mortal senses,
Beyond his poor deserving doubly rich.
Thus am I still most anxious of return,
Unbated yet my zeal importunate
Once more to watch the smoke-curl from my home
Wind up among the mountains. And if fate,
Ere I behold it, purpose yet for me
Many and bitter things in the dark main,
I murmur not! for I have suffered much
By wars and waters! and let these things more
Be counted towards the fulness of my woes,
For I shall bear them, as I bore the rest!

Calypso.
O, hardly moved and stubborn, thou shalt go!
Farewell I ask thee none; no thought of mine
Shall whisper thine ingratitude. Depart!
Why should I squander passion? Thy wan'd wife
Is worthy such as thou, who canst prefer
A barren home, a span of fevered days,
To spanless years and mine immortal love.

THE DIALOGUE OF LIFE.

EVENING.—THE SHORE OF THE HELLESPONT.

• Cassandra.
• —Æneas.

Æneas.
In the pure calm of Heaven, unrounded by
The thronging palace-walls, our souls breathe in
Rest from the evening air. How still the sea
Rests too by yonder mountains! Great repose
Hath wrapt the Titan nature. I half fancy
All could stay thus for ever!

Cassandra.

Æneas.
Ay! our youthful dreamings
Are but a vague impatience. We imagine
Life one great tumult of majestic deeds,
Nor take into account that of their lives
Whom most we worship many fruitless days,
Months, years went by, before the sounding act
That made them names and patterns for all time!
And even then there came despairing hours
Into these great ones' lives; for they had known
Heroic deeds, and knew what once they were,
And so they could not sink to quiet graves,
Content with former fame, if minished aught
Of strength, which wanes—of wisdom, that age dims!
And thus those lives that most resembled Gods,
Most bitter felt their fallings back, and past
Hours of most human and most weak despair!

Æneas.
Yet who may shrink the conflict? Thus our lot
Is cast us by immortals. We must front
The tempest in our teeth, not pass our days
In the hearth corner, sensitive and cold
To each external blast of this rude world,
Quilted and wrapt from every roughened breath.

Cassandra.
Yes! action is most glorious, and its pauses
Sweeten our dreams the more. 'Tis then so grand
Upon a toilsome evening to retrace
The story of our lives; to find that we
Have lived not quite in vain—that some good deeds
Have been reclaimed from the encroachful waste
Of idleness and chaos—some poor hours
Redeemed from night's dominion—that may move
The spirit of the after-worlds to praise
When we and ours are ashes. Hearts unborn,
Tried with our trials, winning as we won,
Shall bless us in a sympathy of fate,
And twin their fame with ours!

Æneas.
Ay! fame, strong fame!
That hath held many from a self-sought rush
Into the nether night, when life alone
Seemed despicable breath. 'Tis only sound,
Hardly reality; for shall we care
If ages hence that name which once we were
Meet censure or find worship? Canst thou think
That the dead warrior hears his comrades peal
Their shout of victory above his grave
Under the fresh-heaped sod? Shall then men's praise
Awake us after centuries of decay?

Cassandra.
Hard the enigmas of the humblest lives;
Deep-woven knots and tangles of confusion,
Thro' which immortal eyes alone discern
Order and law converging ends of good!

Æneas.
O! we are in their hands, the ancient Gods!
They watch our doings from their amber thrones,
And move us on like puppets to destruction;
Or may be, length of days and broadened rule,
To tempt yet ampler sinning. Who may say?
I am fast planted as the forest-king,
My branches fear no whirlwind, and my roots
Have grappled half the mountain! Trust of fools!
These Gods of ours that sunshine breathe to-day,
To-morrow send their blear Eumenides:
The noble tree lies splintered—his huge arms
Shall reach no longer at the morning sun,
Nor cloud the noonday from his clustered peers!

Cassandra.
Ay! we endure—and that our help is none,
Accept perforce their day-beam, as their bolt—
The nobler perish soonest. Woe is me,
That treble woe foreseeing ere it fall.
Brooding on sorrows destined for dear heads,
That laugh themselves, unknowing what I know,
In respite from affliction till it strike:
And then an ample leisure to bewail,
And time enough to mourn it—O forgive,
Great master Phœbus, this my querulous heart;
Thy visions are too mighty, and all sense
Is parch'd away to madness. High thy gift,
Inestimably precious; yet not less
Thou hast bereft me of all earthward rest,
And filled my soul with longings too intense,
And aspiration higher than is meet
For a weak mortal, and yet weaker maid!

Æneas.
Trust and despair not! For this passing dream
Of thine is but a vapour clinging round
The youth-tide of thy life, which ampler day
Shall roll beyond the mountains, as yon mist
Is rolling back up Gargarus; every height
Is kindled in mad radiance; sheeted gold,—
Aerial palace heights,—the flashing ocean
Mirrors the mountains back—no sound astir,
Save a faint hum of voices numberless,
That yet I doubt for voices!—Let us go.

PARIS AND HELEN AT SPARTA.

A CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

• Paris
• —Helen.

Spirit Chorus invisible.
[The Chorus grows faint.

Paris.
Methought I heard a thousand tiny harps,
Attuned by spirits, and their gauzy wings
Filled all the air with motion: in my dreams
They sang me songs of ecstasy, and beckoned
On towards some rich Elysium. Didst thou hear them?

Helen.
Dearest, the palace slumbers. All the waves
Of old Eurotas rippling speak of rest.
The flowers bend over where he runs along
Sleep-heavy, perhaps they dream his waves are bringing
Some one to love them. In yon heaven one star
Shines out above the town—a pitying spirit,
That would shed love on those who find it not—
Love! love! is all around us, the still air
We breathe, the utterance of half-stifled sighs,
The mighty sympathy of mere existence,
Hand circling hand, and heart-beat answering heart.
Hush! is that murmur from the southern sea?
It scarce would reach us on the calmest night.
No! 'tis the night breeze that hath not forgot
How moans the ocean over which it past!

Paris.
Why art thou melancholy, oh, my darling?
Gleams from the morning land are shedding now,
Wave upon wave, and Phosphor's wakeful sphere
Reddens or pales, as thro' our inmost souls
Thrills on the mighty consciousness of love,
The flood or ebb of exquisite despair!
Time and ambition seem as empty fancies,
The perfect present is absorbing all.
Will not one breath, one little breath of morning,
Touch thy pale cheek, and kindle it to glow?
Gaze out into the violet vaulted dark,
Half night, and chide the coming of the day;
Ah no! The lover asks no rising sun,
Shrouded in scented darkness near his love,
Encircled closely as the atmosphere
About the radiance of his own dear star!

Helen.
O brighter than all gold of earthly mine,
Apollo rises—how the graceful hours
Come tripping out before him—shivering night
Rolls backward on the upland—mist and cloud
Linger in vain with sullen slow retreat.
Could limner's art eternalize the glory
Of yonder sunrise? Radiant, awful king,
Hyperion! Thou, god of rich morning-tide,
Steepest our souls with unimagined longings
To leave us fainting in a flood of glory.

Paris.
I revel in a garden deep with roses,
I float upon a tide of quivering silver;
I could outpierce the infinite vault of Heaven
Beyond the crested lark, or take me wings
To catch the sunrise. Nature, art, or mind
Hath nought impossible to perfect love.
My love is perfect when I gaze on thee;
Thy little arms are open, and they beckon
With tender supplication to thy breast.

Helen.
Love at its birth is thornless, like the rose;
But envious briers entrench her perfect bloom.
And dreads assail the ripeness of our love,
That menaced not its budding. Or shall we
Escape, I doubt not, more than other souls
Out mulct of evil days?

Paris.
Forecast them not.
Let us at least be merry till they come.
And should suspicion sullen-fronted loom,
My fleet shall steer to yonder rising day—
To snatch thee from the chill and envious grasp,
Triumphant, making unity secure,—
With sea-room for the universe besides,—
Whence we could fling defiance at the world
If Greece entire sailed after.

Helen.
Grant it gained,
I tremble, womanlike, to think this done,
Altho' my prayers desire it: for my name
Shall grow into a byword, and my story
Pass current warning to each giddy maid
Flouting advice, and brainless save conceit,
Grown restive from the mother's timely curb.
O horrible! And all those island kings,
My former suitors, shall in great disdain
Cry shame upon me. What an army weight
Of reasons to press down high duty's beam!
And in the other balance nought, save love!

Paris.
You cheat yourself in multiplying dread
Of this imagined sequel. Public voice
Is lenient to great beauty; were the case
Not far too common for censorious tongues
To act the bellman of a husband's wrong,
While flush of prey more tainted. Very soon
The widening circles vanish into nought,
And all will be forgot; but we shall not
Forget our love, enjoying perfect days,
And in the sympathy of kindred souls
Pass calmly onwards to our after rest.
For Aphroditè pledged thee as my bride;
And think'st thou yon blest Gods would sanction wrong,
Except for some great purpose that shall make
The wrong one drop upon a sea of good?