 | The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd |  |
56
TANAGRA
We rode through mellowing cornlands, deep ravines,
By torrent beds where oleanders nod,
Up paths of arbutus and evergreens,
And flowery carpets that no feet have trod.
By torrent beds where oleanders nod,
Up paths of arbutus and evergreens,
And flowery carpets that no feet have trod.
Yet all this lonely land is holy ground,
Strewn with dead dust of cities, such an one
You chance upon, a low wall ringing round
The wilderness of thistle, grass and stone.
Strewn with dead dust of cities, such an one
You chance upon, a low wall ringing round
The wilderness of thistle, grass and stone.
There rose the citadel, these mounds were streets,
That crescent hill was where the actors played,
The lentisk bushes have usurped the seats
Where camps the Wallack goatherd in the shade.
That crescent hill was where the actors played,
The lentisk bushes have usurped the seats
Where camps the Wallack goatherd in the shade.
And this was Tanagra, this waste of weed,
These hillocks with the buried life within,
A few rough gravestones keep their names to read—
One broken fragment bore the name Corinne.
These hillocks with the buried life within,
A few rough gravestones keep their names to read—
One broken fragment bore the name Corinne.
57
Ah! scarcely hers whose flawless face and fame
The old world wondered at, a lordlier grave
Enshrined in death those lyric lips, whose name
Is all of her that after years might save.
The old world wondered at, a lordlier grave
Enshrined in death those lyric lips, whose name
Is all of her that after years might save.
Yet here, where once she saw the living light
And struck the chord of passion, there it lay,
And that mere word upon the stone had might,
A moment's space to flash the dark to day,
And struck the chord of passion, there it lay,
And that mere word upon the stone had might,
A moment's space to flash the dark to day,
To dreams of fanes bedecked with myrtle boughs,
Dreams of the Theban contest and the prize,
The laurel snatched from Pindar's throbbing brows,
And bound above a minstrel maiden's eyes.
Dreams of the Theban contest and the prize,
The laurel snatched from Pindar's throbbing brows,
And bound above a minstrel maiden's eyes.
Was it the music wholly or the grace
For which the swan of Dirce drooped his wing,
The fount of passion, or the fair, fair face,
While Thebes was mute to hear a woman sing?
For which the swan of Dirce drooped his wing,
The fount of passion, or the fair, fair face,
While Thebes was mute to hear a woman sing?
Ringed sit the priests, the judges of the song,
The maiden muse stands passion-pale between,
Loud for the Theban, louder and more long,
Break forth the plaudits for the Tanagrine.
The maiden muse stands passion-pale between,
Loud for the Theban, louder and more long,
Break forth the plaudits for the Tanagrine.
58
There winds the glad procession, the white row
Of virgin escort up the marble street,
The twin-pipes pealing shrilly as they go,
To lay the tripod at the song-god's feet!
Of virgin escort up the marble street,
The twin-pipes pealing shrilly as they go,
To lay the tripod at the song-god's feet!
Such power the dead voice had! long years have kept
No note of songs that filled the mouth of fame,
No record how she loved or laughed or wept,
Naught but the face, the triumph, and the name;
No note of songs that filled the mouth of fame,
No record how she loved or laughed or wept,
Naught but the face, the triumph, and the name;
These and what dreams memorial lands still keep,
Where mighty presences have passed and been,
Where Leucas shows the Lesbian's lover-leap,
Where Tanagra still whispers of Corinne.
Where mighty presences have passed and been,
Where Leucas shows the Lesbian's lover-leap,
Where Tanagra still whispers of Corinne.
| The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd | |