SWORD AND SICKLE.

Whenthe Spirits that are mastersOf the ever-ready storm,And that love to hound the waters,To destroy and to deform,See a mortal in their powerThey prepare a joyous hour,Venting their primeval hatredOf the thing whose blood is warm.And they lay on ocean’s surfaceTheir innumerable hands,And each hand creates a billowThat advances and expands;Till, amid the petrel’s screaming,Rope and tattered sail are streamingHigh above the seething waterFrom the mast that still withstands.But then hate is blind: they know notWhat each human prey is worth:Not more cruel than impartialIs their elemental mirth:And their fury is not keenerO’er the greater than the meaner,Though their victim were a ShelleyAnd the glory of the earth.Look around thee in the sunshine;Watch this satin-surfaced deep,Which alone some rolling dolphinsStir out yonder in its sleep,Till upon the sea shall settleSunset hues of molten metal,Red and bright as crater gleamings,And the noon shall cease to creep.Here was washed ashore the greatestOf the victims snatched awayBy the Spirits that are mastersOf the wind and of the spray;When the waves might have exultedO’er the body they insultedWith a shriller wilder clamourThan since Nature’s earliest day!Cæsar braved the great Sea Spirits,And he bade his men row on;And he cried: “Ye carry Cæsar:Then why tremble and turn wan?”And the great waves roared more loudly;But his galley sailed out proudlyFrom the peril of the tempestLike an onward-hurried swan.Yet the world would scarce have missed him—There be Cæsars more than one:But a poet like to Shelley,Where be such beneath the sun?And mankind had lost a treasurePast all mourning and all measure,When the beach-waves gently shelved himWith a moan for what was done.For an English ear, the breakersOn this fatal Tuscan shoreSeemed to lisp the name of Shelley,And to mourn it evermore;And the name appears to mingleWith the rolling of the shingleAnd with every sound of NatureWhich he lived but to adore.Oh, I hear it in the murmurOf the fragrant woods of pineAs the sea-breeze softly hurriesThrough their long-extended line;And I hear it faintly comingFrom the never-ending hummingOf the world of busy insectsThat the undergrowths confine.’Tis the spot; and nought discordantMars its beauty and repose.All along the tideless marginPine or bay or ilex grows,Filled with an eternal warble;While Carrara’s crags of marble,Bare and lofty, print the azure,And, to landward, all enclose.All is peace and glorious sunshine;Nature seems redeemed from war.Nothing stirs from beach to offing,Where a few feluccas are,Waiting for the breeze that’s lazy;While beyond, where all is hazy,Like the ghost of dwindled powerLoometh Elba, faint and far.But his genius knew no Elba,And his star, without decline,Was extinguished at its zenithIn the wild and tossing brine;Not war’s red and lurid planetAs of incandescent granite,But a star of whiter radiance,Clear, effulgent and divine.Mighty treasures lie for everIn each slimy ocean cave;Galleons with their gold lie buriedWhere the dark depth knows no wave;But the total of their measureMatches not the matchless treasureThat in yonder stretch of waterHas for ever found a grave:There the great unwritten poemsOf a mighty poet lie—Unborn children of a lineageWhich, once born, may never die.But the water mirrors heavenWith the smile of one forgiven,While the breakers in the sunshineSing an endless lullaby.

And they lay on ocean’s surfaceTheir innumerable hands,And each hand creates a billowThat advances and expands;Till, amid the petrel’s screaming,Rope and tattered sail are streamingHigh above the seething waterFrom the mast that still withstands.

But then hate is blind: they know notWhat each human prey is worth:Not more cruel than impartialIs their elemental mirth:And their fury is not keenerO’er the greater than the meaner,Though their victim were a ShelleyAnd the glory of the earth.

Look around thee in the sunshine;Watch this satin-surfaced deep,Which alone some rolling dolphinsStir out yonder in its sleep,Till upon the sea shall settleSunset hues of molten metal,Red and bright as crater gleamings,And the noon shall cease to creep.

Here was washed ashore the greatestOf the victims snatched awayBy the Spirits that are mastersOf the wind and of the spray;When the waves might have exultedO’er the body they insultedWith a shriller wilder clamourThan since Nature’s earliest day!

Cæsar braved the great Sea Spirits,And he bade his men row on;And he cried: “Ye carry Cæsar:Then why tremble and turn wan?”And the great waves roared more loudly;But his galley sailed out proudlyFrom the peril of the tempestLike an onward-hurried swan.

Yet the world would scarce have missed him—There be Cæsars more than one:But a poet like to Shelley,Where be such beneath the sun?And mankind had lost a treasurePast all mourning and all measure,When the beach-waves gently shelved himWith a moan for what was done.

For an English ear, the breakersOn this fatal Tuscan shoreSeemed to lisp the name of Shelley,And to mourn it evermore;And the name appears to mingleWith the rolling of the shingleAnd with every sound of NatureWhich he lived but to adore.

Oh, I hear it in the murmurOf the fragrant woods of pineAs the sea-breeze softly hurriesThrough their long-extended line;And I hear it faintly comingFrom the never-ending hummingOf the world of busy insectsThat the undergrowths confine.

’Tis the spot; and nought discordantMars its beauty and repose.All along the tideless marginPine or bay or ilex grows,Filled with an eternal warble;While Carrara’s crags of marble,Bare and lofty, print the azure,And, to landward, all enclose.

All is peace and glorious sunshine;Nature seems redeemed from war.Nothing stirs from beach to offing,Where a few feluccas are,Waiting for the breeze that’s lazy;While beyond, where all is hazy,Like the ghost of dwindled powerLoometh Elba, faint and far.

But his genius knew no Elba,And his star, without decline,Was extinguished at its zenithIn the wild and tossing brine;Not war’s red and lurid planetAs of incandescent granite,But a star of whiter radiance,Clear, effulgent and divine.

Mighty treasures lie for everIn each slimy ocean cave;Galleons with their gold lie buriedWhere the dark depth knows no wave;But the total of their measureMatches not the matchless treasureThat in yonder stretch of waterHas for ever found a grave:

There the great unwritten poemsOf a mighty poet lie—Unborn children of a lineageWhich, once born, may never die.But the water mirrors heavenWith the smile of one forgiven,While the breakers in the sunshineSing an endless lullaby.

“’Mid the harvest-shining plainWhere the peasant heaps his grainIn the garner of his foe.”

Inthe noontide, safe and free,Basks the plain of Lombardy.Never now, nor near nor farLooms the lurid form of WarThat to overspread it cameWith her wings of smoky flame.Unmanured with blood the plainYields in peace its yearly grain;And the milk-white broad-browed pairOf huge bullocks in the glareDrag the fruit of Freedom’s tillageThrough each straggling Lombard villageWhich no Croat thirsts to pillage.Not a foe, save where unseenIn the rice-swamp’s treacherous greenFever lurks, while wade and reapThrough the sparkling waters deepGirls ill-sheltered from the sun,Which shoots down to scorch and stun,By their crimson kerchiefs light,And who there in Fever’s spiteCheer their souls with laugh and songAs the noontide creeps along;Not a foe, save when o’erflowsAdige big with melted snows,Or when Po’s dark whirling foamThreatens many a thriving home,Rolling all its bridges underWith a dull unceasing thunder,Till it sweeps ere close of dayBridge and dyke and home away.Through the broad Subalpine plainPeace and work and freedom reign.Here and there in monstrous heapsSome vast ossuary keepsFor men’s wondering eyes the bonesOf the nation’s slaughtered sons;But no other traces showWhere a few short years agoCountless balls of iron ploughedThrough the serried quivering crowd—Where the broadcast Austrian leadFell on furrows live and dead—Where for miles and miles were heapedThe human harvests freshly reaped—Where the routed fled like chaffAt the canon’s thunderous laugh,While the gun-wheels made red mudOf men weltering in their blood.Times are changed, and memories holdIn the breasts but of the old.On Custozza’s once red earthBy the Lombard peasant’s hearthNow the Austrian may sitWhere no brows with hate shall knit:Who would dream that there can beSuch a thing as tyranny?Italy appeals no longerTo God’s throne against the stronger;And the Poet loves her nowFor the beauty of her brow,Not for that great crown of woeWhence the blood-drops used to flow.Lands are freed, and lands enslaved;But your name is there engravedIn the hearts of those now freedYe who helped them in their need!Nor do they remember nowThose who lent them all the glowOf their genius and their feeling,And Compassion’s balm that’s healing,And the thunder of their curseIn a heaven-shaking verse.Reckon not on thanks for long,Ye who fight with sword or songFor the weak against the strong:Give your help for justice’ sake,Caring no reward to take.Freedom’s face is not less fairFor remembering not your share;And the sheaves of sacred wheat,Which spring up beneath her feetFrom the liberated plain,Not less full of golden grain.Years ago one day I stood,In the autumn’s sunset flood,Looking down with sweeping sightFrom a bastion’s terraced heightOn the then unconquered plainOf the fair and French Lorraine.Scarce was autumn’s first leaf yellow;Ripened Earth had made air mellow.Like a snake inert and blue,Winding slowly corn-fields through,Wound the broad Moselle afarTo the horizon’s utmost bar,Catching on each burnished foldRestless gleams of molten goldTill the sun was near to sink,When it caught a flaming pinkFrom the crimson clouds slow sailingWhere the amber light was failing.And surveying that expanse,What, I thought, is fair as France?Now the Prussian sentries standWhere I stood, and scan the land,Which for ever seems their own,With their ugly Prussian frown;And the sullen land has noughtBut the freedom of its thought,Of its thought that hopes and hatesAnd from year to year awaits.And what of thee upon whose headAll evil’s phials have been shed—Thou whom those who now have gottenTheir own freedom, have forgotten—Thou whose name is never heard,Thou whose hope is aye deferred,Thou whose tongue thy foes outroot,Thou whose sons they chain and shoot—Poland, heiress of the knout?Lo, the century grows oldAnd thy hour has not yet tolled.On thy form benumbed and bruised,Whence the life-blood half has oozed,Lies the dark Colossus stillWhom his own sons now would kill—Tormentors that like vipers startFrom his huge frame’s every part;But he holds thee all the tighterWhile thy bloodless face grows whiter,And his limbs that on thee weighGrow more rotten day by day.Hark! I hear a muffled soundDeep beneath the frozen groundWhere a buried Poland pinesIn the dark Siberian mines,In the sunless vaults that apeThose of Hell in gloom and shape,Where the gangs who death awaitUnlearn to think, but not to hate:Is’t a growl of joy that runsWhere are chained half Poland’s sons?Ay, a growl of joy it isTo each mine’s extremities,And for once Despair has laughedIn each black pestiferous shaft:He who sent them there lies deadOn his gory Imperial bed—He who made them walk in chains,In long goaded staggering trains,Through the endless snow-clad plainsTo the grave in which they lie,Not yet dead, but soon to die:Even he has found his hour,Murdered in his boundless powerBy his own, and rots in deathAs they rot who here draw breath.

Through the broad Subalpine plainPeace and work and freedom reign.Here and there in monstrous heapsSome vast ossuary keepsFor men’s wondering eyes the bonesOf the nation’s slaughtered sons;But no other traces showWhere a few short years agoCountless balls of iron ploughedThrough the serried quivering crowd—Where the broadcast Austrian leadFell on furrows live and dead—Where for miles and miles were heapedThe human harvests freshly reaped—Where the routed fled like chaffAt the canon’s thunderous laugh,While the gun-wheels made red mudOf men weltering in their blood.Times are changed, and memories holdIn the breasts but of the old.On Custozza’s once red earthBy the Lombard peasant’s hearthNow the Austrian may sitWhere no brows with hate shall knit:Who would dream that there can beSuch a thing as tyranny?Italy appeals no longerTo God’s throne against the stronger;And the Poet loves her nowFor the beauty of her brow,Not for that great crown of woeWhence the blood-drops used to flow.

Lands are freed, and lands enslaved;But your name is there engravedIn the hearts of those now freedYe who helped them in their need!Nor do they remember nowThose who lent them all the glowOf their genius and their feeling,And Compassion’s balm that’s healing,And the thunder of their curseIn a heaven-shaking verse.Reckon not on thanks for long,Ye who fight with sword or songFor the weak against the strong:Give your help for justice’ sake,Caring no reward to take.Freedom’s face is not less fairFor remembering not your share;And the sheaves of sacred wheat,Which spring up beneath her feetFrom the liberated plain,Not less full of golden grain.

Years ago one day I stood,In the autumn’s sunset flood,Looking down with sweeping sightFrom a bastion’s terraced heightOn the then unconquered plainOf the fair and French Lorraine.Scarce was autumn’s first leaf yellow;Ripened Earth had made air mellow.Like a snake inert and blue,Winding slowly corn-fields through,Wound the broad Moselle afarTo the horizon’s utmost bar,Catching on each burnished foldRestless gleams of molten goldTill the sun was near to sink,When it caught a flaming pinkFrom the crimson clouds slow sailingWhere the amber light was failing.And surveying that expanse,What, I thought, is fair as France?Now the Prussian sentries standWhere I stood, and scan the land,Which for ever seems their own,With their ugly Prussian frown;And the sullen land has noughtBut the freedom of its thought,Of its thought that hopes and hatesAnd from year to year awaits.

And what of thee upon whose headAll evil’s phials have been shed—Thou whom those who now have gottenTheir own freedom, have forgotten—Thou whose name is never heard,Thou whose hope is aye deferred,Thou whose tongue thy foes outroot,Thou whose sons they chain and shoot—Poland, heiress of the knout?Lo, the century grows oldAnd thy hour has not yet tolled.On thy form benumbed and bruised,Whence the life-blood half has oozed,Lies the dark Colossus stillWhom his own sons now would kill—Tormentors that like vipers startFrom his huge frame’s every part;But he holds thee all the tighterWhile thy bloodless face grows whiter,And his limbs that on thee weighGrow more rotten day by day.

Hark! I hear a muffled soundDeep beneath the frozen groundWhere a buried Poland pinesIn the dark Siberian mines,In the sunless vaults that apeThose of Hell in gloom and shape,Where the gangs who death awaitUnlearn to think, but not to hate:Is’t a growl of joy that runsWhere are chained half Poland’s sons?Ay, a growl of joy it isTo each mine’s extremities,And for once Despair has laughedIn each black pestiferous shaft:He who sent them there lies deadOn his gory Imperial bed—He who made them walk in chains,In long goaded staggering trains,Through the endless snow-clad plainsTo the grave in which they lie,Not yet dead, but soon to die:Even he has found his hour,Murdered in his boundless powerBy his own, and rots in deathAs they rot who here draw breath.

Theold red, towered walls climb round the hillsOn which Siena stands in lonely state,Scanning the ridgy plain, where gleam no rillsAnd loom no towns, but only endless linesOf livid furrowed hillocks which the greatWhite, ploughing bullocks speck. From gate to gateA few tall cypresses and scattered pinesClimb too, where, guarding streets that silence fills,The old red, towered walls climb round the hills.Silent and empty in the August glareThe old depopulated city sleeps;Its dizzy belfry climbs the fiery airInto the sky’s inexorable blue;Across its great scooped shell-shaped square there creepsNo living soul, nor up the high paved steepsThat be its streets; perhaps some carts sway throughIts dusty gates, behind a huge-horned pair,Creaking and empty in the August glare.O for the pageantry of olden days,Thou silent square—ye palaces that windUp to the still cathedral, where the rays,Now gentler, kiss the marble and the gold!O for the throngs that Time has left behind,Ye buttressed lanes, ye lofty archways linedWith faded saints; show those ye used to holdWhen the strong prosperous city loved displaysAnd gaudy pageantry in olden days.I hear a hum of men, a tramp and tread;The city’s Districts muster. First appearsThe District of the Panther—white and redIts men-at-arms and pages, fifes and drums;And next the yellow-liveried troop that bearsThe Ghibelline standard of the Eagle nears;Then Tortoise, Hedgehog, Snail and Glowworm come;And the Guelf She-Wolf, with her arms aheadAll black and silver, comes with tramp and tread.The Districts muster for the August race,And take their glossy racers to be blessed,Each in its own rich church, where, held in traceOf gold, the startled barb with hoof-steps loudIs led through flaunting banner, shield and crestTo the high altar’s rail, where kneel close pressedThe pages and the soldiers and the crowd,Who scan the gleaming limbs that shall effaceLast year’s defeat and win the August race.The huge old square scooped like a palmer’s shell,Siena’s forum and its hippodrome,Echoes a roar that drowns the mighty bellFrom battlemented belfry in the sky;The ring of olden palaces, becomeAblaze with crimson hangings, looks like someEnchanted Coliseum, in which vieScutcheon and standard; so you scarce could tellThe strange old square scooped like a palmer’s shell.In bright procession ere the race is runThe rival Districts wind around the course,Each with its banner in the evening sun,Its clarions, and its Captain capped with steel,Its pages and its men that lead the horseCaparisoned and guarded by a forceOf gaudy pikemen; while the clarions pealAnd the crowd cheers the Panther that has wonIts fickle favour ere the race is run.And as the standard-bearers one and allMarch by in motley blazonry, they castTheir standards high in air, and as they fallCatch them above the throng with rapid handAnd twirl and twist them dexterously and fastIn one unceasing play, until at lastThe whole vast square is by the bright silk fanned,And they have marched before the great Town HallWhere stand the city’s rulers one and all.Then comes, drawn by six bullocks of huge sizeAll white as milk, with many-coloured stringsAbout their horns, broad brows and large black eyes,The old Republic’s standard-bearing wain,With its great Martinella bell that ringsOft o’er the battle’s roar, and whose sound bringsFear to the heart of her who plots in vain,Perfidious Florence. From its high mast fliesSiena’s She-Wolf’s standard of huge size.And now the course is clear, and those who donThe colours of the Panther feel no fear;A hundred thousand partizans look onWith inborn urban rivalry, and hailThe horses one by one as they appear,And hoot the Shell, or Wave, or wildly cheerThe Hedgehog, or the Dragon, or the Snail,Or the great Eagle that so oft has won,Whose knaves and rider yellow colours don.At last they start, and at terrific paceIn dreadful crush adown the slope they tear,The Tortoise leading for a little space;Then from the crowd the Panther shooting out,Maintains the lead thrice round the perilous square;Then suddenly a great shout rends the air:“The Snail! The Snail!” all cry; and in hushed doubtAll watch the two. The Snail has won the race,And slowly slackens its terrific pace.And in the District of the Snail to-nightIs revelry and feasting in the street;From great wrought-iron torch-holders the lightFalls red and flaring on grim palace wallsDecked with bright banners; boards where all may eatWho care, are crowded; while the old repeatMany an oft-told story that recallsWhat things the Snail had done in race and fight.Sleep shuns the District of the Snail to-night.

Silent and empty in the August glareThe old depopulated city sleeps;Its dizzy belfry climbs the fiery airInto the sky’s inexorable blue;Across its great scooped shell-shaped square there creepsNo living soul, nor up the high paved steepsThat be its streets; perhaps some carts sway throughIts dusty gates, behind a huge-horned pair,Creaking and empty in the August glare.

O for the pageantry of olden days,Thou silent square—ye palaces that windUp to the still cathedral, where the rays,Now gentler, kiss the marble and the gold!O for the throngs that Time has left behind,Ye buttressed lanes, ye lofty archways linedWith faded saints; show those ye used to holdWhen the strong prosperous city loved displaysAnd gaudy pageantry in olden days.

I hear a hum of men, a tramp and tread;The city’s Districts muster. First appearsThe District of the Panther—white and redIts men-at-arms and pages, fifes and drums;And next the yellow-liveried troop that bearsThe Ghibelline standard of the Eagle nears;Then Tortoise, Hedgehog, Snail and Glowworm come;And the Guelf She-Wolf, with her arms aheadAll black and silver, comes with tramp and tread.

The Districts muster for the August race,And take their glossy racers to be blessed,Each in its own rich church, where, held in traceOf gold, the startled barb with hoof-steps loudIs led through flaunting banner, shield and crestTo the high altar’s rail, where kneel close pressedThe pages and the soldiers and the crowd,Who scan the gleaming limbs that shall effaceLast year’s defeat and win the August race.

The huge old square scooped like a palmer’s shell,Siena’s forum and its hippodrome,Echoes a roar that drowns the mighty bellFrom battlemented belfry in the sky;The ring of olden palaces, becomeAblaze with crimson hangings, looks like someEnchanted Coliseum, in which vieScutcheon and standard; so you scarce could tellThe strange old square scooped like a palmer’s shell.

In bright procession ere the race is runThe rival Districts wind around the course,Each with its banner in the evening sun,Its clarions, and its Captain capped with steel,Its pages and its men that lead the horseCaparisoned and guarded by a forceOf gaudy pikemen; while the clarions pealAnd the crowd cheers the Panther that has wonIts fickle favour ere the race is run.

And as the standard-bearers one and allMarch by in motley blazonry, they castTheir standards high in air, and as they fallCatch them above the throng with rapid handAnd twirl and twist them dexterously and fastIn one unceasing play, until at lastThe whole vast square is by the bright silk fanned,And they have marched before the great Town HallWhere stand the city’s rulers one and all.

Then comes, drawn by six bullocks of huge sizeAll white as milk, with many-coloured stringsAbout their horns, broad brows and large black eyes,The old Republic’s standard-bearing wain,With its great Martinella bell that ringsOft o’er the battle’s roar, and whose sound bringsFear to the heart of her who plots in vain,Perfidious Florence. From its high mast fliesSiena’s She-Wolf’s standard of huge size.

And now the course is clear, and those who donThe colours of the Panther feel no fear;A hundred thousand partizans look onWith inborn urban rivalry, and hailThe horses one by one as they appear,And hoot the Shell, or Wave, or wildly cheerThe Hedgehog, or the Dragon, or the Snail,Or the great Eagle that so oft has won,Whose knaves and rider yellow colours don.

At last they start, and at terrific paceIn dreadful crush adown the slope they tear,The Tortoise leading for a little space;Then from the crowd the Panther shooting out,Maintains the lead thrice round the perilous square;Then suddenly a great shout rends the air:“The Snail! The Snail!” all cry; and in hushed doubtAll watch the two. The Snail has won the race,And slowly slackens its terrific pace.

And in the District of the Snail to-nightIs revelry and feasting in the street;From great wrought-iron torch-holders the lightFalls red and flaring on grim palace wallsDecked with bright banners; boards where all may eatWho care, are crowded; while the old repeatMany an oft-told story that recallsWhat things the Snail had done in race and fight.Sleep shuns the District of the Snail to-night.

Whenthis shall reach you I shall be no more;For do not men in presence of some scoreToo great for payment constantly preferQuick death to base insolvency, and spurA trembling self across life’s brink. And yetThey owe but gold—perhaps a paltry debtTo some vile Jew; while I, alas, alas!Owe all mankind a thing which did surpassAll other treasures; a grand peerless thingBeyond all pricing and all wondering,Which should be man’s, but which to save my ownMean life I sacrificed. And days have grownTo be long months, and months to be long years;And with each year the frightful debt appearsMore insupportable. Oh, how immenseHas grown its weight! How horrible the senseOf utter helplessness! But I have nowTo tell the fatal tale of when and howI lost it for the world, and not to speakOf these sad days when conscience loves to wreakHer retribution on me in such vastAnd unremitting anguish.I had passedSix idle years since taking my degree,When I fell in at Athens casuallyWith one called Richard Strongclyffe, who had beenMy college friend, but whom I had not seenSince then, and who meanwhile had made a nameThrough study of Greek Art. We soon becameAs intimate as of old; and as no claimOf work or pleasure summoned me elsewhere,He let me roam through Greece with him, and shareHis own strong daily life—the sheer reverseOf my accustomed life of waste, and worseThan waste, the aimless life of which my soulWas more than sick; it had become so foul.He had an iron will; his hand was rough;His heart was gentle. God had used strong stuffIn making him—weak stuff in making me.And yet I was not worthless utterly.Spite all my sins there were some better stringsIn my weak heart; the wind of angels’ wingsMade them vibrate—but with faint echo, likeÆolian chords that gusts too fitful strike.Mine is a double nature, which dependsWholly on its surroundings, and which blendsWith good or evil, with the low or high,With the same drifting weak facility.In Strongclyffe’s hands my nature’s worthier sideAlone found vent; pure tastes that had not diedGrew strong, while half-forgotten culture foundA sudden use, and from all things aroundIncreased its wealth. I think that he enjoyedHis power over me; his strong soul toyedWith my soft malleable mind, which had,In spite of degradations many and sad,Affinities of taste, and could admireAnd understand him. Oh what strength and fireBeneath his quiet ways! What scorn could burstFrom his cold lip! what ceaseless ceaseless thirstHe had for knowledge! Even as my mindGrew intimate with his, new worlds definedTheir shape on my horizon, like the greyFaint, shadowy Greek Isles which far awayLoomed through the mists of dawn, but which became,As we approached them in the sunrise flame,Each minute more distinct.We seldom stayedLong in one self-same spot; but we obeyedThe needs of Strongclyffe’s studies, which entailedResearch in many places; and we sailedFrom isle to isle, or rode from place to place,Now in the less-known parts of Greece and Thrace,And now in rocky Lydia. Oh, what fieldsWhere men dig gold, what far Golconda yieldsSuch wealth, such gems, as those impoverished plainsIn which the spade turns up the scant remainsOf bygone genius; where the obedient earth,Summoned to yield her buried dead, gives birth,As if compelled by an enchanter’s rod,To what is ever young—now to some godIn all his strength and beauty, now to someFantastic child of Pan, who seems fresh comeFrom dewy woods that long have ceased to be?And Strongclyffe had the art to make one seeThe hidden through the seen—to reconstructPast life and loveliness, and to conductThe mind through perished worlds; and everywhereHe showed the same keen interest and a rarePersistence of research. Yet what he didSeemed somehow trifling; oft I thought it hidHigher preoccupation—some great aimWhich time was ripening; so that when there cameOne day a sudden change in him—when allWas thrown aside, and when I heard him callUpon my help, with triumph on his lips,In a great enterprise which should eclipseEven the greatest, I received his wordsNot wholly unprepared.How my heart’s chordsVibrate as I recall them! ’Twas aboutThe third year’s close; and we were sitting outUpon our terrace looking on the seaAt Thyna, after sundown. Purposely,As I now fancy, Strongclyffe had led onOur idle talk to what might yet be wonBack by mankind, of the great wreck we callAntiquity; and then we talked of allThat splendid half of antique art which mustFrom the materials used have turned to dustAlmost as soon as did the artist’s hands.Where be thy works, Apelles? where now stands,Phidias, thy gold and ivory gems, renownedThrough the broad world? and where stands she who ownedAs her fit seat the new-born Parthenon,Thy gold and ivory Pallas? What would manNot give to-day if only he could scanIn one short glimpse the splendour of that shapeWhich Fancy’s restorations vainly ape,If he for one short minute could beholdThat ivory face, that drapery of goldAs Phidias modelled it?“And yet,” I said,“That Art was not so frail; for I have readThat that same effigy of Pallas, sparedFrom age to age, existed unimpairedTill the Crusaders, under Baldwin, tookAnd sacked Constantinople.”A strange lookFlashed out from Strongclyffe’s eyes. “There is no truthIn that old tale,” he answered; “and Time’s toothStill spared the statue when it many a yearHad gnawed the bones of Baldwin in his bier,Ay, and of Baldwin’s sons.”“How know you that?”I asked.He left the bench on which we sat,And with a strange excitement he beganTo pace the terrace. “I am not the man,”He cried, “to make rash statements; yet I sayDeliberately, Percy, that to-dayThat Pallas still exists. Oh, Earth has stillSurprises for mankind; and with God’s willAnd patient work, the world shall see her yet!Think not that I am mad: wait till I setMy proofs before your eyes. When you beholdThe text in John Ionides, the oldByzantine Chronicler, which had defiedAll guesses to this day, and by its sideA certain passage in the life of PaulOf Trebizond—and when you’ve counted allThe links of evidence which year by yearI have augmented both at home and here,Until I now have found the very spot—Then call me mad. ’Tis years since I have gotThe certainty that long ere Baldwin’s sackThe Emperor, in fear of some attackUpon the palace, had her safe conveyedBy vessel to a distance, and (by aidOf trusty workmen) carefully concealedIn crypts beneath a temple. Nought revealedThe secret at the time; the Emperor diedSoon after; and, none caring to unhideThe statue, men forgot her. But where layThe temple—or the ruins which to-dayNo doubt replace it? Here I seemed to loseMy way and reach mere nothing. All my cluesLed to one spot—Thelopis; and that spot,In spite of all my search, I found it not.Oh, with what patience in these three long yearsHave I not sought! Oh, with what hopes and fearsHave I not searched the present and the pastTo find that place Thelopis! And at lastI have found out. Thelopis was a town,If town it could be called, that was burnt downTen centuries ago, and where has grownThe present village Thos—the place that isNearest the temple of Peripolis:The temple is Peripolis. And see,The distance and direction both agree:The passage says, ‘a five days’ eastward sail,And then three days of road.’ No clues now fail;There under Peripolis, girt roundBy solitude and silence, will be foundThe gold and ivory Pallas. Oh, I knowThat you will answer that she long agoMust have become mere shapeless mouldering dust—That after seven centuries she mustHave blent with earth; and yet I say she standsAs grand and splendid as when all Greek landsFirst hailed her beauty! Do you think that theyWho used such pains, in safety to conveyAnd hide her in that distant spot, would spareThe slight pains needed to exclude the airAnd ward away the damp? Again I sayShe lives—she lives!”And so the following dayWe started for Peripolis—a longAnd arduous journey; for it lies amongWild unfrequented mountains, in a smallAnd fever-stricken plain. The hills are allPossessed by tribes which, though uncouth and wild,Are not unfriendly. When you once have toiledThrough the last defiles, and behold the loneStill distant ruins below you, that seem thrownThere to die slow, like those whom in its hasteA routed host abandons in the waste,There creeps across your soul a sort of fear,A sense of isolation such as ne’erHas filled your heart. The broken columns throwTheir shadows on bare shingle; nought will growFor miles around save thin scorched grass that feedsA few lean goats, and some few clumps of reedsWhere there is water. Oh, the tract aroundSpeaks utter desolation; and we foundThe task not easy even to collectThe workmen we required. The heaps of wreckedAnd weed-grown marble where the spade was triedHad more than once been searched, and seemed to hideNought worth men’s pains—at most some shattered bitOf Greco-Roman sculpture; but we litOn some strange crypts; and in a few more daysWe had discovered a bewildering mazeOf subterranean chambers, large and small,And catacomb-like passages, which allWere cut in soft dry stone, and stretched awayFar underground, beyond the ruins that layIn the sun’s light; and all were wholly bare.Strongclyffe at once, pretending not to careFor empty crypts, employed the men elsewhere;While he and I, by torch-light and alone,Explored the maze. But sometimes, as loose stoneObstructed here and there the way, we hadA boy to help—a dull half-witted ladOf whom we felt no fear. For days we soughtWith boundless care, but all our searching broughtNothing to light; we sounded every wall,We grew familiar with each inch of allThe lonely crypts; and even Strongclyffe seemedTo grow depressed. But suddenly there gleamedFresh ardour in his eyes: “Look there!” he said,And showed me something like an arrow’s headCut in the wall; a small, scarce visible markWhich led to others like it through the darkPerplexing crypt; and where the last marks wereWe scrutinized the wall with greater care,And found its surface rougher, as if thereIt had been tampered with. “This is the spot,”He whispered. “She is here;” and having gotA pick, he struck. And as, beneath the strokeOf Vulcan’s hammer once, the aching browOf Zeus was cleft for Pallas’ birth, so nowThe stricken cloven stone exposed to sightThe long-sought Goddess; and the flickering lightOf the red torch flashed in a tremulous floodUpon her golden breastplate as she stoodIntact, in all the glory and the glowOf her incomparable beauty.SoWas she discovered; I must now compelMy weak and miserable self to tellHow she was lost. There was no time to lose,And we agreed, or rather Strongclyffe choseThat he should start at once for the chief townOf that wild province, as he long had knownThe there commanding Pasha, to obtainA guard of men; while I was to remainTo watch the workmen. He was to be backWithin three days. Alas! I had no lackOf buoyant thoughts at first; my soul was filledWith our immense success; my nerves still thrilledWith triumph and delight; and the first dayOf Strongclyffe’s absence lightly passed away.The men worked on as usual, and my mindConceived no fear. But when the sun declinedThere crept across my spirit, with the tideOf slowly creeping shadow as day died,A vague uneasiness; and my hands feltFor the revolver hanging at my belt,I thought; and I remembered that when weHad found the prize, we were not two but three.The boy had seen the whole; and though I knewThat he was dull of wit and had no clueTo find the spot again in that vast mazeOf hidden crypts and subterranean ways,I wished he had not seen. The men had goneBack to their distant huts. I sat aloneUpon a broken column; one by oneThe large stars twinkled forth from out the blue;The shattered standing columns dusky grew,And very solemn; and the wakening batBegan to flit around me. As I sat,I thought of Strongclyffe’s generosity;How he had said ere setting out that I,His faithful friend, must have an equal shareIn the world’s praise; that it would not be fairThat I——O God!I gave a strangled shoutAnd fell, dragged backwards by a noose aboutMy throat. Three men were kneeling on my chestBinding me tight with cords, while others pressedAll round about me, uttering no soundAs if all dumb. When I was firmly boundAll save my feet, which, purposely let looseTo let me walk, were in a running noose,One of the men addressed me: “Listen wellTo what I say,” he said. “If you rebelWe take your life; and none can help you now.We have no wish to harm you; but we knowThat you have found a treasure, and have gotThe clue. Lead on.”“I understand you not,”I said.He took a pistol from his sashAnd held it at my ear. “Come, be not rash,”He said, “but lead the way.” Oh, would to GodThat he had fired! But though like a mere clodI still moved not, he did not fire, but placedOnce more the gleaming pistol in his waist,And whispered with the others; then they drewThe cords still tighter round my limbs, and threwMy unresisting body on the bedIn my own hut hard by. “Mark well,” they said,“Ere dawn we come. Thy blood be on thy head!”At first I had no thoughts, nought but the senseOf cramped and swelling limbs, and an intenseDesire to burst my bonds. But by-and-byA sense of infinite calamityBegan to weigh upon me; and at last,The sense came home that time was slipping fast,That I was there to make an awful choice’Twixt Life and Death; and then an inner voiceBegan to state the argument each way,Not clearly, coldly, as I may to-dayDo in this letter, but confused, close-pressed,Repeated and repeated in my breastIn every shape, until my weary brain,Exhausted by the conflict and the pain,Yielded to sleep. And even in my sleepThe struggle still went on; I felt it keepPossession of my dreams, and take the shapeOf shifting nightmare, leaving no escape.I saw the glorious Pallas, calm no more,But threatening and terrific, kneeling o’erMy prostrate body, with red eyes that gleamedSo fiery in the darkness, that it seemedAs if one of the Furies had put onHer golden panoply. Then, wild and wan,I saw the face of Strongclyffe looming outFrom a black whirling gulf; and heard him shoutLike some spent swimmer half sucked down.And thereI think I woke, and with a vague despairResumed the pleadings of each adverse side;While, ever louder, something in me cried:“Choose death, choose death! in fifty years from this,When thou art swallowed in the dark abyssOf Time, what will it be to thee or thineWhether thou diedst to-day at twenty-nine,Or knew’st old age? But man whom Time devoursNot, and who lives by centuries, not hours,Will be possessed of one transcendent gift,To add to his small store of things that liftThe soul to higher spheres—a gift from whichWill flow perennial charm for poor and rich,For young and old. If but mankind could knowThat some great treasure lost long, long ago—A famed Greek play, for instance—had been lostBecause a certain man had grudged the costOf his brief life to save it, that man’s name,For ever handed down in scorn and shame,Would be all nations’ by-word. Who can sayThat some great work which man enjoys to-day—The Melos statue, Hamlet or Macbeth,Or the Gioconda—was not saved from death,In some great unknown peril that it ran,By some unknown, unthanked and nameless manWho gave his life instead? And then, in placeOf something rarer yet, wouldst have the faceTo give the world thy mean half-wasted lifeWith which it can do nought? Thou hast no wife,No child to need thy care. Choose death, choose death,While yet ’tis time!”But oh the pleasant breathOf life; the strong, strong stream of youth and healthThat bounds along the veins; the unused wealthOf what we call the Future, with its schemes,Emotions, friendships, loves, surprises, dreams;The thing we call Identity, the ITo which the wretched cling, they know not why,And which no evils press me to destroy;The simple pleasures which I now enjoy—What, give up all? What right has Fate, what right,To thrust me from Life’s hearth into the night,The darkness and the cold? What right or needHas Fate to come, and while I sit and readLife’s pleasant page, to summon me to shutThe open book, and leave two thirds uncut?Who dares to tell me that a living manWhom God has made, who feels the cool winds fanHis heated brow, is not in God’s sight worthA thing that is man’s work, upon this earth?My life is mended now; each passing dayNow rolls, though idly, harmlessly away.The bright green fields, the flowers and the trees,The rippling streams, the sun, the passing breeze,The million things that in their life rejoiceAnd gladden mine, call out with mighty voice,“Choose life, choose life!”And when at dawn they came,And bade me show the spot—O shame! O shame!I nodded an assent. Oh let me now,With shame’s familiar brand upon my brow,For once spare my base self, and hurry byThose monstrous minutes! Slowly, silently,I led them to the spot. I saw their eyesWith excusable rapture scan the prizeTo which their souls were dead. I saw them takeTheir hatchets in their impious hands, and breakInto small fragments hideous to behold,And shapeless dust of ivory and of gold,The beauty which the world would have despairedTo match, and twenty centuries had sparedIn vain—in vain! Awhile, I think, I heardFerocious wrangling, oath and threatening wordOver the booty; but my sickened brainTook little note. And when I sought againTo see and hear and think, all sounds had ceased;I was alone, and free.And—O mean beast,Mean coward that I was!—I dared not faceThe sight of Strongclyffe; but I fled the place,Leaving a letter; and in guilt and fear,Just like a thief, stole back to England here,Alone with my incomparable debt.He never saw me more; although we metIn these o’er-crowded London streets one day,And oh how changed he was—how old and greyHe had become, though scarce two years had passedOver his head since I had seen him last!He saw me not, but passed with vacant eye;While I, as if to vanish bodilyInto the solid stones, shrank to the wall.He now is dead—and I? Oh, does not allCompel me too to die? What have I done,In these ten years of anguish, to atoneFor having chosen life? What use—what goodHave I been to mankind since first I stoodSo fatally and wholly in its debt?What drops of compensation have I yetWrung out of my weak worthless self, and castInto the deep abyss? Oh, I have passedA cruel, cruel time! And year by yearI feel less wish to live, less strength to bearThe weight of my immense insolvency.And in the street as each man passes byI mutter to myself, “If he but knewWhat he has lost, would he not stop and sueFor what can ne’er be paid, and cry, ‘Come forth!And show thyself to men, what thou art worth!Thou art the thing which men have got insteadOf the Incomparable: raise thy head!’”

I had passedSix idle years since taking my degree,When I fell in at Athens casuallyWith one called Richard Strongclyffe, who had beenMy college friend, but whom I had not seenSince then, and who meanwhile had made a nameThrough study of Greek Art. We soon becameAs intimate as of old; and as no claimOf work or pleasure summoned me elsewhere,He let me roam through Greece with him, and shareHis own strong daily life—the sheer reverseOf my accustomed life of waste, and worseThan waste, the aimless life of which my soulWas more than sick; it had become so foul.He had an iron will; his hand was rough;His heart was gentle. God had used strong stuffIn making him—weak stuff in making me.And yet I was not worthless utterly.Spite all my sins there were some better stringsIn my weak heart; the wind of angels’ wingsMade them vibrate—but with faint echo, likeÆolian chords that gusts too fitful strike.Mine is a double nature, which dependsWholly on its surroundings, and which blendsWith good or evil, with the low or high,With the same drifting weak facility.In Strongclyffe’s hands my nature’s worthier sideAlone found vent; pure tastes that had not diedGrew strong, while half-forgotten culture foundA sudden use, and from all things aroundIncreased its wealth. I think that he enjoyedHis power over me; his strong soul toyedWith my soft malleable mind, which had,In spite of degradations many and sad,Affinities of taste, and could admireAnd understand him. Oh what strength and fireBeneath his quiet ways! What scorn could burstFrom his cold lip! what ceaseless ceaseless thirstHe had for knowledge! Even as my mindGrew intimate with his, new worlds definedTheir shape on my horizon, like the greyFaint, shadowy Greek Isles which far awayLoomed through the mists of dawn, but which became,As we approached them in the sunrise flame,Each minute more distinct.

We seldom stayedLong in one self-same spot; but we obeyedThe needs of Strongclyffe’s studies, which entailedResearch in many places; and we sailedFrom isle to isle, or rode from place to place,Now in the less-known parts of Greece and Thrace,And now in rocky Lydia. Oh, what fieldsWhere men dig gold, what far Golconda yieldsSuch wealth, such gems, as those impoverished plainsIn which the spade turns up the scant remainsOf bygone genius; where the obedient earth,Summoned to yield her buried dead, gives birth,As if compelled by an enchanter’s rod,To what is ever young—now to some godIn all his strength and beauty, now to someFantastic child of Pan, who seems fresh comeFrom dewy woods that long have ceased to be?And Strongclyffe had the art to make one seeThe hidden through the seen—to reconstructPast life and loveliness, and to conductThe mind through perished worlds; and everywhereHe showed the same keen interest and a rarePersistence of research. Yet what he didSeemed somehow trifling; oft I thought it hidHigher preoccupation—some great aimWhich time was ripening; so that when there cameOne day a sudden change in him—when allWas thrown aside, and when I heard him callUpon my help, with triumph on his lips,In a great enterprise which should eclipseEven the greatest, I received his wordsNot wholly unprepared.

How my heart’s chordsVibrate as I recall them! ’Twas aboutThe third year’s close; and we were sitting outUpon our terrace looking on the seaAt Thyna, after sundown. Purposely,As I now fancy, Strongclyffe had led onOur idle talk to what might yet be wonBack by mankind, of the great wreck we callAntiquity; and then we talked of allThat splendid half of antique art which mustFrom the materials used have turned to dustAlmost as soon as did the artist’s hands.Where be thy works, Apelles? where now stands,Phidias, thy gold and ivory gems, renownedThrough the broad world? and where stands she who ownedAs her fit seat the new-born Parthenon,Thy gold and ivory Pallas? What would manNot give to-day if only he could scanIn one short glimpse the splendour of that shapeWhich Fancy’s restorations vainly ape,If he for one short minute could beholdThat ivory face, that drapery of goldAs Phidias modelled it?

“And yet,” I said,“That Art was not so frail; for I have readThat that same effigy of Pallas, sparedFrom age to age, existed unimpairedTill the Crusaders, under Baldwin, tookAnd sacked Constantinople.”

A strange lookFlashed out from Strongclyffe’s eyes. “There is no truthIn that old tale,” he answered; “and Time’s toothStill spared the statue when it many a yearHad gnawed the bones of Baldwin in his bier,Ay, and of Baldwin’s sons.”

“How know you that?”I asked.

He left the bench on which we sat,And with a strange excitement he beganTo pace the terrace. “I am not the man,”He cried, “to make rash statements; yet I sayDeliberately, Percy, that to-dayThat Pallas still exists. Oh, Earth has stillSurprises for mankind; and with God’s willAnd patient work, the world shall see her yet!Think not that I am mad: wait till I setMy proofs before your eyes. When you beholdThe text in John Ionides, the oldByzantine Chronicler, which had defiedAll guesses to this day, and by its sideA certain passage in the life of PaulOf Trebizond—and when you’ve counted allThe links of evidence which year by yearI have augmented both at home and here,Until I now have found the very spot—Then call me mad. ’Tis years since I have gotThe certainty that long ere Baldwin’s sackThe Emperor, in fear of some attackUpon the palace, had her safe conveyedBy vessel to a distance, and (by aidOf trusty workmen) carefully concealedIn crypts beneath a temple. Nought revealedThe secret at the time; the Emperor diedSoon after; and, none caring to unhideThe statue, men forgot her. But where layThe temple—or the ruins which to-dayNo doubt replace it? Here I seemed to loseMy way and reach mere nothing. All my cluesLed to one spot—Thelopis; and that spot,In spite of all my search, I found it not.Oh, with what patience in these three long yearsHave I not sought! Oh, with what hopes and fearsHave I not searched the present and the pastTo find that place Thelopis! And at lastI have found out. Thelopis was a town,If town it could be called, that was burnt downTen centuries ago, and where has grownThe present village Thos—the place that isNearest the temple of Peripolis:The temple is Peripolis. And see,The distance and direction both agree:The passage says, ‘a five days’ eastward sail,And then three days of road.’ No clues now fail;There under Peripolis, girt roundBy solitude and silence, will be foundThe gold and ivory Pallas. Oh, I knowThat you will answer that she long agoMust have become mere shapeless mouldering dust—That after seven centuries she mustHave blent with earth; and yet I say she standsAs grand and splendid as when all Greek landsFirst hailed her beauty! Do you think that theyWho used such pains, in safety to conveyAnd hide her in that distant spot, would spareThe slight pains needed to exclude the airAnd ward away the damp? Again I sayShe lives—she lives!”

And so the following dayWe started for Peripolis—a longAnd arduous journey; for it lies amongWild unfrequented mountains, in a smallAnd fever-stricken plain. The hills are allPossessed by tribes which, though uncouth and wild,Are not unfriendly. When you once have toiledThrough the last defiles, and behold the loneStill distant ruins below you, that seem thrownThere to die slow, like those whom in its hasteA routed host abandons in the waste,There creeps across your soul a sort of fear,A sense of isolation such as ne’erHas filled your heart. The broken columns throwTheir shadows on bare shingle; nought will growFor miles around save thin scorched grass that feedsA few lean goats, and some few clumps of reedsWhere there is water. Oh, the tract aroundSpeaks utter desolation; and we foundThe task not easy even to collectThe workmen we required. The heaps of wreckedAnd weed-grown marble where the spade was triedHad more than once been searched, and seemed to hideNought worth men’s pains—at most some shattered bitOf Greco-Roman sculpture; but we litOn some strange crypts; and in a few more daysWe had discovered a bewildering mazeOf subterranean chambers, large and small,And catacomb-like passages, which allWere cut in soft dry stone, and stretched awayFar underground, beyond the ruins that layIn the sun’s light; and all were wholly bare.Strongclyffe at once, pretending not to careFor empty crypts, employed the men elsewhere;While he and I, by torch-light and alone,Explored the maze. But sometimes, as loose stoneObstructed here and there the way, we hadA boy to help—a dull half-witted ladOf whom we felt no fear. For days we soughtWith boundless care, but all our searching broughtNothing to light; we sounded every wall,We grew familiar with each inch of allThe lonely crypts; and even Strongclyffe seemedTo grow depressed. But suddenly there gleamedFresh ardour in his eyes: “Look there!” he said,And showed me something like an arrow’s headCut in the wall; a small, scarce visible markWhich led to others like it through the darkPerplexing crypt; and where the last marks wereWe scrutinized the wall with greater care,And found its surface rougher, as if thereIt had been tampered with. “This is the spot,”He whispered. “She is here;” and having gotA pick, he struck. And as, beneath the strokeOf Vulcan’s hammer once, the aching browOf Zeus was cleft for Pallas’ birth, so nowThe stricken cloven stone exposed to sightThe long-sought Goddess; and the flickering lightOf the red torch flashed in a tremulous floodUpon her golden breastplate as she stoodIntact, in all the glory and the glowOf her incomparable beauty.

SoWas she discovered; I must now compelMy weak and miserable self to tellHow she was lost. There was no time to lose,And we agreed, or rather Strongclyffe choseThat he should start at once for the chief townOf that wild province, as he long had knownThe there commanding Pasha, to obtainA guard of men; while I was to remainTo watch the workmen. He was to be backWithin three days. Alas! I had no lackOf buoyant thoughts at first; my soul was filledWith our immense success; my nerves still thrilledWith triumph and delight; and the first dayOf Strongclyffe’s absence lightly passed away.The men worked on as usual, and my mindConceived no fear. But when the sun declinedThere crept across my spirit, with the tideOf slowly creeping shadow as day died,A vague uneasiness; and my hands feltFor the revolver hanging at my belt,I thought; and I remembered that when weHad found the prize, we were not two but three.The boy had seen the whole; and though I knewThat he was dull of wit and had no clueTo find the spot again in that vast mazeOf hidden crypts and subterranean ways,I wished he had not seen. The men had goneBack to their distant huts. I sat aloneUpon a broken column; one by oneThe large stars twinkled forth from out the blue;The shattered standing columns dusky grew,And very solemn; and the wakening batBegan to flit around me. As I sat,I thought of Strongclyffe’s generosity;How he had said ere setting out that I,His faithful friend, must have an equal shareIn the world’s praise; that it would not be fairThat I——

O God!

I gave a strangled shoutAnd fell, dragged backwards by a noose aboutMy throat. Three men were kneeling on my chestBinding me tight with cords, while others pressedAll round about me, uttering no soundAs if all dumb. When I was firmly boundAll save my feet, which, purposely let looseTo let me walk, were in a running noose,One of the men addressed me: “Listen wellTo what I say,” he said. “If you rebelWe take your life; and none can help you now.We have no wish to harm you; but we knowThat you have found a treasure, and have gotThe clue. Lead on.”

“I understand you not,”I said.He took a pistol from his sashAnd held it at my ear. “Come, be not rash,”He said, “but lead the way.” Oh, would to GodThat he had fired! But though like a mere clodI still moved not, he did not fire, but placedOnce more the gleaming pistol in his waist,And whispered with the others; then they drewThe cords still tighter round my limbs, and threwMy unresisting body on the bedIn my own hut hard by. “Mark well,” they said,“Ere dawn we come. Thy blood be on thy head!”

At first I had no thoughts, nought but the senseOf cramped and swelling limbs, and an intenseDesire to burst my bonds. But by-and-byA sense of infinite calamityBegan to weigh upon me; and at last,The sense came home that time was slipping fast,That I was there to make an awful choice’Twixt Life and Death; and then an inner voiceBegan to state the argument each way,Not clearly, coldly, as I may to-dayDo in this letter, but confused, close-pressed,Repeated and repeated in my breastIn every shape, until my weary brain,Exhausted by the conflict and the pain,Yielded to sleep. And even in my sleepThe struggle still went on; I felt it keepPossession of my dreams, and take the shapeOf shifting nightmare, leaving no escape.I saw the glorious Pallas, calm no more,But threatening and terrific, kneeling o’erMy prostrate body, with red eyes that gleamedSo fiery in the darkness, that it seemedAs if one of the Furies had put onHer golden panoply. Then, wild and wan,I saw the face of Strongclyffe looming outFrom a black whirling gulf; and heard him shoutLike some spent swimmer half sucked down.And thereI think I woke, and with a vague despairResumed the pleadings of each adverse side;While, ever louder, something in me cried:“Choose death, choose death! in fifty years from this,When thou art swallowed in the dark abyssOf Time, what will it be to thee or thineWhether thou diedst to-day at twenty-nine,Or knew’st old age? But man whom Time devoursNot, and who lives by centuries, not hours,Will be possessed of one transcendent gift,To add to his small store of things that liftThe soul to higher spheres—a gift from whichWill flow perennial charm for poor and rich,For young and old. If but mankind could knowThat some great treasure lost long, long ago—A famed Greek play, for instance—had been lostBecause a certain man had grudged the costOf his brief life to save it, that man’s name,For ever handed down in scorn and shame,Would be all nations’ by-word. Who can sayThat some great work which man enjoys to-day—The Melos statue, Hamlet or Macbeth,Or the Gioconda—was not saved from death,In some great unknown peril that it ran,By some unknown, unthanked and nameless manWho gave his life instead? And then, in placeOf something rarer yet, wouldst have the faceTo give the world thy mean half-wasted lifeWith which it can do nought? Thou hast no wife,No child to need thy care. Choose death, choose death,While yet ’tis time!”

But oh the pleasant breathOf life; the strong, strong stream of youth and healthThat bounds along the veins; the unused wealthOf what we call the Future, with its schemes,Emotions, friendships, loves, surprises, dreams;The thing we call Identity, the ITo which the wretched cling, they know not why,And which no evils press me to destroy;The simple pleasures which I now enjoy—What, give up all? What right has Fate, what right,To thrust me from Life’s hearth into the night,The darkness and the cold? What right or needHas Fate to come, and while I sit and readLife’s pleasant page, to summon me to shutThe open book, and leave two thirds uncut?Who dares to tell me that a living manWhom God has made, who feels the cool winds fanHis heated brow, is not in God’s sight worthA thing that is man’s work, upon this earth?My life is mended now; each passing dayNow rolls, though idly, harmlessly away.The bright green fields, the flowers and the trees,The rippling streams, the sun, the passing breeze,The million things that in their life rejoiceAnd gladden mine, call out with mighty voice,“Choose life, choose life!”

And when at dawn they came,And bade me show the spot—O shame! O shame!I nodded an assent. Oh let me now,With shame’s familiar brand upon my brow,For once spare my base self, and hurry byThose monstrous minutes! Slowly, silently,I led them to the spot. I saw their eyesWith excusable rapture scan the prizeTo which their souls were dead. I saw them takeTheir hatchets in their impious hands, and breakInto small fragments hideous to behold,And shapeless dust of ivory and of gold,The beauty which the world would have despairedTo match, and twenty centuries had sparedIn vain—in vain! Awhile, I think, I heardFerocious wrangling, oath and threatening wordOver the booty; but my sickened brainTook little note. And when I sought againTo see and hear and think, all sounds had ceased;I was alone, and free.

And—O mean beast,Mean coward that I was!—I dared not faceThe sight of Strongclyffe; but I fled the place,Leaving a letter; and in guilt and fear,Just like a thief, stole back to England here,Alone with my incomparable debt.He never saw me more; although we metIn these o’er-crowded London streets one day,And oh how changed he was—how old and greyHe had become, though scarce two years had passedOver his head since I had seen him last!He saw me not, but passed with vacant eye;While I, as if to vanish bodilyInto the solid stones, shrank to the wall.He now is dead—and I? Oh, does not allCompel me too to die? What have I done,In these ten years of anguish, to atoneFor having chosen life? What use—what goodHave I been to mankind since first I stoodSo fatally and wholly in its debt?What drops of compensation have I yetWrung out of my weak worthless self, and castInto the deep abyss? Oh, I have passedA cruel, cruel time! And year by yearI feel less wish to live, less strength to bearThe weight of my immense insolvency.And in the street as each man passes byI mutter to myself, “If he but knewWhat he has lost, would he not stop and sueFor what can ne’er be paid, and cry, ‘Come forth!And show thyself to men, what thou art worth!Thou art the thing which men have got insteadOf the Incomparable: raise thy head!’”

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