Unto Earth’s verge, beyond the farthest sea,Vistas of Heaven, and well-springs of the dark,To the Sun’s ancient garden.
Unto Earth’s verge, beyond the farthest sea,Vistas of Heaven, and well-springs of the dark,To the Sun’s ancient garden.
Unto Earth’s verge, beyond the farthest sea,Vistas of Heaven, and well-springs of the dark,To the Sun’s ancient garden.
Unto Earth’s verge, beyond the farthest sea,
Vistas of Heaven, and well-springs of the dark,
To the Sun’s ancient garden.
In 1907 there came to light at Oxyrhynchus in Egypt considerable fragments[391]of two Sophoclean dramas.
Most of these once formed part of theIchneutæ(Ἰχνευταί) orDetectives. Formerly we had only two brief and obscure fragments, and one word quoted by Athenæus; it was known that the play was satyric. The theme was quite uncertain; and conjecture[392]is now shown to have gone quite astray. Sophocles, we find, has dramatized the myth so admirably treated in the HomericHymn to Hermes. A considerable portion of the work can now be read. The god Apollo announces that his cattle have been stolen and that he cannot trace them; he offers a reward to anyone who catches the thief. Silenus and the chorus of satyrs undertake the quest; they are the “trackers” from whom the play is named. After a time they spy the footprints of oxen and exclaim that “some god is leading the colony”. A noise[393]which they cannot understand is heard behind the scenes. The numerous tracks now give them trouble; they point backwards here and there—“an odd confusion must have possessed the herdsman!” Next the satyrs fall on their faces, to the amazement of Silenus who likens this “trick of hunting on your stomach” to the position of “a hedgehog in a bush”. They bid him listen; he importantly replies that they are not helping “my investigation,” loses his temper, and roundly revilestheir cowardice. They recover themselves and soon arrive at a cave. Silenus kicks at the door until the nymph Cyllene comes forth. She protests against their boisterous behaviour, but is appeased by their apologies. When they ask the meaning of the strange sound, Cyllene reports the birth of the god Hermes whom she is tending within, and his amazingly rapid growth. The noise is produced by the babe from “a vessel filled with pleasure made from a dead beast”. The “detectives” are still perplexed; what is this creature? The goddess describes the creature in riddling language. They make laughably divergent guesses: a cat, a panther, a lizard, a crab, a big-horned beetle; and at last they are told that the beast is a tortoise. She describes the delight[394]which the child draws from his playing. The satyrs inform Cyllene that her nursling is the thief; she indignantly denies that a son of Zeus can have so acted, and takes the accusation as a joke. They vigorously repeat their charge, and begin to quarrel with Cyllene. From this point onwards practically nothing can be made of the papyrus-scraps, except that Apollo re-appears, and seems to be giving the “detectives” their reward.
The papyrus which contained the other play, theEurypylus,[395]is in tiny fragments, but some of these, combined with our independent knowledge of the story, enable us to give an outline of the plot. Astyoche, mother of Eurypylus, was induced by Priam to allow her son to help the Trojans against the Greeks. He met Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, in battle and was slain. A messenger related the encounter to (it seems) his mother Astyoche. The body was received by Priam with lamentation as if for a son of his own. This fragment is much the most striking of the collection.
Sophocles’ position in literary history has already been indicated.[396]We shall here discuss his mind and his art in general outline. Of his political opinions little is known. Though his work abounds in saws of statecraft, these are of quite general application;[397]and it would be dangerous to declare which side, if any, he took in the political crises which were so numerous and so grave in fifth-century Athens; there is perhaps one hint[398]that he did not approve the ascendancy of Pericles. As for religion, he seems to have accepted both the orthodox cults of his country and the current beliefs of the ordinary Athenian with little reserve or none. This brings us at once to a fact which must not be ignored—the feeling among readers of our own day, that Sophocles for all his merits is a little too complacent, too urbane, lacking somehow in profundity and real grip upon the soul. The answer is that we come to Sophocles pre-occupied by the religious questionings which fill our own time and which, moreover, interest both Æschylus and Euripides; but there is no reason why Sophocles should share our disquiet or that of his fellow-craftsmen. That which for Æschylus is the foreground of his work, forms for Sophocles only the background. He is not especially interested in religion itself, but in humanity. For Æschylus religion is an affair of the intellect; for Euripides it is an affair of morals; for Sophocles it belongs to the sphere of emotion. And the two great instruments with which he constructs his plays are human emotions and human will. For all the plays which we possess the same genesis exists: the chief character experiences some mighty appeal to the emotions—the feeling of self-respect in Ajax and Œdipus at Athens, of family love in Antigone and Electra, of revengefulness in Philoctetes, of wifely dignity and affectionin Deianira, of pity in Œdipus at Thebes; and then creates drama by the magnificent pathetic staunchness wherewith the will, taking its direction from the emotion so aroused, presses on ruthlessly in its attempt to satisfy this impulse. Nothing seems so dear to him as a purpose which flaunts cold reason, the purpose of any others, and indeed every other emotion save that which has started the action upon its course. He sets before us a person determined on some striking act, and subjects him to all conceivable assaults of reason and preachments on expediency, showing him unbroken throughout. The onslaughts upon Ajax, Antigone, Philoctetes, Œdipus, are not mere stage-rhetoric; they are “sound common-sense,” “appeals to one’s better self”; and no logical denial can be opposed to them. Only one power in man is able to withstand them—the will, taking its stand once for all upon some instinct for clear, simple action. If we never listen to reason we are lost; but if we always listen we are lost equally. That these heroes of the will so often come to misery or death matters little; they have saved their souls alive instead of sinking themselves in a sordid acceptance of a second-hand morality. Over against these figures, to emphasize their defiant grandeur, the poet loves to set persons admirable indeed, but more commonplace, who emerge in the dread hour when the haughty will has brought ruin, and approve themselves as the pivot of the situation. The hero is great and strikes the imagination, but it is on the shoulders of men like Creon in theŒdipus Tyrannus, Odysseus, Hyllus, Theseus in theŒdipus Coloneus, that the real burden of the world’s work may be safely cast. None the less he loves Antigone better than he loves Ismene, Œdipus rather than Theseus. In one place at least, in his dislike for the “reasonable” spirit of compromise, he suffers himself a malicious littlereductio ad absurdum. When Chrysothemis finds Electra uttering her resentment at the palace gate she says:—[399]
Sister! Again? Why standest at the doorHolding this language? Will no span of yearsTeach thee at length to grudge thy foolish spleenSuch empty comfort? Yet mine own heart tooKnows how it sorrows for our present state....I avowThat in thy spirit dwelleth righteousnessNot in my words.Yet, if I would be freeI must in all things bend to those in power.
Sister! Again? Why standest at the doorHolding this language? Will no span of yearsTeach thee at length to grudge thy foolish spleenSuch empty comfort? Yet mine own heart tooKnows how it sorrows for our present state....I avowThat in thy spirit dwelleth righteousnessNot in my words.Yet, if I would be freeI must in all things bend to those in power.
Sister! Again? Why standest at the doorHolding this language? Will no span of yearsTeach thee at length to grudge thy foolish spleenSuch empty comfort? Yet mine own heart tooKnows how it sorrows for our present state....I avowThat in thy spirit dwelleth righteousnessNot in my words.Yet, if I would be freeI must in all things bend to those in power.
Sister! Again? Why standest at the door
Holding this language? Will no span of years
Teach thee at length to grudge thy foolish spleen
Such empty comfort? Yet mine own heart too
Knows how it sorrows for our present state....
I avow
That in thy spirit dwelleth righteousness
Not in my words.Yet, if I would be free
I must in all things bend to those in power.
As for the plots themselves, their main feature is that deliberate complexity which we have called intrigue and which was made possible by the poet’s use of a third actor. After the great achievements of Æschylus it became necessary to add some fresh kind of interest; this Euripides found in a readjustment of sympathies, Sophocles in an increase of dramatic thrill. It is an exciting moment in theTrachiniæwhen, just as Deianira is about to re-enter the palace, the messenger mysteriously draws her apart and reveals the truth about the captive Iole. The magnificent death-scene of Ajax is the outcome of the cunning wherewith he has thrown his friends off the scent. TheElectrais full of this method; the mission of Chrysothemis is turned into a weapon against the murderess who sent her, and the episode of Orestes’ funeral-urn is a magnificent piece of dramatic artistry. In theŒdipus Tyrannusthe king brings about his own fatal illumination by sending for the herdsman. ThePhiloctetes, above all, is filled with the deliberate plotting of Odysseus. The marked increase in complexity which Sophocles’ work thus shows as compared with that of Æschylus is undoubtedly the chief (perhaps the only) reason for his desertion of the trilogy form.[400]Side by side with this attention to mechanism is that curious indifference to the fringes of the plot which we have had occasion to notice in several places.
Another characteristic of Sophocles is that famous “tragic irony” by which again he imparts new power to old themes. It turns to magnificent profit a circumstance which might seem to vitiate dramatic interest—thefact that the spectator knows the myth and therefore cannot be taken by surprise. Between an audience which foresees the event, and the stage-personages who cannot, the playwright sets up a thrilling interest of suspense. He causes his characters to discuss the future they expect in language which is fearfully and exquisitely suitable to the future which actually awaits them. Ajax, while his madness still afflicts him, stands amid the slaughtered cattle and proclaims his triumph over the Greek chieftains, just before he awakes to the truth that by his “triumph” he has ruined himself. More elaborate is the scene in which Deianira explains her stratagem of the robe which is to bring back the love of Heracles. But theŒdipus Tyrannusprovides by far the finest instance. As the king in scene after scene accumulates horror upon his own unconscious head, the spectator receives, always at the right moment and in full measure, the impact of increasing disaster. Yet since his perception is a discovery which he himself has made, horror is tempered by an intellectual glow, a spiritual exaltation.
In the art of iambic verse Sophocles stands beyond all other Greeks unrivalled. Beside him Æschylus sounds almost clumsy, Euripides glib, Aristophanes vulgar. Only Shakespeare has that complete mastery over every shade of emphasis, every possibility of grandeur and simple ease alike. The iambic line in Sophocles’ hands can at will display a haunting romantic loveliness, the profoundest dignity, the sharpest edges of emotion, or the quiet prose of every day. Consider the following lines,[401]which begin near the end of Electra’s long speech of complaint to the chorus:—
ΗΛ. ἐγὼ δ’ Ὀρέστην τῶνδε προσμένουσ’ ἀεὶπαυστῆρ’ ἐφήξειν ἡ τάλαιν’ ἀπόλλυμαι.μέλλων γὰρ ἀεὶ δρᾶν τι τὰς οὔσας τέ μουκαὶ τὰς ἀπούσας ἐλπίδας διέφθορεν.ἐν οὖν τοιούτοις οὔτε σωφρονεῖν, φίλαι,οὔτ’ εὐσεβεῖν πάρεστιν· ἀλλ’ ἔν τοι κακοῖςπολλή ’στ’ ἀνάγκη κἀπιτηδεύειν κακά.ΧΟ. φέρ’ εἰπέ, πότερον ὄντος Αἰγίσθου πέλαςλέγεις τάδ’ ἡμῖν, ἢ βεβῶτος ἐκ δόμων;ΗΛ. ἦ κάρτα μὴ δόκει μ’ ἄν, εἴπερ ἦν πέλας,θυραῖον οἰχνεῖν· νῦν δ’ ἀγροῖσι τυγχάνει.ΧΟ. ἦ κἂν ἐγὼ θαρσοῦσα μᾶλλον ἐς λόγουςτοὺς σοὺς ἱκοίμην, εἴπερ ὧδε ταῦτ’ ἔχει;ΗΛ. ὡς νῦν ἀπόντος ἱστόρει τί σοι φίλον.
ΗΛ. ἐγὼ δ’ Ὀρέστην τῶνδε προσμένουσ’ ἀεὶπαυστῆρ’ ἐφήξειν ἡ τάλαιν’ ἀπόλλυμαι.μέλλων γὰρ ἀεὶ δρᾶν τι τὰς οὔσας τέ μουκαὶ τὰς ἀπούσας ἐλπίδας διέφθορεν.ἐν οὖν τοιούτοις οὔτε σωφρονεῖν, φίλαι,οὔτ’ εὐσεβεῖν πάρεστιν· ἀλλ’ ἔν τοι κακοῖςπολλή ’στ’ ἀνάγκη κἀπιτηδεύειν κακά.ΧΟ. φέρ’ εἰπέ, πότερον ὄντος Αἰγίσθου πέλαςλέγεις τάδ’ ἡμῖν, ἢ βεβῶτος ἐκ δόμων;ΗΛ. ἦ κάρτα μὴ δόκει μ’ ἄν, εἴπερ ἦν πέλας,θυραῖον οἰχνεῖν· νῦν δ’ ἀγροῖσι τυγχάνει.ΧΟ. ἦ κἂν ἐγὼ θαρσοῦσα μᾶλλον ἐς λόγουςτοὺς σοὺς ἱκοίμην, εἴπερ ὧδε ταῦτ’ ἔχει;ΗΛ. ὡς νῦν ἀπόντος ἱστόρει τί σοι φίλον.
ΗΛ. ἐγὼ δ’ Ὀρέστην τῶνδε προσμένουσ’ ἀεὶπαυστῆρ’ ἐφήξειν ἡ τάλαιν’ ἀπόλλυμαι.μέλλων γὰρ ἀεὶ δρᾶν τι τὰς οὔσας τέ μουκαὶ τὰς ἀπούσας ἐλπίδας διέφθορεν.ἐν οὖν τοιούτοις οὔτε σωφρονεῖν, φίλαι,οὔτ’ εὐσεβεῖν πάρεστιν· ἀλλ’ ἔν τοι κακοῖςπολλή ’στ’ ἀνάγκη κἀπιτηδεύειν κακά.ΧΟ. φέρ’ εἰπέ, πότερον ὄντος Αἰγίσθου πέλαςλέγεις τάδ’ ἡμῖν, ἢ βεβῶτος ἐκ δόμων;ΗΛ. ἦ κάρτα μὴ δόκει μ’ ἄν, εἴπερ ἦν πέλας,θυραῖον οἰχνεῖν· νῦν δ’ ἀγροῖσι τυγχάνει.ΧΟ. ἦ κἂν ἐγὼ θαρσοῦσα μᾶλλον ἐς λόγουςτοὺς σοὺς ἱκοίμην, εἴπερ ὧδε ταῦτ’ ἔχει;ΗΛ. ὡς νῦν ἀπόντος ἱστόρει τί σοι φίλον.
ΗΛ. ἐγὼ δ’ Ὀρέστην τῶνδε προσμένουσ’ ἀεὶ
παυστῆρ’ ἐφήξειν ἡ τάλαιν’ ἀπόλλυμαι.
μέλλων γὰρ ἀεὶ δρᾶν τι τὰς οὔσας τέ μου
καὶ τὰς ἀπούσας ἐλπίδας διέφθορεν.
ἐν οὖν τοιούτοις οὔτε σωφρονεῖν, φίλαι,
οὔτ’ εὐσεβεῖν πάρεστιν· ἀλλ’ ἔν τοι κακοῖς
πολλή ’στ’ ἀνάγκη κἀπιτηδεύειν κακά.
ΧΟ. φέρ’ εἰπέ, πότερον ὄντος Αἰγίσθου πέλας
λέγεις τάδ’ ἡμῖν, ἢ βεβῶτος ἐκ δόμων;
ΗΛ. ἦ κάρτα μὴ δόκει μ’ ἄν, εἴπερ ἦν πέλας,
θυραῖον οἰχνεῖν· νῦν δ’ ἀγροῖσι τυγχάνει.
ΧΟ. ἦ κἂν ἐγὼ θαρσοῦσα μᾶλλον ἐς λόγους
τοὺς σοὺς ἱκοίμην, εἴπερ ὧδε ταῦτ’ ἔχει;
ΗΛ. ὡς νῦν ἀπόντος ἱστόρει τί σοι φίλον.
Electra’s speech is solemn poetry. The large number of spondees[402](there are three in the last line), the slow elaboration of the ideas—an elaboration admirably pointed by τοι, which brings the rhythm almost to a standstill—make a strong contrast with the following conversation. There the relaxation of the rhythm is unmistakable; φέρ’ εἰπέ is almost casual in its lightness, and it is at once followed by a tribrach. The rather odd use of the bare dative ἀγροῖσι is a delightfully neat tinge of colloquialism, supported by τυγχάνει. ThePhilocteteswill repay special study from this point of view. There is a remarkable tendency to divide[403]lines between speakers in order to express excitement; this device is elsewhere very uncommon. From this play we may select one example[404]of amazing skill in rhythm. Philoctetes is explaining how he contrives to crawl to and fro in quest of food and the like:—
γαστρὶ μὲν τὰ σύμφορατόξον τόδ’ ἐξηύρισκε, τὰς ὑποπτέρουςβάλλον πελείας· πρὸς δὲ τοῦθ’, ὅ μοι βάλοινευροσπαδὴς ἄτρακτος, αὐτὸς ἂν τάλαςεἰλυόμην δύστηνος ἐξέλκων πόδαπρὸς τοῦτ’ ἄν.
γαστρὶ μὲν τὰ σύμφορατόξον τόδ’ ἐξηύρισκε, τὰς ὑποπτέρουςβάλλον πελείας· πρὸς δὲ τοῦθ’, ὅ μοι βάλοινευροσπαδὴς ἄτρακτος, αὐτὸς ἂν τάλαςεἰλυόμην δύστηνος ἐξέλκων πόδαπρὸς τοῦτ’ ἄν.
γαστρὶ μὲν τὰ σύμφορατόξον τόδ’ ἐξηύρισκε, τὰς ὑποπτέρουςβάλλον πελείας· πρὸς δὲ τοῦθ’, ὅ μοι βάλοινευροσπαδὴς ἄτρακτος, αὐτὸς ἂν τάλαςεἰλυόμην δύστηνος ἐξέλκων πόδαπρὸς τοῦτ’ ἄν.
γαστρὶ μὲν τὰ σύμφορα
τόξον τόδ’ ἐξηύρισκε, τὰς ὑποπτέρους
βάλλον πελείας· πρὸς δὲ τοῦθ’, ὅ μοι βάλοι
νευροσπαδὴς ἄτρακτος, αὐτὸς ἂν τάλας
εἰλυόμην δύστηνος ἐξέλκων πόδα
πρὸς τοῦτ’ ἄν.
The dull repetition of πρὸς τοῦτο and of ἄν; the extremely slow movement of the penultimate line with its three spondees and the word-ending at the close of the second foot; above all, the manner in which the whole dragging sentence leads up to the monosyllable ἄν, so rare at the end of a sentence, and there stops dead, is a marvellous suggestion of the lame man’s painful progress and of the way in which at the end ofhis endurance he falls prone and spent upon the object of his endeavour.
Specially striking phrases are not common. Sophocles obtains his effect not by brilliant strokes of diction, but by the cumulative effect of a sustained manner. There are such dexterities of course, like Antigone’s πόθος τοι καὶ κακῶν ἄρ’ ἦν τις,[405]and the cry of Electra to her brother’s ashes:—[406]
τοίγαρ σὺ δέξαι μ’ ἐς τὸ σὸν τόδε στέγοςτὴν μηδὲν εἰς τὸ μηδέν.
τοίγαρ σὺ δέξαι μ’ ἐς τὸ σὸν τόδε στέγοςτὴν μηδὲν εἰς τὸ μηδέν.
τοίγαρ σὺ δέξαι μ’ ἐς τὸ σὸν τόδε στέγοςτὴν μηδὲν εἰς τὸ μηδέν.
τοίγαρ σὺ δέξαι μ’ ἐς τὸ σὸν τόδε στέγος
τὴν μηδὲν εἰς τὸ μηδέν.
A poet who can, by that infinitesimal change from τὸν μηδέν to τὸ μηδέν, indicate the very soul of grief, may claim to be one of the immortal masters of language.
Modern readers find one great fault in this poet—colourlessness, coldness, an absence of hearty verve; he seems a little too polished and restrained. The truth is that in Sophocles the Attic spirit finds its literary culmination. Æschylus lives in the pre-Periclean world; Euripides is too restless and cosmopolitan to reflect the spirit of one nation only; Plato and Demosthenes belong to the age of disillusionment which came after Ægospotami; and Thucydides, though he shows many Attic qualities, is without limpidity. Anyone, then, who would understand the Athenian genius as embodied in letters must read Sophocles. He will find the most useful commentary in the Parthenon and its friezes, and in the remains of Greek statuary. One of the most marvellous and precious experiences in life is to gaze upon works like the so-called Fates in the British Museum, the Venus of Melos, or the Ludovisi Hera. Many a casual visitor has glanced for the first time at these works and known strong disappointment. A mere piece of marble accurately worked into a female face or figure; majestic to be sure—but is this all? If he will look again he at last perceives that the stone has put on, not merely humanity, but immortality. Aninvisible glow radiates from it like the odour from a flower. We have never found any name for it but Beauty. It is indeed the quintessence of loveliness, delicate as gossamer yet indestructible as granite. So with the tragedies of Sophocles: it is possible to read theŒdipus Tyrannusin certain moods and find it mere frigid elegance. But, as with the beauties of Nature, so with the glories of art, it is the second glance, the lingering of the eye beyond the careless moment, that surprises something of the ultimate secret.
For reticence is one of the notes of Athenian art. No writer ever effected so much with so scanty materials as Sophocles; he carries the art of masterly omission to its extreme. Shakespeare attempts to express everything; the mere exuberance of his phraseology is as wonderful as anything else in his work. But evenKing LearorHamlet, being written by a man, share the weakness of humanity and leave the foundation of life undisclosed. Such a disability may daunt the scientist; it is the salvation of the artist; for the effect of all art rests on co-operation between the maker and the spectator of the work. In literature, then, the author knows that he must omit, and the reader or hearer must supply for himself the contributions of his own heart and experience. How much then is he to omit? On the varying answers to that question rest the different forms of literature and the divergent schools of each form. Sophocles has left more to his hearer than any other writer in the world. Another note of Athenian art is simplicity. It is not crudeness, nornaïveté, nor baldness of style. In a thousand passages of Sophocles, Thucydides, and Plato, the line between savourless banality and the words they have written is fine indeed, but that little means a whole world of art. Many a fine author—Marlowe is a conspicuous example—writes nobly because he writes violently, or with a conscious effort to soar. But let him once trip, and he sprawls in bombast or nerveless garrulity. Simplicity without baldness is the most difficult of all literary excellences, and is yet achievedeverywhere by Sophocles except when he rises to a different level, of which we shall speak later.
Such then is the cause of Sophoclean frigidity and lack of colour. He is led to write so by his Attic frugality and economy of effect, by his knowledge that his audience can follow him into his rarefied atmosphere, and by another cause. In our own time men have looked to art for a “message” from more exciting or more lovely spheres. We talk of “the literature of escape”; for us art must be an expanding influence. The Athenian sought in it a concentrating influence. Each citizen who witnessed theAntigonewas a member of a sovereign assembly; he understood foreign policy at first hand; war or peace depended upon his voice. Many came to watch theAjaxwho had but a while ago fought at Œnophyta or in Egypt. Such men did not need “local colour” and exciting technicalities. Their own lives were full of great events. What they asked of art was serenity, profundity, to blend their own scattered experiences into one noble picture of life itself, life made beautiful because so wonderfully comprehended. This was the function of Sophocles and his brother-craftsmen.
Beyond the normal lucid beauty of lyrics and dialogue, and beyond the frequent outpourings of splendid eloquence in long speeches, there is a still higher level of poetry which should be noted. Now and again his pages are filled with an unearthly splendour. Reference has been made before to certain isolated lines which combine utter simplicity with bewildering charm.[407]But here and there the poet has given us whole speeches in this divine manner. They are always a comment on the matter in hand, but they are conceived in the spirit of one who “contemplates all time and all existence,”who stands apart from man and sees him in his place amid the workings of the universe. One of these ethereal utterances is the speech[408]of Œdipus to Theseus who has expressed his doubt whether Thebes will ever desert the friendship of Athens; it begins:—
Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heavenComes no old age nor death of anything;All else is turmoiled by our master Time.The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades,Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower.And who shall find in the open streets of menOr secret places of his own heart’s loveOne wind blow true for ever?
Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heavenComes no old age nor death of anything;All else is turmoiled by our master Time.The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades,Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower.And who shall find in the open streets of menOr secret places of his own heart’s loveOne wind blow true for ever?
Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heavenComes no old age nor death of anything;All else is turmoiled by our master Time.The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades,Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower.And who shall find in the open streets of menOr secret places of his own heart’s loveOne wind blow true for ever?
Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heaven
Comes no old age nor death of anything;
All else is turmoiled by our master Time.
The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades,
Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower.
And who shall find in the open streets of men
Or secret places of his own heart’s love
One wind blow true for ever?
More personal, but instinct with the same glow of imaginative beauty is the soliloquy[409]of Ajax when at the point of death. It is in passages like these that one realizes the value of the restraint which obtains elsewhere; when the author gives his voice full scope the effect is heartshaking. Ajax’ appeal to the sun-god to “check his gold-embossed rein” fills with splendour at a word the heavens which were lowering with horror. It recalls Marlowe’s lines of the same type and effect though in different application, which suffuse the agony of Faust with bitter glory:—
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of HeavenThat time may cease, and midnight never come!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of HeavenThat time may cease, and midnight never come!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of HeavenThat time may cease, and midnight never come!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of Heaven
That time may cease, and midnight never come!
The greatest achievement of Sophocles was, however, reserved till the close of his life. The messenger’s speech,[410]narrating the last moments of Œdipus, is the culmination in Greek of whatever miracles human language can compass in exciting awe and delight. The poet has bent all his mastery of tense idiom, of varied and haunting rhythm, all his instinct for the pathos of life and the mystery of fate, to produce one mighty uplifting of the hearer into the region where emotion and intellect are no longer opposed but mingle into something for which we have no name but “Life”.