About that strangest, saddest, sweetest songI, when a girl, heard in Kameiros once,And, after, saved my life by? Oh, so gladTo tell you the adventure!Petalé,Phullis, Charopé, Chrusion! You must know,This "after" fell in that unhappy timeWhen poor reluctant Nikias, pushed by fate,Went falteringly against Syracuse;And there shamed Athens, lost her ships and men,And gained a grave, or death without a grave.I was at Rhodes—the isle, not Rhodes the town,Mine was Kameiros—when the news arrived:Our people rose in tumult, cried, "No moreDuty to Athens, let us join the LeagueAnd side-with Sparta, share the spoil,—at worst,Abjure a headship that will ruin Greece!"And so, they sent to Knidos for a fleetTo come and help revolters. Ere help came,—Girl as I was, and never out of RhodesThe whole of my first fourteen years of life,But nourished with Ilissian mother's-milk,—I passionately cried to who would hearAnd those who loved me at Kameiros—"No!Never throw Athens off for Sparta's sake—Never disloyal to the life and lightOf the whole world worth calling world at all!Rather go die at Athens, lie outstretchedFor feet to trample on, before the gateOf Diomedes or the Hippadai,Before the temples and among the tombs,Than tolerate the grim felicityOf harsh Lakonia! Ours the fasts and feasts,Choës and Chutroi; ours the sacred grove,Agora, Dikasteria, Poikilé,Pnux, Keramikos; Salamis in sight,Psuttalia, Marathon itself, not far!Ours the great Dionusiac theatre,And tragic triad of immortal fames,Aischulos, Sophokles, Euripides!To Athens, all of us that have a soul,Follow me!" And I wrought so with my prayer,That certain of my kinsfolk crossed the straitAnd found a ship at Kaunos; well-disposedBecause the Captain—where did he draw breathFirst but within Psuttalia? Thither fledA few like-minded as ourselves. We turnedThe glad prow westward, soon were out at sea,Pushing, brave ship with the vermilion cheek,Proud for our heart's true harbor. But a windLay ambushed by Point Malea of bad fame,And leapt out, bent us from our course. Next dayBroke stormless, so broke next blue day and next."But whither bound in this white waste?" we plaguedThe pilot's old experience: "Cos or Crete?"Because he promised us the land ahead.While we strained eyes to share in what he saw,The Captain's shout startled us; round we rushed:What hung behind us but a pirate-shipPanting for the good prize! "Row! harder row!Row for dear life!" the Captain cried: "'t is Crete,Friendly Crete looming large there! Beat this craftThat 's but a keles, one-benched pirate-bark,Lokrian, or that bad breed off Thessaly!Only, so cruel are such water-thieves,No man of you, no woman, child, or slave,But falls their prey, once let them board our boat!"So, furiously our oarsmen rowed and rowed:And when the oars nagged somewhat, dash and dip,As we approached the coast and safety, soThat we could hear behind us plain the threatsAnd curses of the pirate panting upIn one more throe and passion of pursuit,—Seeing our oars flag in the rise and fall,I sprang upon the altar by the mastAnd sang aloft—some genius prompting me—That song of ours which saved at Salamis:"O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free,Free your wives, free your children, free the fanesO' the Gods, your fathers founded,—sepulchresThey sleep in! Or save all, or all be lost!"Then, in a frenzy, so the noble oarsChurned the black water white, that well awayWe drew, soon saw land rise, saw hills grow up,Saw spread itself a sea-wide town with towers,Not fifty stadia distant; and, betwixtA large bay and a small, the islet-bar,Even Ortugia's self—oh, luckless we!For here was Sicily and Syracuse:We ran upon the lion from the wolf.Ere we drew breath, took counsel, out there cameA galley, hailed us. "Who asks entry hereIn war-time? Are you Sparta's friend or foe?""Kaunians,"—our Captain judged his best reply,"The mainland-seaport that belongs to Rhodes;Rhodes that casts in her lot now with the League,Forsaking Athens,—you have heard belike!""Ay, but we heard all Athens in one odeJust now! we heard her in that Aischulos!You bring a boatful of Athenians here,Kaunians although you be: and prudence bids,For Kaunos' sake, why, carry them unhurtTo Kaunos, if you will: for Athens' sake,Back must you, though ten pirates blocked the bay!We want no colony from Athens here,With memories of Salamis, forsooth,To spirit up our captives, that pale crowdI' the quarry, whom the daily pint of cornKeeps in good order and submissiveness."Then the gray Captain prayed them by the Gods,And by their own knees, and their fathers' beards,They should not wickedly thrust suppliants back,But save the innocent on traffic bound—Or, maybe, some Athenian familyPerishing of desire to die at home,—From that vile foe still lying on its oars,Waiting the issue in the distance. Vain!Words to the wind! And we were just aboutTo turn and face the foe, as some tired birdBarbarians pelt at, drive with shouts awayFrom shelter in what rocks, however rude,She makes for, to escape the kindled eye,Split beak, crook'd claw o' the creature, cormorantOr ossifrage, that, hardly baffled, hangsAfloat i' the foam, to take her if she turn.So were we at destruction's very edge,When those o' the galley, as they had discussedA point, a question raised by somebody,A matter mooted in a moment,—"Wait!"Cried they (and wait we did, you may be sure)."That song was veritable Aischulos,Familiar to the mouth of man and boy,Old glory: how about Euripides?The newer and not yet so famous bard,He that was born upon the battle-dayWhile that song and the salpinx sounded himInto the world, first sound, at Salamis—Might you know any of his verses too?"Now, some one of the Gods inspired this speech:Since ourselves knew what happened but last year—How, when Gulippos gained his victoryOver poor Nikias, poor Demosthenes,And Syracuse condemned the conquered forceTo dig and starve i' the quarry, branded them—Freeborn Athenians, brute-like in the frontWith horse-head brands,—ah, "Region of the Steed"!—Of all these men immersed in misery,It was found none had been advantaged soBy aught in the past life he used to prizeAnd pride himself concerning,—no rich manBy riches, no wise man by wisdom, noWiser man still (as who loved more the Muse)By storing, at brain's edge and tip of tongue,Old glory, great plays that had long agoMade themselves wings to fly about the world,—Not one such man was helped so at his needAs certain few that (wisest they of all)Had, at first summons, oped heart, flung door wideAt the new knocking of Euripides,Nor drawn the bolt with who cried "Decadence!And, after Sophokles, be nature dumb!"Such,—and I see in it God Bacchos' boonTo souls that recognized his latest child,He who himself, born latest of the Gods,Was stoutly held impostor by mankind,—Such were in safety: any who could speakA chorus to the end, or prologize,Roll out a rhesis, wield some golden lengthStiffened by wisdom out into a line,Or thrust and parry in bright monostich,Teaching Euripides to Syracuse—Any such happy man had prompt reward:If he lay bleeding on the battlefieldThey stanched his wounds and gave him drink and food;If he were slave i' the house, for reverenceThey rose up, bowed to who proved master now,And bade him go free, thank Euripides!Ay, and such did so: many such, he said,Returning home to Athens, sought him out,The old bard in the solitary house,And thanked him ere they went to sacrifice.I say, we knew that story of last year!Therefore, at mention of Euripides,The Captain crowed out, "Euoi, praise the God!Oöp, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore!Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands,Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl!Euripides! Babai! what a word there 'scapedYour teeth's enclosure, quoth my grandsire's song!Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through,Has she been falling thick in flakes of him!Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said.Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech!Now it was some whole passion of a play;Now, peradventure, but a honey-dropThat slipt its comb i' the chorus. If there roseA star, before I could determine steerSouthward or northward—if a cloud surprisedHeaven, ere I fairly hollaed 'Furl the sail!'—She had at fingers' end both cloud and star;Some thought that perched there, tame and tunable,Fitted with wings; and still, as off it flew,'So sang Euripides,' she said, 'so sangThe meteoric poet of air and sea,Planets and the pale populace of heaven,The mind of man, and all that 's made to soar!'And so, although she has some other name,We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower,Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burnsI' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree,Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose,You shall find food, drink, odor, all at once;Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow,And, never much away, the nightingale.Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,Down to the verse that ends all, proverb-like,And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name!"But I cried, "Brother Greek! better than so,—Save us, and I have courage to reciteThe main of a whole play from first to last;That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his,Alkestis; which was taught, long years agoAt Athens, in Glaukinos' archonship,But only this year reached our Isle o' the Rose.I saw it at Kameiros; played the same,They say, as for the right Lenean feastIn Athens; and beside the perfect piece—Its beauty and the way it makes you weep,—There is much honor done your own loved GodHerakles, whom you house i' the city hereNobly, the Temple wide Greece talks about!I come a suppliant to your Herakles!Take me and put me on his temple-steps,To tell you his achievement as I may,And, that told, he shall bid you set us free!"Then, because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts,And poetry is power,—they all outbrokeIn a great joyous laughter with much love:"Thank Herakles for the good holiday!Make for the harbor! Row, and let voice ring,'In we row, bringing more Euripides!'"All the crowd, as they lined the harbor now,"More of Euripides!"—took up the cry.We landed; the whole city, soon astir,Came rushing out of gates in common joyTo the suburb temple; there they stationed meO' the topmost step: and plain I told the play,Just as I saw it; what the actors said,And what I saw, or thought I saw the while,At our Kameiros theatre, clean-scoopedOut of a hillside, with the sky aboveAnd sea before our seats in marble row:Told it, and, two days more, repeated it,Until they sent us on our way againWith good words and great wishes.Oh, for me—A wealthy Syracusan brought a wholeTalent and bade me take it for myself:I left it on the tripod in the fane,—For had not Herakles a second timeWrestled with Death and saved devoted ones?—Thank-offering to the hero. And a bandOf captives, whom their lords grew kinder toBecause they called the poet countryman,Sent me a crown of wild-pomegranate-flower:So, I shall live and die Balaustion now.But one—one man—one youth,—three days, each day,—(If, ere I lifted up my voice to speak,I gave a downward glance by accident,)Was found at foot o' the temple. When we sailed,There, in the ship too, was he found as well,Having a hunger to see Athens too.We reached Peiraieus; when I landed—lo,He was beside me. Anthesterion-monthIs just commencing: when its moon rounds full,We are to marry. O Euripides!I saw the master: when we found ourselves(Because the young man needs must follow me)Firm on Peiraieus, I demanded firstWhither to go and find him. Would you think?The story how he saved us made some smile:They wondered strangers were exorbitantIn estimation of Euripides.He was not Aischulos nor Sophokles:—"Then, of our younger bards who boast the bay,Had I sought Agathon, or Iophon,Or, what now had it been Kephisophon?A man that never kept good company,The most unsociable of poet-kind,All beard that was not freckle in his face!"I soon was at the tragic house, and sawThe master, held the sacred hand of himAnd laid it to my lips. Men love him not:How should they? Nor do they much love his friendSokrates: but those two have fellowship:Sokrates often comes to hear him read,And never misses if he teach a piece.Both, being old, will soon have company,Sit with their peers above the talk. Meantime,He lives as should a statue in its niche;Cold walls enclose him, mostly darkness there,Alone, unless some foreigner uncouthBreaks in, sits, stares an hour, and so departs,Brain-stuffed with something to sustain his life,Dry to the marrow 'mid much merchandise.How should such know and love the man?Why, mark!Even when I told the play and got the praise,There spoke up a brisk little somebody,Critic and whippersnapper, in a rageTo set things right: "The girl departs from truth!Pretends she saw what was not to be seen,Making the mask of the actor move, forsooth!'Then a fear flitted o'er the wife's white face,'—'Then frowned the father,'—'then the husband shook,'—'Then from the festal forehead slipt each spray,And the heroic mouth's gay grace was gone;'—As she had seen each naked fleshly face,And not the merely-painted mask it wore!"Well, is the explanation difficult?What 's poetry except a power that makes?And, speaking to one sense, inspires the rest,Pressing them all into its service; soThat who sees painting, seems to hear as wellThe speech that 's proper for the painted mouth;And who hears music, feels his solitudePeopled at once—for how count heartbeats plainUnless a company, with hearts which beat,Come close to the musician, seen or no?And who receives true verse at eye or ear,Takes in (with verse) time, place, and person too,So, links each sense on to its sister-sense,Grace-like: and what if but one sense of threeFront you at once? The sidelong pair conceiveThrough faintest touch of finest finger-tips,—Hear, see and feel, in faith's simplicity,Alike, what one was sole recipient of:Who hears the poem, therefore, sees the play.Enough and too much! Hear the play itself!Under the grape-vines, by the streamlet-side,Close to Baccheion; till the cool increase,And other stars steal on the evening-star,And so, we homeward flock i' the dusk, we five!You will expect, no one of all the wordsO' the play but is grown part now of my soul,Since the adventure. 'T is the poet speaks:But if I, too, should try and speak at times,Leading your love to where my love, perchance,Climbed earlier, found a nest before you knew—Why, bear with the poor climber, for love's sake!Look at Baccheion's beauty opposite,The temple with the pillars at the porch!See you not something beside masonry?What if my words wind in and out the stoneAs yonder ivy, the God's parasite?Though they leap all the way the pillar leads,Festoon about the marble, foot to frieze,And serpentiningly enrich the roof,Toy with some few bees and a bird or two,—What then? The column holds the cornice up!There slept a silent palace in the sun,With plains adjacent and Thessalian peace—Pherai, where King Admetos ruled the land.Out from the portico there gleamed a God,Apollon: for the bow was in his hand,The quiver at his shoulder, all his shapeOne dreadful beauty. And he hailed the house,As if he knew it well and loved it much:"O Admeteian domes, where I endured,Even the God I am, to drudge awhile,Do righteous penance for a reckless deed,Accepting the slaves' table thankfully!"Then told how Zeus had been the cause of all,Raising the wrath in him which took revengeAnd slew those forgers of the thunderboltWherewith Zeus blazed the life from out the breastOf Phoibos' son Asklepios (I surmise,Because he brought the dead to life again),And so, for punishment, must needs go slave,God as he was, with a mere mortal lord:—Told how he came to King Admetos' land,And played the ministrant, was herdsman there,Warding all harm away from him and hisTill now; "For, holy as I am," said he,"The lord I chanced upon was holy too:Whence I deceived the Moirai, drew from deathMy master, this same son of Pheres,—ay,The Goddesses conceded him escapeFrom Hades, when the fated day should fall,Could he exchange lives, find some friendly oneReady, for his sake, to content the grave.But trying all in turn, the friendly list,Why, he found no one, none who loved so much,Nor father, nor the aged mother's selfThat bore him, no, not any save his wife,Willing to die instead of him and watchNever a sunrise nor a sunset more:And she is even now within the house,Upborne by pitying hands, the feeble frameGasping its last of life out; since to-dayDestiny is accomplished, and she dies,And I, lest here pollution light on me,Leave, as ye witness, all my wonted joyIn this dear dwelling. Ay,—for here comes DeathClose on us of a sudden! who, pale priestOf the mute people, means to bear his preyTo the house of Hades. The symmetric step!How he treads true to time and place and thing,Dogging day, hour and minute, for death's-due!"And we observed another Deity,Half in, half out the portal,—watch and ward,—Eying his fellow: formidably fixed,Yet faltering too at who affronted him,As somehow disadvantaged, should they strive.Like some dread heapy blackness, ruffled wing,Convulsed and cowering head that is all eye,Which proves a ruined eagle who, too blindSwooping in quest o' the quarry, fawn or kid,Descried deep down the chasm 'twixt rock and rock,Has wedged and mortised, into either wallO' the mountain, the pent earthquake of his power;So lies, half hurtless yet still terrible,Just when—who stalks up, who stands front to front,But the great lion-guarder of the gorge,Lord of the ground, a stationed glory there!Yet he too pauses ere he try the worstO' the frightful unfamiliar nature, newTo the chasm, indeed, but elsewhere known enough,Among the shadows and the silencesAbove i' the sky: so, each antagonistSilently faced his fellow and forbore.Till Death shrilled, hard and quick, in spite and fear:"Ha, ha, and what mayst thou do at the domes,Why hauntest here, thou Phoibos? Here againAt the old injustice, limiting our rights,Balking of honor due us Gods o' the grave?Was 't not enough for thee to have delayedDeath from Admetos,—with thy crafty artCheating the very Fates,—but thou must armThe bow-hand and take station, press 'twixt meAnd Pelias' daughter, who then saved her spouse,—Did just that, now thou comest to undo,—Taking his place to die, Alkestis here?"But the God sighed, "Have courage! All my arms,This time, are simple justice and fair words."Then each plied each with rapid interchange:"What need of bow, were justice arms enough?""Ever it is my wont to bear the bow.""Ay, and with bow, not justice, help this house!""I help it, since a friend's woe weighs me too.""And now,—wilt force from me this second corpse?""By force I took no corpse at first from thee.""How then is he above ground, not beneath?""He gave his wife instead of him, thy prey.""And prey, this time at least, I bear below!""Go take her!—for I doubt persuading thee ...""To kill the doomed one? What my function else?""No! Rather, to dispatch the true mature.""Truly I take thy meaning, see thy drift!""Is there a way then she may reach old age?""No way! I glad me in my honors too!""But, young or old, thou tak'st one life, no more!""Younger, they die, greater my praise redounds!""If she die old,—the sumptuous funeral!""Thou layest down a law the rich would like.""How so? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense?""Who could buy substitutes would die old men.""It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace?""This grace I will not grant: thou know'st my ways.""Ways harsh to men, hateful to Gods, at least!""All things thou canst not have: my rights for me!"And then Apollon prophesied,—I think,More to himself than to impatient Death,Who did not hear or would not heed the while,—For he went on to say, "Yet even so,Cruel above the measure, thou shalt clutchNo life here! Such a man do I perceiveAdvancing to the house of Pheres now,Sent by Eurustheus to bring out of Thrace,The winter world, a chariot with its steeds!He indeed, when Admetos proves the host,And he the guest, at the house here,—he it isShall bring to bear such force, and from thy handsRescue this woman! Grace no whit to meWill that prove, since thou dost thy deed the same,And earnest too my hate, and all for naught!"But how should Death or stay or understand?Doubtless, he only felt the hour was come,And the sword free; for he but flung some taunt—"Having talked much, thou wilt not gain the more!This woman, then, descends to Hades' hallNow that I rush on her, begin the ritesO' the sword; for sacred, to us Gods below,That head whose hair this sword shall sanctify!"And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword,The uprush and the outburst, the onslaughtOf Death's portentous passage through the door,Apollon stood a pitying moment-space:I caught one last gold gaze upon the nightNearing the world now: and the God was gone,And mortals left to deal with misery,As in came stealing slow, now this, now thatOld sojourner throughout the country-side,Servants grown friends to those unhappy here:And, cloudlike in their increase, all these griefsBroke and began the over-brimming wail,Out of a common impulse, word by word."What now may mean the silence at the door?Why is Admetos' mansion stricken dumb?Not one friend near, to say if we should mournOur mistress dead, or if Alkestis livesAnd sees the light still, Pelias' child—to me,To all, conspicuously the best of wivesThat ever was toward husband in this world!Hears any one or wail beneath the roof,Or hands that strike each other, or the groanAnnouncing all is done and naught to dread?Still not a servant stationed at the gates!O Paian, that thou wouldst dispart the waveO' the woe, be present! Yet, had woe o'erwhelmedThe housemates, they were hardly silent thus:It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone.Whence comes thy gleam of hope? I dare not hope:What is the circumstance that heartens thee?How could Admetos have dismissed a wifeSo worthy, unescorted to the grave?Before the gates I see no hallowed vaseOf fountain-water, such as suits death's door;Nor any clipt locks strew the vestibule,Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead,Nor hand sounds smitten against youthful hand,The women's way. And yet—the appointed time—How speak the word?—this day is even the dayOrdained her for departing from its light.O touch calamitous to heart and soul!Needs must one, when the good are tortured so,Sorrow,—one reckoned faithful from the first."Then their souls rose together, and one sighWent up in cadence from the common mouth:How "Vainly—anywhither in the worldDirecting or land-labor or sea-search—To Lukia or the sand-waste, Ammon's seat—Might you set free their hapless lady's soulFrom the abrupt Fate's footstep instant now.Not a sheep-sacrificer at the hearthsOf Gods had they to go to: one there wasWho, if his eyes saw light still,—Phoibos' son,—Had wrought so, she might leave the shadowy placeAnd Hades' portal: for he propped up Death'sSubdued ones, till the Zeus-flung thunder-flameStruck him; and now what hope of life were hailedWith open arms? For, all the king could doIs done already,—not one God whereofThe altar fails to reek with sacrifice:And for assuagement of these evils—naught!"But here they broke off, for a matron movedForth from the house: and, as her tears flowed fast,They gathered round. "What fortune shall we hear?For mourning thus, if aught affect thy lord,We pardon thee: but lives the lady yetOr has she perished?—that we fain would know!""Call her dead, call her living, each style serves,"The matron said: "though grave-ward bowed, she breathed;Nor knew her husband what the misery meantBefore he felt it: hope of life was none:The appointed day pressed hard; the funeral pompHe had prepared too."When the friends broke out,"Let her in dying know herself at leastSole wife, of all the wives 'neath the sun wide,For glory and for goodness!"—"Ah, how elseThan best? who controverts the claim?" quoth she:"What kind of creature should the woman proveThat has surpassed Alkestis?—surelier shownPreference for her husband to herselfThan by determining to die for him?But so much all our city knows indeed:Hear what she did indoors and wonder then!For, when she felt the crowning day was come,She washed with river-waters her white skin,And, taking from the cedar closets forthVesture and ornament, bedecked herselfNobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed:'Mistress, because I now depart the world,Falling before thee the last time, I ask—Be mother to my orphans! wed the oneTo a kind wife, and make the other's mateSome princely person: nor, as I who boreMy children perish, suffer that they tooDie all untimely, but live, happy pair,Their full glad life out in the fatherland!'And every altar through Admetos' houseShe visited and crowned and prayed before,Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the boughs,Without a tear, without a groan,—no changeAt all to that skin's nature, fair to see,Caused by the imminent evil. But this done,—Reaching her chamber, falling on her bed,There, truly, burst she into tears and spoke:'O bride-bed, where I loosened from my lifeVirginity for that same husband's sakeBecause of whom I die now—fare thee well!Since nowise do I hate thee: me aloneHast thou destroyed; for, shrinking to betrayThee and my spouse, I die: but thee, O bed,Some other woman shall possess as wife—Truer, no! but of better fortune, say!'—So falls on, kisses it till all the couchIs moistened with the eyes' sad overflow.But when of many tears she had her fill,She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forth,Yet—forth the chamber—still keeps turning backAnd casts her on the couch again once more.Her children, clinging to their mother's robe,Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms,And, as a dying woman might, embracedNow one and now the other: 'neath the roof,All of the household servants wept as well,Moved to compassion for their mistress; sheExtended her right hand to all and each,And there was no one of such low degreeShe spoke not to nor had an answer from.Such are the evils in Admetos' house.Dying,—why, he had died; but, living, gainsSuch grief as this he never will forget!"And when they questioned of Admetos, "Well—Holding his dear wife in his hands, he weeps;Entreats her not to give him up, and seeksThe impossible, in fine: for there she wastesAnd withers by disease, abandoned now,A mere dead weight upon her husband's arm.Yet, none the less, although she breathe so faint,Her will is to behold the beams o' the sun:Since never more again, but this last once,Shall she see sun, its circlet or its ray.But I will go, announce your presence,—friendsIndeed; since 't is not all so love their lordsAs seek them in misfortune, kind the same:But you are the old friends I recognize."And at the word she turned again to go:The while they waited, taking up the plaintTo Zeus again: "What passage from this strait?What loosing of the heavy fortune fastAbout the palace? Will such help appear,Or must we clip the locks and cast aroundEach form already the black peplos' fold?Clearly the black robe, clearly! All the same,Pray to the Gods!—like Gods' no power so great!O thou king Paian, find some way to save!Reveal it, yea, reveal it! Since of oldThou found'st a cure, why, now again becomeReleaser from the bonds of Death, we beg,And give the sanguinary Hades pause!"So the song dwindled into a mere moan,How dear the wife, and what her husband's woe;When suddenly—"Behold, behold!" breaks forth:"Here is she coming from the house indeed!Her husband comes, too! Cry aloud, lament,Pheraian land, this best of women, bound—So is she withered by disease away—For realms below and their infernal king!Never will we affirm there's more of joyThan grief in marriage; making estimateBoth from old sorrows anciently observed,And this misfortune of the king we see—Admetos who, of bravest spouse bereaved,Will live life's remnant out, no life at all!"So wailed they, while a sad procession woundSlow from the innermost o' the palace, stoppedAt the extreme verge of the platform-front:There opened, and disclosed Alkestis' self,The consecrated lady, borne to lookHer last—and let the living look their last—She at the sun, we at Alkestis.We!For would you note a memorable thing?We grew to see in that severe regard,—Hear in that hard dry pressure to the point,Word slow pursuing word in monotone,—What Death meant when he called her consecrateHenceforth to Hades. I believe, the sword—Its office was to cut the soul at onceFrom life,—from something in this world which hidesTruth, and hides falsehood, and so lets us liveSomehow. Suppose a rider furls a cloakAbout a horse's head; unfrightened, so,Between the menace of a flame, betweenSolicitation of the pasturage,Untempted equally, he goes his gaitTo journey's end: then pluck the pharos off!Show what delusions steadied him i' the straightO' the path, made grass seem fire and fire seem grass,All through a little bandage o'er the eyes!As certainly with eyes unbandaged nowAlkestis looked upon the action here,Self-immolation for Admetos' sake;Saw, with a new sense, all her death would do,And which of her survivors had the right,And which the less right, to survive thereby.For, you shall note, she uttered no one wordOf love more to her husband, though he weptPlenteously, waxed importunate in prayer—Folly's old fashion when its seed bears fruit.I think she judged that she had bought the wareO' the seller at its value,—nor praised himNor blamed herself, but, with indifferent eye,Saw him purse money up, prepare to leaveThe buyer with a solitary bale—True purple—but in place of all that coin,Had made a hundred others happy too,If so willed fate or fortune! What remainedTo give away, should rather go to theseThan one with coin to clink and contemplate.Admetos had his share and might depart,The rest was for her children and herself.(Charopé makes a face: but wait awhile!)She saw things plain as Gods do: by one strokeO' the sword that rends the life-long veil away.(Also Euripedes saw plain enough:But you and I, Charopé!—you and IWill trust his sight until our own grow clear.)
About that strangest, saddest, sweetest songI, when a girl, heard in Kameiros once,And, after, saved my life by? Oh, so gladTo tell you the adventure!Petalé,Phullis, Charopé, Chrusion! You must know,This "after" fell in that unhappy timeWhen poor reluctant Nikias, pushed by fate,Went falteringly against Syracuse;And there shamed Athens, lost her ships and men,And gained a grave, or death without a grave.I was at Rhodes—the isle, not Rhodes the town,Mine was Kameiros—when the news arrived:Our people rose in tumult, cried, "No moreDuty to Athens, let us join the LeagueAnd side-with Sparta, share the spoil,—at worst,Abjure a headship that will ruin Greece!"And so, they sent to Knidos for a fleetTo come and help revolters. Ere help came,—Girl as I was, and never out of RhodesThe whole of my first fourteen years of life,But nourished with Ilissian mother's-milk,—I passionately cried to who would hearAnd those who loved me at Kameiros—"No!Never throw Athens off for Sparta's sake—Never disloyal to the life and lightOf the whole world worth calling world at all!Rather go die at Athens, lie outstretchedFor feet to trample on, before the gateOf Diomedes or the Hippadai,Before the temples and among the tombs,Than tolerate the grim felicityOf harsh Lakonia! Ours the fasts and feasts,Choës and Chutroi; ours the sacred grove,Agora, Dikasteria, Poikilé,Pnux, Keramikos; Salamis in sight,Psuttalia, Marathon itself, not far!Ours the great Dionusiac theatre,And tragic triad of immortal fames,Aischulos, Sophokles, Euripides!To Athens, all of us that have a soul,Follow me!" And I wrought so with my prayer,That certain of my kinsfolk crossed the straitAnd found a ship at Kaunos; well-disposedBecause the Captain—where did he draw breathFirst but within Psuttalia? Thither fledA few like-minded as ourselves. We turnedThe glad prow westward, soon were out at sea,Pushing, brave ship with the vermilion cheek,Proud for our heart's true harbor. But a windLay ambushed by Point Malea of bad fame,And leapt out, bent us from our course. Next dayBroke stormless, so broke next blue day and next."But whither bound in this white waste?" we plaguedThe pilot's old experience: "Cos or Crete?"Because he promised us the land ahead.While we strained eyes to share in what he saw,The Captain's shout startled us; round we rushed:What hung behind us but a pirate-shipPanting for the good prize! "Row! harder row!Row for dear life!" the Captain cried: "'t is Crete,Friendly Crete looming large there! Beat this craftThat 's but a keles, one-benched pirate-bark,Lokrian, or that bad breed off Thessaly!Only, so cruel are such water-thieves,No man of you, no woman, child, or slave,But falls their prey, once let them board our boat!"So, furiously our oarsmen rowed and rowed:And when the oars nagged somewhat, dash and dip,As we approached the coast and safety, soThat we could hear behind us plain the threatsAnd curses of the pirate panting upIn one more throe and passion of pursuit,—Seeing our oars flag in the rise and fall,I sprang upon the altar by the mastAnd sang aloft—some genius prompting me—That song of ours which saved at Salamis:"O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free,Free your wives, free your children, free the fanesO' the Gods, your fathers founded,—sepulchresThey sleep in! Or save all, or all be lost!"Then, in a frenzy, so the noble oarsChurned the black water white, that well awayWe drew, soon saw land rise, saw hills grow up,Saw spread itself a sea-wide town with towers,Not fifty stadia distant; and, betwixtA large bay and a small, the islet-bar,Even Ortugia's self—oh, luckless we!For here was Sicily and Syracuse:We ran upon the lion from the wolf.Ere we drew breath, took counsel, out there cameA galley, hailed us. "Who asks entry hereIn war-time? Are you Sparta's friend or foe?""Kaunians,"—our Captain judged his best reply,"The mainland-seaport that belongs to Rhodes;Rhodes that casts in her lot now with the League,Forsaking Athens,—you have heard belike!""Ay, but we heard all Athens in one odeJust now! we heard her in that Aischulos!You bring a boatful of Athenians here,Kaunians although you be: and prudence bids,For Kaunos' sake, why, carry them unhurtTo Kaunos, if you will: for Athens' sake,Back must you, though ten pirates blocked the bay!We want no colony from Athens here,With memories of Salamis, forsooth,To spirit up our captives, that pale crowdI' the quarry, whom the daily pint of cornKeeps in good order and submissiveness."Then the gray Captain prayed them by the Gods,And by their own knees, and their fathers' beards,They should not wickedly thrust suppliants back,But save the innocent on traffic bound—Or, maybe, some Athenian familyPerishing of desire to die at home,—From that vile foe still lying on its oars,Waiting the issue in the distance. Vain!Words to the wind! And we were just aboutTo turn and face the foe, as some tired birdBarbarians pelt at, drive with shouts awayFrom shelter in what rocks, however rude,She makes for, to escape the kindled eye,Split beak, crook'd claw o' the creature, cormorantOr ossifrage, that, hardly baffled, hangsAfloat i' the foam, to take her if she turn.So were we at destruction's very edge,When those o' the galley, as they had discussedA point, a question raised by somebody,A matter mooted in a moment,—"Wait!"Cried they (and wait we did, you may be sure)."That song was veritable Aischulos,Familiar to the mouth of man and boy,Old glory: how about Euripides?The newer and not yet so famous bard,He that was born upon the battle-dayWhile that song and the salpinx sounded himInto the world, first sound, at Salamis—Might you know any of his verses too?"Now, some one of the Gods inspired this speech:Since ourselves knew what happened but last year—How, when Gulippos gained his victoryOver poor Nikias, poor Demosthenes,And Syracuse condemned the conquered forceTo dig and starve i' the quarry, branded them—Freeborn Athenians, brute-like in the frontWith horse-head brands,—ah, "Region of the Steed"!—Of all these men immersed in misery,It was found none had been advantaged soBy aught in the past life he used to prizeAnd pride himself concerning,—no rich manBy riches, no wise man by wisdom, noWiser man still (as who loved more the Muse)By storing, at brain's edge and tip of tongue,Old glory, great plays that had long agoMade themselves wings to fly about the world,—Not one such man was helped so at his needAs certain few that (wisest they of all)Had, at first summons, oped heart, flung door wideAt the new knocking of Euripides,Nor drawn the bolt with who cried "Decadence!And, after Sophokles, be nature dumb!"Such,—and I see in it God Bacchos' boonTo souls that recognized his latest child,He who himself, born latest of the Gods,Was stoutly held impostor by mankind,—Such were in safety: any who could speakA chorus to the end, or prologize,Roll out a rhesis, wield some golden lengthStiffened by wisdom out into a line,Or thrust and parry in bright monostich,Teaching Euripides to Syracuse—Any such happy man had prompt reward:If he lay bleeding on the battlefieldThey stanched his wounds and gave him drink and food;If he were slave i' the house, for reverenceThey rose up, bowed to who proved master now,And bade him go free, thank Euripides!Ay, and such did so: many such, he said,Returning home to Athens, sought him out,The old bard in the solitary house,And thanked him ere they went to sacrifice.I say, we knew that story of last year!Therefore, at mention of Euripides,The Captain crowed out, "Euoi, praise the God!Oöp, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore!Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands,Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl!Euripides! Babai! what a word there 'scapedYour teeth's enclosure, quoth my grandsire's song!Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through,Has she been falling thick in flakes of him!Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said.Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech!Now it was some whole passion of a play;Now, peradventure, but a honey-dropThat slipt its comb i' the chorus. If there roseA star, before I could determine steerSouthward or northward—if a cloud surprisedHeaven, ere I fairly hollaed 'Furl the sail!'—She had at fingers' end both cloud and star;Some thought that perched there, tame and tunable,Fitted with wings; and still, as off it flew,'So sang Euripides,' she said, 'so sangThe meteoric poet of air and sea,Planets and the pale populace of heaven,The mind of man, and all that 's made to soar!'And so, although she has some other name,We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower,Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burnsI' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree,Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose,You shall find food, drink, odor, all at once;Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow,And, never much away, the nightingale.Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,Down to the verse that ends all, proverb-like,And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name!"But I cried, "Brother Greek! better than so,—Save us, and I have courage to reciteThe main of a whole play from first to last;That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his,Alkestis; which was taught, long years agoAt Athens, in Glaukinos' archonship,But only this year reached our Isle o' the Rose.I saw it at Kameiros; played the same,They say, as for the right Lenean feastIn Athens; and beside the perfect piece—Its beauty and the way it makes you weep,—There is much honor done your own loved GodHerakles, whom you house i' the city hereNobly, the Temple wide Greece talks about!I come a suppliant to your Herakles!Take me and put me on his temple-steps,To tell you his achievement as I may,And, that told, he shall bid you set us free!"Then, because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts,And poetry is power,—they all outbrokeIn a great joyous laughter with much love:"Thank Herakles for the good holiday!Make for the harbor! Row, and let voice ring,'In we row, bringing more Euripides!'"All the crowd, as they lined the harbor now,"More of Euripides!"—took up the cry.We landed; the whole city, soon astir,Came rushing out of gates in common joyTo the suburb temple; there they stationed meO' the topmost step: and plain I told the play,Just as I saw it; what the actors said,And what I saw, or thought I saw the while,At our Kameiros theatre, clean-scoopedOut of a hillside, with the sky aboveAnd sea before our seats in marble row:Told it, and, two days more, repeated it,Until they sent us on our way againWith good words and great wishes.Oh, for me—A wealthy Syracusan brought a wholeTalent and bade me take it for myself:I left it on the tripod in the fane,—For had not Herakles a second timeWrestled with Death and saved devoted ones?—Thank-offering to the hero. And a bandOf captives, whom their lords grew kinder toBecause they called the poet countryman,Sent me a crown of wild-pomegranate-flower:So, I shall live and die Balaustion now.But one—one man—one youth,—three days, each day,—(If, ere I lifted up my voice to speak,I gave a downward glance by accident,)Was found at foot o' the temple. When we sailed,There, in the ship too, was he found as well,Having a hunger to see Athens too.We reached Peiraieus; when I landed—lo,He was beside me. Anthesterion-monthIs just commencing: when its moon rounds full,We are to marry. O Euripides!I saw the master: when we found ourselves(Because the young man needs must follow me)Firm on Peiraieus, I demanded firstWhither to go and find him. Would you think?The story how he saved us made some smile:They wondered strangers were exorbitantIn estimation of Euripides.He was not Aischulos nor Sophokles:—"Then, of our younger bards who boast the bay,Had I sought Agathon, or Iophon,Or, what now had it been Kephisophon?A man that never kept good company,The most unsociable of poet-kind,All beard that was not freckle in his face!"I soon was at the tragic house, and sawThe master, held the sacred hand of himAnd laid it to my lips. Men love him not:How should they? Nor do they much love his friendSokrates: but those two have fellowship:Sokrates often comes to hear him read,And never misses if he teach a piece.Both, being old, will soon have company,Sit with their peers above the talk. Meantime,He lives as should a statue in its niche;Cold walls enclose him, mostly darkness there,Alone, unless some foreigner uncouthBreaks in, sits, stares an hour, and so departs,Brain-stuffed with something to sustain his life,Dry to the marrow 'mid much merchandise.How should such know and love the man?Why, mark!Even when I told the play and got the praise,There spoke up a brisk little somebody,Critic and whippersnapper, in a rageTo set things right: "The girl departs from truth!Pretends she saw what was not to be seen,Making the mask of the actor move, forsooth!'Then a fear flitted o'er the wife's white face,'—'Then frowned the father,'—'then the husband shook,'—'Then from the festal forehead slipt each spray,And the heroic mouth's gay grace was gone;'—As she had seen each naked fleshly face,And not the merely-painted mask it wore!"Well, is the explanation difficult?What 's poetry except a power that makes?And, speaking to one sense, inspires the rest,Pressing them all into its service; soThat who sees painting, seems to hear as wellThe speech that 's proper for the painted mouth;And who hears music, feels his solitudePeopled at once—for how count heartbeats plainUnless a company, with hearts which beat,Come close to the musician, seen or no?And who receives true verse at eye or ear,Takes in (with verse) time, place, and person too,So, links each sense on to its sister-sense,Grace-like: and what if but one sense of threeFront you at once? The sidelong pair conceiveThrough faintest touch of finest finger-tips,—Hear, see and feel, in faith's simplicity,Alike, what one was sole recipient of:Who hears the poem, therefore, sees the play.Enough and too much! Hear the play itself!Under the grape-vines, by the streamlet-side,Close to Baccheion; till the cool increase,And other stars steal on the evening-star,And so, we homeward flock i' the dusk, we five!You will expect, no one of all the wordsO' the play but is grown part now of my soul,Since the adventure. 'T is the poet speaks:But if I, too, should try and speak at times,Leading your love to where my love, perchance,Climbed earlier, found a nest before you knew—Why, bear with the poor climber, for love's sake!Look at Baccheion's beauty opposite,The temple with the pillars at the porch!See you not something beside masonry?What if my words wind in and out the stoneAs yonder ivy, the God's parasite?Though they leap all the way the pillar leads,Festoon about the marble, foot to frieze,And serpentiningly enrich the roof,Toy with some few bees and a bird or two,—What then? The column holds the cornice up!There slept a silent palace in the sun,With plains adjacent and Thessalian peace—Pherai, where King Admetos ruled the land.Out from the portico there gleamed a God,Apollon: for the bow was in his hand,The quiver at his shoulder, all his shapeOne dreadful beauty. And he hailed the house,As if he knew it well and loved it much:"O Admeteian domes, where I endured,Even the God I am, to drudge awhile,Do righteous penance for a reckless deed,Accepting the slaves' table thankfully!"Then told how Zeus had been the cause of all,Raising the wrath in him which took revengeAnd slew those forgers of the thunderboltWherewith Zeus blazed the life from out the breastOf Phoibos' son Asklepios (I surmise,Because he brought the dead to life again),And so, for punishment, must needs go slave,God as he was, with a mere mortal lord:—Told how he came to King Admetos' land,And played the ministrant, was herdsman there,Warding all harm away from him and hisTill now; "For, holy as I am," said he,"The lord I chanced upon was holy too:Whence I deceived the Moirai, drew from deathMy master, this same son of Pheres,—ay,The Goddesses conceded him escapeFrom Hades, when the fated day should fall,Could he exchange lives, find some friendly oneReady, for his sake, to content the grave.But trying all in turn, the friendly list,Why, he found no one, none who loved so much,Nor father, nor the aged mother's selfThat bore him, no, not any save his wife,Willing to die instead of him and watchNever a sunrise nor a sunset more:And she is even now within the house,Upborne by pitying hands, the feeble frameGasping its last of life out; since to-dayDestiny is accomplished, and she dies,And I, lest here pollution light on me,Leave, as ye witness, all my wonted joyIn this dear dwelling. Ay,—for here comes DeathClose on us of a sudden! who, pale priestOf the mute people, means to bear his preyTo the house of Hades. The symmetric step!How he treads true to time and place and thing,Dogging day, hour and minute, for death's-due!"And we observed another Deity,Half in, half out the portal,—watch and ward,—Eying his fellow: formidably fixed,Yet faltering too at who affronted him,As somehow disadvantaged, should they strive.Like some dread heapy blackness, ruffled wing,Convulsed and cowering head that is all eye,Which proves a ruined eagle who, too blindSwooping in quest o' the quarry, fawn or kid,Descried deep down the chasm 'twixt rock and rock,Has wedged and mortised, into either wallO' the mountain, the pent earthquake of his power;So lies, half hurtless yet still terrible,Just when—who stalks up, who stands front to front,But the great lion-guarder of the gorge,Lord of the ground, a stationed glory there!Yet he too pauses ere he try the worstO' the frightful unfamiliar nature, newTo the chasm, indeed, but elsewhere known enough,Among the shadows and the silencesAbove i' the sky: so, each antagonistSilently faced his fellow and forbore.Till Death shrilled, hard and quick, in spite and fear:"Ha, ha, and what mayst thou do at the domes,Why hauntest here, thou Phoibos? Here againAt the old injustice, limiting our rights,Balking of honor due us Gods o' the grave?Was 't not enough for thee to have delayedDeath from Admetos,—with thy crafty artCheating the very Fates,—but thou must armThe bow-hand and take station, press 'twixt meAnd Pelias' daughter, who then saved her spouse,—Did just that, now thou comest to undo,—Taking his place to die, Alkestis here?"But the God sighed, "Have courage! All my arms,This time, are simple justice and fair words."Then each plied each with rapid interchange:"What need of bow, were justice arms enough?""Ever it is my wont to bear the bow.""Ay, and with bow, not justice, help this house!""I help it, since a friend's woe weighs me too.""And now,—wilt force from me this second corpse?""By force I took no corpse at first from thee.""How then is he above ground, not beneath?""He gave his wife instead of him, thy prey.""And prey, this time at least, I bear below!""Go take her!—for I doubt persuading thee ...""To kill the doomed one? What my function else?""No! Rather, to dispatch the true mature.""Truly I take thy meaning, see thy drift!""Is there a way then she may reach old age?""No way! I glad me in my honors too!""But, young or old, thou tak'st one life, no more!""Younger, they die, greater my praise redounds!""If she die old,—the sumptuous funeral!""Thou layest down a law the rich would like.""How so? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense?""Who could buy substitutes would die old men.""It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace?""This grace I will not grant: thou know'st my ways.""Ways harsh to men, hateful to Gods, at least!""All things thou canst not have: my rights for me!"And then Apollon prophesied,—I think,More to himself than to impatient Death,Who did not hear or would not heed the while,—For he went on to say, "Yet even so,Cruel above the measure, thou shalt clutchNo life here! Such a man do I perceiveAdvancing to the house of Pheres now,Sent by Eurustheus to bring out of Thrace,The winter world, a chariot with its steeds!He indeed, when Admetos proves the host,And he the guest, at the house here,—he it isShall bring to bear such force, and from thy handsRescue this woman! Grace no whit to meWill that prove, since thou dost thy deed the same,And earnest too my hate, and all for naught!"But how should Death or stay or understand?Doubtless, he only felt the hour was come,And the sword free; for he but flung some taunt—"Having talked much, thou wilt not gain the more!This woman, then, descends to Hades' hallNow that I rush on her, begin the ritesO' the sword; for sacred, to us Gods below,That head whose hair this sword shall sanctify!"And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword,The uprush and the outburst, the onslaughtOf Death's portentous passage through the door,Apollon stood a pitying moment-space:I caught one last gold gaze upon the nightNearing the world now: and the God was gone,And mortals left to deal with misery,As in came stealing slow, now this, now thatOld sojourner throughout the country-side,Servants grown friends to those unhappy here:And, cloudlike in their increase, all these griefsBroke and began the over-brimming wail,Out of a common impulse, word by word."What now may mean the silence at the door?Why is Admetos' mansion stricken dumb?Not one friend near, to say if we should mournOur mistress dead, or if Alkestis livesAnd sees the light still, Pelias' child—to me,To all, conspicuously the best of wivesThat ever was toward husband in this world!Hears any one or wail beneath the roof,Or hands that strike each other, or the groanAnnouncing all is done and naught to dread?Still not a servant stationed at the gates!O Paian, that thou wouldst dispart the waveO' the woe, be present! Yet, had woe o'erwhelmedThe housemates, they were hardly silent thus:It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone.Whence comes thy gleam of hope? I dare not hope:What is the circumstance that heartens thee?How could Admetos have dismissed a wifeSo worthy, unescorted to the grave?Before the gates I see no hallowed vaseOf fountain-water, such as suits death's door;Nor any clipt locks strew the vestibule,Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead,Nor hand sounds smitten against youthful hand,The women's way. And yet—the appointed time—How speak the word?—this day is even the dayOrdained her for departing from its light.O touch calamitous to heart and soul!Needs must one, when the good are tortured so,Sorrow,—one reckoned faithful from the first."Then their souls rose together, and one sighWent up in cadence from the common mouth:How "Vainly—anywhither in the worldDirecting or land-labor or sea-search—To Lukia or the sand-waste, Ammon's seat—Might you set free their hapless lady's soulFrom the abrupt Fate's footstep instant now.Not a sheep-sacrificer at the hearthsOf Gods had they to go to: one there wasWho, if his eyes saw light still,—Phoibos' son,—Had wrought so, she might leave the shadowy placeAnd Hades' portal: for he propped up Death'sSubdued ones, till the Zeus-flung thunder-flameStruck him; and now what hope of life were hailedWith open arms? For, all the king could doIs done already,—not one God whereofThe altar fails to reek with sacrifice:And for assuagement of these evils—naught!"But here they broke off, for a matron movedForth from the house: and, as her tears flowed fast,They gathered round. "What fortune shall we hear?For mourning thus, if aught affect thy lord,We pardon thee: but lives the lady yetOr has she perished?—that we fain would know!""Call her dead, call her living, each style serves,"The matron said: "though grave-ward bowed, she breathed;Nor knew her husband what the misery meantBefore he felt it: hope of life was none:The appointed day pressed hard; the funeral pompHe had prepared too."When the friends broke out,"Let her in dying know herself at leastSole wife, of all the wives 'neath the sun wide,For glory and for goodness!"—"Ah, how elseThan best? who controverts the claim?" quoth she:"What kind of creature should the woman proveThat has surpassed Alkestis?—surelier shownPreference for her husband to herselfThan by determining to die for him?But so much all our city knows indeed:Hear what she did indoors and wonder then!For, when she felt the crowning day was come,She washed with river-waters her white skin,And, taking from the cedar closets forthVesture and ornament, bedecked herselfNobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed:'Mistress, because I now depart the world,Falling before thee the last time, I ask—Be mother to my orphans! wed the oneTo a kind wife, and make the other's mateSome princely person: nor, as I who boreMy children perish, suffer that they tooDie all untimely, but live, happy pair,Their full glad life out in the fatherland!'And every altar through Admetos' houseShe visited and crowned and prayed before,Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the boughs,Without a tear, without a groan,—no changeAt all to that skin's nature, fair to see,Caused by the imminent evil. But this done,—Reaching her chamber, falling on her bed,There, truly, burst she into tears and spoke:'O bride-bed, where I loosened from my lifeVirginity for that same husband's sakeBecause of whom I die now—fare thee well!Since nowise do I hate thee: me aloneHast thou destroyed; for, shrinking to betrayThee and my spouse, I die: but thee, O bed,Some other woman shall possess as wife—Truer, no! but of better fortune, say!'—So falls on, kisses it till all the couchIs moistened with the eyes' sad overflow.But when of many tears she had her fill,She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forth,Yet—forth the chamber—still keeps turning backAnd casts her on the couch again once more.Her children, clinging to their mother's robe,Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms,And, as a dying woman might, embracedNow one and now the other: 'neath the roof,All of the household servants wept as well,Moved to compassion for their mistress; sheExtended her right hand to all and each,And there was no one of such low degreeShe spoke not to nor had an answer from.Such are the evils in Admetos' house.Dying,—why, he had died; but, living, gainsSuch grief as this he never will forget!"And when they questioned of Admetos, "Well—Holding his dear wife in his hands, he weeps;Entreats her not to give him up, and seeksThe impossible, in fine: for there she wastesAnd withers by disease, abandoned now,A mere dead weight upon her husband's arm.Yet, none the less, although she breathe so faint,Her will is to behold the beams o' the sun:Since never more again, but this last once,Shall she see sun, its circlet or its ray.But I will go, announce your presence,—friendsIndeed; since 't is not all so love their lordsAs seek them in misfortune, kind the same:But you are the old friends I recognize."And at the word she turned again to go:The while they waited, taking up the plaintTo Zeus again: "What passage from this strait?What loosing of the heavy fortune fastAbout the palace? Will such help appear,Or must we clip the locks and cast aroundEach form already the black peplos' fold?Clearly the black robe, clearly! All the same,Pray to the Gods!—like Gods' no power so great!O thou king Paian, find some way to save!Reveal it, yea, reveal it! Since of oldThou found'st a cure, why, now again becomeReleaser from the bonds of Death, we beg,And give the sanguinary Hades pause!"So the song dwindled into a mere moan,How dear the wife, and what her husband's woe;When suddenly—"Behold, behold!" breaks forth:"Here is she coming from the house indeed!Her husband comes, too! Cry aloud, lament,Pheraian land, this best of women, bound—So is she withered by disease away—For realms below and their infernal king!Never will we affirm there's more of joyThan grief in marriage; making estimateBoth from old sorrows anciently observed,And this misfortune of the king we see—Admetos who, of bravest spouse bereaved,Will live life's remnant out, no life at all!"So wailed they, while a sad procession woundSlow from the innermost o' the palace, stoppedAt the extreme verge of the platform-front:There opened, and disclosed Alkestis' self,The consecrated lady, borne to lookHer last—and let the living look their last—She at the sun, we at Alkestis.We!For would you note a memorable thing?We grew to see in that severe regard,—Hear in that hard dry pressure to the point,Word slow pursuing word in monotone,—What Death meant when he called her consecrateHenceforth to Hades. I believe, the sword—Its office was to cut the soul at onceFrom life,—from something in this world which hidesTruth, and hides falsehood, and so lets us liveSomehow. Suppose a rider furls a cloakAbout a horse's head; unfrightened, so,Between the menace of a flame, betweenSolicitation of the pasturage,Untempted equally, he goes his gaitTo journey's end: then pluck the pharos off!Show what delusions steadied him i' the straightO' the path, made grass seem fire and fire seem grass,All through a little bandage o'er the eyes!As certainly with eyes unbandaged nowAlkestis looked upon the action here,Self-immolation for Admetos' sake;Saw, with a new sense, all her death would do,And which of her survivors had the right,And which the less right, to survive thereby.For, you shall note, she uttered no one wordOf love more to her husband, though he weptPlenteously, waxed importunate in prayer—Folly's old fashion when its seed bears fruit.I think she judged that she had bought the wareO' the seller at its value,—nor praised himNor blamed herself, but, with indifferent eye,Saw him purse money up, prepare to leaveThe buyer with a solitary bale—True purple—but in place of all that coin,Had made a hundred others happy too,If so willed fate or fortune! What remainedTo give away, should rather go to theseThan one with coin to clink and contemplate.Admetos had his share and might depart,The rest was for her children and herself.(Charopé makes a face: but wait awhile!)She saw things plain as Gods do: by one strokeO' the sword that rends the life-long veil away.(Also Euripedes saw plain enough:But you and I, Charopé!—you and IWill trust his sight until our own grow clear.)
About that strangest, saddest, sweetest songI, when a girl, heard in Kameiros once,And, after, saved my life by? Oh, so gladTo tell you the adventure!Petalé,Phullis, Charopé, Chrusion! You must know,This "after" fell in that unhappy timeWhen poor reluctant Nikias, pushed by fate,Went falteringly against Syracuse;And there shamed Athens, lost her ships and men,And gained a grave, or death without a grave.I was at Rhodes—the isle, not Rhodes the town,Mine was Kameiros—when the news arrived:Our people rose in tumult, cried, "No moreDuty to Athens, let us join the LeagueAnd side-with Sparta, share the spoil,—at worst,Abjure a headship that will ruin Greece!"And so, they sent to Knidos for a fleetTo come and help revolters. Ere help came,—Girl as I was, and never out of RhodesThe whole of my first fourteen years of life,But nourished with Ilissian mother's-milk,—I passionately cried to who would hearAnd those who loved me at Kameiros—"No!Never throw Athens off for Sparta's sake—Never disloyal to the life and lightOf the whole world worth calling world at all!Rather go die at Athens, lie outstretchedFor feet to trample on, before the gateOf Diomedes or the Hippadai,Before the temples and among the tombs,Than tolerate the grim felicityOf harsh Lakonia! Ours the fasts and feasts,Choës and Chutroi; ours the sacred grove,Agora, Dikasteria, Poikilé,Pnux, Keramikos; Salamis in sight,Psuttalia, Marathon itself, not far!Ours the great Dionusiac theatre,And tragic triad of immortal fames,Aischulos, Sophokles, Euripides!To Athens, all of us that have a soul,Follow me!" And I wrought so with my prayer,That certain of my kinsfolk crossed the straitAnd found a ship at Kaunos; well-disposedBecause the Captain—where did he draw breathFirst but within Psuttalia? Thither fledA few like-minded as ourselves. We turnedThe glad prow westward, soon were out at sea,Pushing, brave ship with the vermilion cheek,Proud for our heart's true harbor. But a windLay ambushed by Point Malea of bad fame,And leapt out, bent us from our course. Next dayBroke stormless, so broke next blue day and next."But whither bound in this white waste?" we plaguedThe pilot's old experience: "Cos or Crete?"Because he promised us the land ahead.While we strained eyes to share in what he saw,The Captain's shout startled us; round we rushed:What hung behind us but a pirate-shipPanting for the good prize! "Row! harder row!Row for dear life!" the Captain cried: "'t is Crete,Friendly Crete looming large there! Beat this craftThat 's but a keles, one-benched pirate-bark,Lokrian, or that bad breed off Thessaly!Only, so cruel are such water-thieves,No man of you, no woman, child, or slave,But falls their prey, once let them board our boat!"So, furiously our oarsmen rowed and rowed:And when the oars nagged somewhat, dash and dip,As we approached the coast and safety, soThat we could hear behind us plain the threatsAnd curses of the pirate panting upIn one more throe and passion of pursuit,—Seeing our oars flag in the rise and fall,I sprang upon the altar by the mastAnd sang aloft—some genius prompting me—That song of ours which saved at Salamis:"O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free,Free your wives, free your children, free the fanesO' the Gods, your fathers founded,—sepulchresThey sleep in! Or save all, or all be lost!"Then, in a frenzy, so the noble oarsChurned the black water white, that well awayWe drew, soon saw land rise, saw hills grow up,Saw spread itself a sea-wide town with towers,Not fifty stadia distant; and, betwixtA large bay and a small, the islet-bar,Even Ortugia's self—oh, luckless we!For here was Sicily and Syracuse:We ran upon the lion from the wolf.Ere we drew breath, took counsel, out there cameA galley, hailed us. "Who asks entry hereIn war-time? Are you Sparta's friend or foe?""Kaunians,"—our Captain judged his best reply,"The mainland-seaport that belongs to Rhodes;Rhodes that casts in her lot now with the League,Forsaking Athens,—you have heard belike!""Ay, but we heard all Athens in one odeJust now! we heard her in that Aischulos!You bring a boatful of Athenians here,Kaunians although you be: and prudence bids,For Kaunos' sake, why, carry them unhurtTo Kaunos, if you will: for Athens' sake,Back must you, though ten pirates blocked the bay!We want no colony from Athens here,With memories of Salamis, forsooth,To spirit up our captives, that pale crowdI' the quarry, whom the daily pint of cornKeeps in good order and submissiveness."Then the gray Captain prayed them by the Gods,And by their own knees, and their fathers' beards,They should not wickedly thrust suppliants back,But save the innocent on traffic bound—Or, maybe, some Athenian familyPerishing of desire to die at home,—From that vile foe still lying on its oars,Waiting the issue in the distance. Vain!Words to the wind! And we were just aboutTo turn and face the foe, as some tired birdBarbarians pelt at, drive with shouts awayFrom shelter in what rocks, however rude,She makes for, to escape the kindled eye,Split beak, crook'd claw o' the creature, cormorantOr ossifrage, that, hardly baffled, hangsAfloat i' the foam, to take her if she turn.So were we at destruction's very edge,When those o' the galley, as they had discussedA point, a question raised by somebody,A matter mooted in a moment,—"Wait!"Cried they (and wait we did, you may be sure)."That song was veritable Aischulos,Familiar to the mouth of man and boy,Old glory: how about Euripides?The newer and not yet so famous bard,He that was born upon the battle-dayWhile that song and the salpinx sounded himInto the world, first sound, at Salamis—Might you know any of his verses too?"
About that strangest, saddest, sweetest song
I, when a girl, heard in Kameiros once,
And, after, saved my life by? Oh, so glad
To tell you the adventure!
Petalé,
Phullis, Charopé, Chrusion! You must know,
This "after" fell in that unhappy time
When poor reluctant Nikias, pushed by fate,
Went falteringly against Syracuse;
And there shamed Athens, lost her ships and men,
And gained a grave, or death without a grave.
I was at Rhodes—the isle, not Rhodes the town,
Mine was Kameiros—when the news arrived:
Our people rose in tumult, cried, "No more
Duty to Athens, let us join the League
And side-with Sparta, share the spoil,—at worst,
Abjure a headship that will ruin Greece!"
And so, they sent to Knidos for a fleet
To come and help revolters. Ere help came,—
Girl as I was, and never out of Rhodes
The whole of my first fourteen years of life,
But nourished with Ilissian mother's-milk,—
I passionately cried to who would hear
And those who loved me at Kameiros—"No!
Never throw Athens off for Sparta's sake—
Never disloyal to the life and light
Of the whole world worth calling world at all!
Rather go die at Athens, lie outstretched
For feet to trample on, before the gate
Of Diomedes or the Hippadai,
Before the temples and among the tombs,
Than tolerate the grim felicity
Of harsh Lakonia! Ours the fasts and feasts,
Choës and Chutroi; ours the sacred grove,
Agora, Dikasteria, Poikilé,
Pnux, Keramikos; Salamis in sight,
Psuttalia, Marathon itself, not far!
Ours the great Dionusiac theatre,
And tragic triad of immortal fames,
Aischulos, Sophokles, Euripides!
To Athens, all of us that have a soul,
Follow me!" And I wrought so with my prayer,
That certain of my kinsfolk crossed the strait
And found a ship at Kaunos; well-disposed
Because the Captain—where did he draw breath
First but within Psuttalia? Thither fled
A few like-minded as ourselves. We turned
The glad prow westward, soon were out at sea,
Pushing, brave ship with the vermilion cheek,
Proud for our heart's true harbor. But a wind
Lay ambushed by Point Malea of bad fame,
And leapt out, bent us from our course. Next day
Broke stormless, so broke next blue day and next.
"But whither bound in this white waste?" we plagued
The pilot's old experience: "Cos or Crete?"
Because he promised us the land ahead.
While we strained eyes to share in what he saw,
The Captain's shout startled us; round we rushed:
What hung behind us but a pirate-ship
Panting for the good prize! "Row! harder row!
Row for dear life!" the Captain cried: "'t is Crete,
Friendly Crete looming large there! Beat this craft
That 's but a keles, one-benched pirate-bark,
Lokrian, or that bad breed off Thessaly!
Only, so cruel are such water-thieves,
No man of you, no woman, child, or slave,
But falls their prey, once let them board our boat!"
So, furiously our oarsmen rowed and rowed:
And when the oars nagged somewhat, dash and dip,
As we approached the coast and safety, so
That we could hear behind us plain the threats
And curses of the pirate panting up
In one more throe and passion of pursuit,—
Seeing our oars flag in the rise and fall,
I sprang upon the altar by the mast
And sang aloft—some genius prompting me—
That song of ours which saved at Salamis:
"O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free,
Free your wives, free your children, free the fanes
O' the Gods, your fathers founded,—sepulchres
They sleep in! Or save all, or all be lost!"
Then, in a frenzy, so the noble oars
Churned the black water white, that well away
We drew, soon saw land rise, saw hills grow up,
Saw spread itself a sea-wide town with towers,
Not fifty stadia distant; and, betwixt
A large bay and a small, the islet-bar,
Even Ortugia's self—oh, luckless we!
For here was Sicily and Syracuse:
We ran upon the lion from the wolf.
Ere we drew breath, took counsel, out there came
A galley, hailed us. "Who asks entry here
In war-time? Are you Sparta's friend or foe?"
"Kaunians,"—our Captain judged his best reply,
"The mainland-seaport that belongs to Rhodes;
Rhodes that casts in her lot now with the League,
Forsaking Athens,—you have heard belike!"
"Ay, but we heard all Athens in one ode
Just now! we heard her in that Aischulos!
You bring a boatful of Athenians here,
Kaunians although you be: and prudence bids,
For Kaunos' sake, why, carry them unhurt
To Kaunos, if you will: for Athens' sake,
Back must you, though ten pirates blocked the bay!
We want no colony from Athens here,
With memories of Salamis, forsooth,
To spirit up our captives, that pale crowd
I' the quarry, whom the daily pint of corn
Keeps in good order and submissiveness."
Then the gray Captain prayed them by the Gods,
And by their own knees, and their fathers' beards,
They should not wickedly thrust suppliants back,
But save the innocent on traffic bound—
Or, maybe, some Athenian family
Perishing of desire to die at home,—
From that vile foe still lying on its oars,
Waiting the issue in the distance. Vain!
Words to the wind! And we were just about
To turn and face the foe, as some tired bird
Barbarians pelt at, drive with shouts away
From shelter in what rocks, however rude,
She makes for, to escape the kindled eye,
Split beak, crook'd claw o' the creature, cormorant
Or ossifrage, that, hardly baffled, hangs
Afloat i' the foam, to take her if she turn.
So were we at destruction's very edge,
When those o' the galley, as they had discussed
A point, a question raised by somebody,
A matter mooted in a moment,—"Wait!"
Cried they (and wait we did, you may be sure).
"That song was veritable Aischulos,
Familiar to the mouth of man and boy,
Old glory: how about Euripides?
The newer and not yet so famous bard,
He that was born upon the battle-day
While that song and the salpinx sounded him
Into the world, first sound, at Salamis—
Might you know any of his verses too?"
Now, some one of the Gods inspired this speech:Since ourselves knew what happened but last year—How, when Gulippos gained his victoryOver poor Nikias, poor Demosthenes,And Syracuse condemned the conquered forceTo dig and starve i' the quarry, branded them—Freeborn Athenians, brute-like in the frontWith horse-head brands,—ah, "Region of the Steed"!—Of all these men immersed in misery,It was found none had been advantaged soBy aught in the past life he used to prizeAnd pride himself concerning,—no rich manBy riches, no wise man by wisdom, noWiser man still (as who loved more the Muse)By storing, at brain's edge and tip of tongue,Old glory, great plays that had long agoMade themselves wings to fly about the world,—Not one such man was helped so at his needAs certain few that (wisest they of all)Had, at first summons, oped heart, flung door wideAt the new knocking of Euripides,Nor drawn the bolt with who cried "Decadence!And, after Sophokles, be nature dumb!"Such,—and I see in it God Bacchos' boonTo souls that recognized his latest child,He who himself, born latest of the Gods,Was stoutly held impostor by mankind,—Such were in safety: any who could speakA chorus to the end, or prologize,Roll out a rhesis, wield some golden lengthStiffened by wisdom out into a line,Or thrust and parry in bright monostich,Teaching Euripides to Syracuse—Any such happy man had prompt reward:If he lay bleeding on the battlefieldThey stanched his wounds and gave him drink and food;If he were slave i' the house, for reverenceThey rose up, bowed to who proved master now,And bade him go free, thank Euripides!Ay, and such did so: many such, he said,Returning home to Athens, sought him out,The old bard in the solitary house,And thanked him ere they went to sacrifice.I say, we knew that story of last year!
Now, some one of the Gods inspired this speech:
Since ourselves knew what happened but last year—
How, when Gulippos gained his victory
Over poor Nikias, poor Demosthenes,
And Syracuse condemned the conquered force
To dig and starve i' the quarry, branded them—
Freeborn Athenians, brute-like in the front
With horse-head brands,—ah, "Region of the Steed"!—
Of all these men immersed in misery,
It was found none had been advantaged so
By aught in the past life he used to prize
And pride himself concerning,—no rich man
By riches, no wise man by wisdom, no
Wiser man still (as who loved more the Muse)
By storing, at brain's edge and tip of tongue,
Old glory, great plays that had long ago
Made themselves wings to fly about the world,—
Not one such man was helped so at his need
As certain few that (wisest they of all)
Had, at first summons, oped heart, flung door wide
At the new knocking of Euripides,
Nor drawn the bolt with who cried "Decadence!
And, after Sophokles, be nature dumb!"
Such,—and I see in it God Bacchos' boon
To souls that recognized his latest child,
He who himself, born latest of the Gods,
Was stoutly held impostor by mankind,—
Such were in safety: any who could speak
A chorus to the end, or prologize,
Roll out a rhesis, wield some golden length
Stiffened by wisdom out into a line,
Or thrust and parry in bright monostich,
Teaching Euripides to Syracuse—
Any such happy man had prompt reward:
If he lay bleeding on the battlefield
They stanched his wounds and gave him drink and food;
If he were slave i' the house, for reverence
They rose up, bowed to who proved master now,
And bade him go free, thank Euripides!
Ay, and such did so: many such, he said,
Returning home to Athens, sought him out,
The old bard in the solitary house,
And thanked him ere they went to sacrifice.
I say, we knew that story of last year!
Therefore, at mention of Euripides,The Captain crowed out, "Euoi, praise the God!Oöp, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore!Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands,Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl!Euripides! Babai! what a word there 'scapedYour teeth's enclosure, quoth my grandsire's song!Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through,Has she been falling thick in flakes of him!Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said.Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech!Now it was some whole passion of a play;Now, peradventure, but a honey-dropThat slipt its comb i' the chorus. If there roseA star, before I could determine steerSouthward or northward—if a cloud surprisedHeaven, ere I fairly hollaed 'Furl the sail!'—She had at fingers' end both cloud and star;Some thought that perched there, tame and tunable,Fitted with wings; and still, as off it flew,'So sang Euripides,' she said, 'so sangThe meteoric poet of air and sea,Planets and the pale populace of heaven,The mind of man, and all that 's made to soar!'And so, although she has some other name,We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower,Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burnsI' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree,Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose,You shall find food, drink, odor, all at once;Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow,And, never much away, the nightingale.Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,Down to the verse that ends all, proverb-like,And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name!"
Therefore, at mention of Euripides,
The Captain crowed out, "Euoi, praise the God!
Oöp, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore!
Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands,
Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl!
Euripides! Babai! what a word there 'scaped
Your teeth's enclosure, quoth my grandsire's song!
Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through,
Has she been falling thick in flakes of him!
Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said.
Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech!
Now it was some whole passion of a play;
Now, peradventure, but a honey-drop
That slipt its comb i' the chorus. If there rose
A star, before I could determine steer
Southward or northward—if a cloud surprised
Heaven, ere I fairly hollaed 'Furl the sail!'—
She had at fingers' end both cloud and star;
Some thought that perched there, tame and tunable,
Fitted with wings; and still, as off it flew,
'So sang Euripides,' she said, 'so sang
The meteoric poet of air and sea,
Planets and the pale populace of heaven,
The mind of man, and all that 's made to soar!'
And so, although she has some other name,
We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower,
Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burns
I' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree,
Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose,
You shall find food, drink, odor, all at once;
Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow,
And, never much away, the nightingale.
Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,
Down to the verse that ends all, proverb-like,
And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name!"
But I cried, "Brother Greek! better than so,—Save us, and I have courage to reciteThe main of a whole play from first to last;That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his,Alkestis; which was taught, long years agoAt Athens, in Glaukinos' archonship,But only this year reached our Isle o' the Rose.I saw it at Kameiros; played the same,They say, as for the right Lenean feastIn Athens; and beside the perfect piece—Its beauty and the way it makes you weep,—There is much honor done your own loved GodHerakles, whom you house i' the city hereNobly, the Temple wide Greece talks about!I come a suppliant to your Herakles!Take me and put me on his temple-steps,To tell you his achievement as I may,And, that told, he shall bid you set us free!"
But I cried, "Brother Greek! better than so,—
Save us, and I have courage to recite
The main of a whole play from first to last;
That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his,
Alkestis; which was taught, long years ago
At Athens, in Glaukinos' archonship,
But only this year reached our Isle o' the Rose.
I saw it at Kameiros; played the same,
They say, as for the right Lenean feast
In Athens; and beside the perfect piece—
Its beauty and the way it makes you weep,—
There is much honor done your own loved God
Herakles, whom you house i' the city here
Nobly, the Temple wide Greece talks about!
I come a suppliant to your Herakles!
Take me and put me on his temple-steps,
To tell you his achievement as I may,
And, that told, he shall bid you set us free!"
Then, because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts,And poetry is power,—they all outbrokeIn a great joyous laughter with much love:"Thank Herakles for the good holiday!Make for the harbor! Row, and let voice ring,'In we row, bringing more Euripides!'"All the crowd, as they lined the harbor now,"More of Euripides!"—took up the cry.We landed; the whole city, soon astir,Came rushing out of gates in common joyTo the suburb temple; there they stationed meO' the topmost step: and plain I told the play,Just as I saw it; what the actors said,And what I saw, or thought I saw the while,At our Kameiros theatre, clean-scoopedOut of a hillside, with the sky aboveAnd sea before our seats in marble row:Told it, and, two days more, repeated it,Until they sent us on our way againWith good words and great wishes.Oh, for me—A wealthy Syracusan brought a wholeTalent and bade me take it for myself:I left it on the tripod in the fane,—For had not Herakles a second timeWrestled with Death and saved devoted ones?—Thank-offering to the hero. And a bandOf captives, whom their lords grew kinder toBecause they called the poet countryman,Sent me a crown of wild-pomegranate-flower:So, I shall live and die Balaustion now.But one—one man—one youth,—three days, each day,—(If, ere I lifted up my voice to speak,I gave a downward glance by accident,)Was found at foot o' the temple. When we sailed,There, in the ship too, was he found as well,Having a hunger to see Athens too.We reached Peiraieus; when I landed—lo,He was beside me. Anthesterion-monthIs just commencing: when its moon rounds full,We are to marry. O Euripides!I saw the master: when we found ourselves(Because the young man needs must follow me)Firm on Peiraieus, I demanded firstWhither to go and find him. Would you think?The story how he saved us made some smile:They wondered strangers were exorbitantIn estimation of Euripides.He was not Aischulos nor Sophokles:—"Then, of our younger bards who boast the bay,Had I sought Agathon, or Iophon,Or, what now had it been Kephisophon?A man that never kept good company,The most unsociable of poet-kind,All beard that was not freckle in his face!"
Then, because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts,
And poetry is power,—they all outbroke
In a great joyous laughter with much love:
"Thank Herakles for the good holiday!
Make for the harbor! Row, and let voice ring,
'In we row, bringing more Euripides!'"
All the crowd, as they lined the harbor now,
"More of Euripides!"—took up the cry.
We landed; the whole city, soon astir,
Came rushing out of gates in common joy
To the suburb temple; there they stationed me
O' the topmost step: and plain I told the play,
Just as I saw it; what the actors said,
And what I saw, or thought I saw the while,
At our Kameiros theatre, clean-scooped
Out of a hillside, with the sky above
And sea before our seats in marble row:
Told it, and, two days more, repeated it,
Until they sent us on our way again
With good words and great wishes.
Oh, for me—
A wealthy Syracusan brought a whole
Talent and bade me take it for myself:
I left it on the tripod in the fane,
—For had not Herakles a second time
Wrestled with Death and saved devoted ones?—
Thank-offering to the hero. And a band
Of captives, whom their lords grew kinder to
Because they called the poet countryman,
Sent me a crown of wild-pomegranate-flower:
So, I shall live and die Balaustion now.
But one—one man—one youth,—three days, each day,—
(If, ere I lifted up my voice to speak,
I gave a downward glance by accident,)
Was found at foot o' the temple. When we sailed,
There, in the ship too, was he found as well,
Having a hunger to see Athens too.
We reached Peiraieus; when I landed—lo,
He was beside me. Anthesterion-month
Is just commencing: when its moon rounds full,
We are to marry. O Euripides!
I saw the master: when we found ourselves
(Because the young man needs must follow me)
Firm on Peiraieus, I demanded first
Whither to go and find him. Would you think?
The story how he saved us made some smile:
They wondered strangers were exorbitant
In estimation of Euripides.
He was not Aischulos nor Sophokles:
—"Then, of our younger bards who boast the bay,
Had I sought Agathon, or Iophon,
Or, what now had it been Kephisophon?
A man that never kept good company,
The most unsociable of poet-kind,
All beard that was not freckle in his face!"
I soon was at the tragic house, and sawThe master, held the sacred hand of himAnd laid it to my lips. Men love him not:How should they? Nor do they much love his friendSokrates: but those two have fellowship:Sokrates often comes to hear him read,And never misses if he teach a piece.Both, being old, will soon have company,Sit with their peers above the talk. Meantime,He lives as should a statue in its niche;Cold walls enclose him, mostly darkness there,Alone, unless some foreigner uncouthBreaks in, sits, stares an hour, and so departs,Brain-stuffed with something to sustain his life,Dry to the marrow 'mid much merchandise.How should such know and love the man?Why, mark!Even when I told the play and got the praise,There spoke up a brisk little somebody,Critic and whippersnapper, in a rageTo set things right: "The girl departs from truth!Pretends she saw what was not to be seen,Making the mask of the actor move, forsooth!'Then a fear flitted o'er the wife's white face,'—'Then frowned the father,'—'then the husband shook,'—'Then from the festal forehead slipt each spray,And the heroic mouth's gay grace was gone;'—As she had seen each naked fleshly face,And not the merely-painted mask it wore!"Well, is the explanation difficult?What 's poetry except a power that makes?And, speaking to one sense, inspires the rest,Pressing them all into its service; soThat who sees painting, seems to hear as wellThe speech that 's proper for the painted mouth;And who hears music, feels his solitudePeopled at once—for how count heartbeats plainUnless a company, with hearts which beat,Come close to the musician, seen or no?And who receives true verse at eye or ear,Takes in (with verse) time, place, and person too,So, links each sense on to its sister-sense,Grace-like: and what if but one sense of threeFront you at once? The sidelong pair conceiveThrough faintest touch of finest finger-tips,—Hear, see and feel, in faith's simplicity,Alike, what one was sole recipient of:Who hears the poem, therefore, sees the play.Enough and too much! Hear the play itself!Under the grape-vines, by the streamlet-side,Close to Baccheion; till the cool increase,And other stars steal on the evening-star,And so, we homeward flock i' the dusk, we five!You will expect, no one of all the wordsO' the play but is grown part now of my soul,Since the adventure. 'T is the poet speaks:But if I, too, should try and speak at times,Leading your love to where my love, perchance,Climbed earlier, found a nest before you knew—Why, bear with the poor climber, for love's sake!Look at Baccheion's beauty opposite,The temple with the pillars at the porch!See you not something beside masonry?What if my words wind in and out the stoneAs yonder ivy, the God's parasite?Though they leap all the way the pillar leads,Festoon about the marble, foot to frieze,And serpentiningly enrich the roof,Toy with some few bees and a bird or two,—What then? The column holds the cornice up!
I soon was at the tragic house, and saw
The master, held the sacred hand of him
And laid it to my lips. Men love him not:
How should they? Nor do they much love his friend
Sokrates: but those two have fellowship:
Sokrates often comes to hear him read,
And never misses if he teach a piece.
Both, being old, will soon have company,
Sit with their peers above the talk. Meantime,
He lives as should a statue in its niche;
Cold walls enclose him, mostly darkness there,
Alone, unless some foreigner uncouth
Breaks in, sits, stares an hour, and so departs,
Brain-stuffed with something to sustain his life,
Dry to the marrow 'mid much merchandise.
How should such know and love the man?
Why, mark!
Even when I told the play and got the praise,
There spoke up a brisk little somebody,
Critic and whippersnapper, in a rage
To set things right: "The girl departs from truth!
Pretends she saw what was not to be seen,
Making the mask of the actor move, forsooth!
'Then a fear flitted o'er the wife's white face,'—
'Then frowned the father,'—'then the husband shook,'—
'Then from the festal forehead slipt each spray,
And the heroic mouth's gay grace was gone;'—
As she had seen each naked fleshly face,
And not the merely-painted mask it wore!"
Well, is the explanation difficult?
What 's poetry except a power that makes?
And, speaking to one sense, inspires the rest,
Pressing them all into its service; so
That who sees painting, seems to hear as well
The speech that 's proper for the painted mouth;
And who hears music, feels his solitude
Peopled at once—for how count heartbeats plain
Unless a company, with hearts which beat,
Come close to the musician, seen or no?
And who receives true verse at eye or ear,
Takes in (with verse) time, place, and person too,
So, links each sense on to its sister-sense,
Grace-like: and what if but one sense of three
Front you at once? The sidelong pair conceive
Through faintest touch of finest finger-tips,—
Hear, see and feel, in faith's simplicity,
Alike, what one was sole recipient of:
Who hears the poem, therefore, sees the play.
Enough and too much! Hear the play itself!
Under the grape-vines, by the streamlet-side,
Close to Baccheion; till the cool increase,
And other stars steal on the evening-star,
And so, we homeward flock i' the dusk, we five!
You will expect, no one of all the words
O' the play but is grown part now of my soul,
Since the adventure. 'T is the poet speaks:
But if I, too, should try and speak at times,
Leading your love to where my love, perchance,
Climbed earlier, found a nest before you knew—
Why, bear with the poor climber, for love's sake!
Look at Baccheion's beauty opposite,
The temple with the pillars at the porch!
See you not something beside masonry?
What if my words wind in and out the stone
As yonder ivy, the God's parasite?
Though they leap all the way the pillar leads,
Festoon about the marble, foot to frieze,
And serpentiningly enrich the roof,
Toy with some few bees and a bird or two,—
What then? The column holds the cornice up!
There slept a silent palace in the sun,With plains adjacent and Thessalian peace—Pherai, where King Admetos ruled the land.
There slept a silent palace in the sun,
With plains adjacent and Thessalian peace—
Pherai, where King Admetos ruled the land.
Out from the portico there gleamed a God,Apollon: for the bow was in his hand,The quiver at his shoulder, all his shapeOne dreadful beauty. And he hailed the house,As if he knew it well and loved it much:"O Admeteian domes, where I endured,Even the God I am, to drudge awhile,Do righteous penance for a reckless deed,Accepting the slaves' table thankfully!"Then told how Zeus had been the cause of all,Raising the wrath in him which took revengeAnd slew those forgers of the thunderboltWherewith Zeus blazed the life from out the breastOf Phoibos' son Asklepios (I surmise,Because he brought the dead to life again),And so, for punishment, must needs go slave,God as he was, with a mere mortal lord:—Told how he came to King Admetos' land,And played the ministrant, was herdsman there,Warding all harm away from him and hisTill now; "For, holy as I am," said he,"The lord I chanced upon was holy too:Whence I deceived the Moirai, drew from deathMy master, this same son of Pheres,—ay,The Goddesses conceded him escapeFrom Hades, when the fated day should fall,Could he exchange lives, find some friendly oneReady, for his sake, to content the grave.But trying all in turn, the friendly list,Why, he found no one, none who loved so much,Nor father, nor the aged mother's selfThat bore him, no, not any save his wife,Willing to die instead of him and watchNever a sunrise nor a sunset more:And she is even now within the house,Upborne by pitying hands, the feeble frameGasping its last of life out; since to-dayDestiny is accomplished, and she dies,And I, lest here pollution light on me,Leave, as ye witness, all my wonted joyIn this dear dwelling. Ay,—for here comes DeathClose on us of a sudden! who, pale priestOf the mute people, means to bear his preyTo the house of Hades. The symmetric step!How he treads true to time and place and thing,Dogging day, hour and minute, for death's-due!"
Out from the portico there gleamed a God,
Apollon: for the bow was in his hand,
The quiver at his shoulder, all his shape
One dreadful beauty. And he hailed the house,
As if he knew it well and loved it much:
"O Admeteian domes, where I endured,
Even the God I am, to drudge awhile,
Do righteous penance for a reckless deed,
Accepting the slaves' table thankfully!"
Then told how Zeus had been the cause of all,
Raising the wrath in him which took revenge
And slew those forgers of the thunderbolt
Wherewith Zeus blazed the life from out the breast
Of Phoibos' son Asklepios (I surmise,
Because he brought the dead to life again),
And so, for punishment, must needs go slave,
God as he was, with a mere mortal lord:
—Told how he came to King Admetos' land,
And played the ministrant, was herdsman there,
Warding all harm away from him and his
Till now; "For, holy as I am," said he,
"The lord I chanced upon was holy too:
Whence I deceived the Moirai, drew from death
My master, this same son of Pheres,—ay,
The Goddesses conceded him escape
From Hades, when the fated day should fall,
Could he exchange lives, find some friendly one
Ready, for his sake, to content the grave.
But trying all in turn, the friendly list,
Why, he found no one, none who loved so much,
Nor father, nor the aged mother's self
That bore him, no, not any save his wife,
Willing to die instead of him and watch
Never a sunrise nor a sunset more:
And she is even now within the house,
Upborne by pitying hands, the feeble frame
Gasping its last of life out; since to-day
Destiny is accomplished, and she dies,
And I, lest here pollution light on me,
Leave, as ye witness, all my wonted joy
In this dear dwelling. Ay,—for here comes Death
Close on us of a sudden! who, pale priest
Of the mute people, means to bear his prey
To the house of Hades. The symmetric step!
How he treads true to time and place and thing,
Dogging day, hour and minute, for death's-due!"
And we observed another Deity,Half in, half out the portal,—watch and ward,—Eying his fellow: formidably fixed,Yet faltering too at who affronted him,As somehow disadvantaged, should they strive.Like some dread heapy blackness, ruffled wing,Convulsed and cowering head that is all eye,Which proves a ruined eagle who, too blindSwooping in quest o' the quarry, fawn or kid,Descried deep down the chasm 'twixt rock and rock,Has wedged and mortised, into either wallO' the mountain, the pent earthquake of his power;So lies, half hurtless yet still terrible,Just when—who stalks up, who stands front to front,But the great lion-guarder of the gorge,Lord of the ground, a stationed glory there!Yet he too pauses ere he try the worstO' the frightful unfamiliar nature, newTo the chasm, indeed, but elsewhere known enough,Among the shadows and the silencesAbove i' the sky: so, each antagonistSilently faced his fellow and forbore.Till Death shrilled, hard and quick, in spite and fear:
And we observed another Deity,
Half in, half out the portal,—watch and ward,—
Eying his fellow: formidably fixed,
Yet faltering too at who affronted him,
As somehow disadvantaged, should they strive.
Like some dread heapy blackness, ruffled wing,
Convulsed and cowering head that is all eye,
Which proves a ruined eagle who, too blind
Swooping in quest o' the quarry, fawn or kid,
Descried deep down the chasm 'twixt rock and rock,
Has wedged and mortised, into either wall
O' the mountain, the pent earthquake of his power;
So lies, half hurtless yet still terrible,
Just when—who stalks up, who stands front to front,
But the great lion-guarder of the gorge,
Lord of the ground, a stationed glory there!
Yet he too pauses ere he try the worst
O' the frightful unfamiliar nature, new
To the chasm, indeed, but elsewhere known enough,
Among the shadows and the silences
Above i' the sky: so, each antagonist
Silently faced his fellow and forbore.
Till Death shrilled, hard and quick, in spite and fear:
"Ha, ha, and what mayst thou do at the domes,Why hauntest here, thou Phoibos? Here againAt the old injustice, limiting our rights,Balking of honor due us Gods o' the grave?Was 't not enough for thee to have delayedDeath from Admetos,—with thy crafty artCheating the very Fates,—but thou must armThe bow-hand and take station, press 'twixt meAnd Pelias' daughter, who then saved her spouse,—Did just that, now thou comest to undo,—Taking his place to die, Alkestis here?"
"Ha, ha, and what mayst thou do at the domes,
Why hauntest here, thou Phoibos? Here again
At the old injustice, limiting our rights,
Balking of honor due us Gods o' the grave?
Was 't not enough for thee to have delayed
Death from Admetos,—with thy crafty art
Cheating the very Fates,—but thou must arm
The bow-hand and take station, press 'twixt me
And Pelias' daughter, who then saved her spouse,—
Did just that, now thou comest to undo,—
Taking his place to die, Alkestis here?"
But the God sighed, "Have courage! All my arms,This time, are simple justice and fair words."
But the God sighed, "Have courage! All my arms,
This time, are simple justice and fair words."
Then each plied each with rapid interchange:
Then each plied each with rapid interchange:
"What need of bow, were justice arms enough?"
"What need of bow, were justice arms enough?"
"Ever it is my wont to bear the bow."
"Ever it is my wont to bear the bow."
"Ay, and with bow, not justice, help this house!"
"Ay, and with bow, not justice, help this house!"
"I help it, since a friend's woe weighs me too."
"I help it, since a friend's woe weighs me too."
"And now,—wilt force from me this second corpse?"
"And now,—wilt force from me this second corpse?"
"By force I took no corpse at first from thee."
"By force I took no corpse at first from thee."
"How then is he above ground, not beneath?"
"How then is he above ground, not beneath?"
"He gave his wife instead of him, thy prey."
"He gave his wife instead of him, thy prey."
"And prey, this time at least, I bear below!"
"And prey, this time at least, I bear below!"
"Go take her!—for I doubt persuading thee ..."
"Go take her!—for I doubt persuading thee ..."
"To kill the doomed one? What my function else?"
"To kill the doomed one? What my function else?"
"No! Rather, to dispatch the true mature."
"No! Rather, to dispatch the true mature."
"Truly I take thy meaning, see thy drift!"
"Truly I take thy meaning, see thy drift!"
"Is there a way then she may reach old age?"
"Is there a way then she may reach old age?"
"No way! I glad me in my honors too!"
"No way! I glad me in my honors too!"
"But, young or old, thou tak'st one life, no more!"
"But, young or old, thou tak'st one life, no more!"
"Younger, they die, greater my praise redounds!"
"Younger, they die, greater my praise redounds!"
"If she die old,—the sumptuous funeral!"
"If she die old,—the sumptuous funeral!"
"Thou layest down a law the rich would like."
"Thou layest down a law the rich would like."
"How so? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense?"
"How so? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense?"
"Who could buy substitutes would die old men."
"Who could buy substitutes would die old men."
"It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace?"
"It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace?"
"This grace I will not grant: thou know'st my ways."
"This grace I will not grant: thou know'st my ways."
"Ways harsh to men, hateful to Gods, at least!"
"Ways harsh to men, hateful to Gods, at least!"
"All things thou canst not have: my rights for me!"
"All things thou canst not have: my rights for me!"
And then Apollon prophesied,—I think,More to himself than to impatient Death,Who did not hear or would not heed the while,—For he went on to say, "Yet even so,Cruel above the measure, thou shalt clutchNo life here! Such a man do I perceiveAdvancing to the house of Pheres now,Sent by Eurustheus to bring out of Thrace,The winter world, a chariot with its steeds!He indeed, when Admetos proves the host,And he the guest, at the house here,—he it isShall bring to bear such force, and from thy handsRescue this woman! Grace no whit to meWill that prove, since thou dost thy deed the same,And earnest too my hate, and all for naught!"
And then Apollon prophesied,—I think,
More to himself than to impatient Death,
Who did not hear or would not heed the while,—
For he went on to say, "Yet even so,
Cruel above the measure, thou shalt clutch
No life here! Such a man do I perceive
Advancing to the house of Pheres now,
Sent by Eurustheus to bring out of Thrace,
The winter world, a chariot with its steeds!
He indeed, when Admetos proves the host,
And he the guest, at the house here,—he it is
Shall bring to bear such force, and from thy hands
Rescue this woman! Grace no whit to me
Will that prove, since thou dost thy deed the same,
And earnest too my hate, and all for naught!"
But how should Death or stay or understand?Doubtless, he only felt the hour was come,And the sword free; for he but flung some taunt—"Having talked much, thou wilt not gain the more!This woman, then, descends to Hades' hallNow that I rush on her, begin the ritesO' the sword; for sacred, to us Gods below,That head whose hair this sword shall sanctify!"
But how should Death or stay or understand?
Doubtless, he only felt the hour was come,
And the sword free; for he but flung some taunt—
"Having talked much, thou wilt not gain the more!
This woman, then, descends to Hades' hall
Now that I rush on her, begin the rites
O' the sword; for sacred, to us Gods below,
That head whose hair this sword shall sanctify!"
And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword,The uprush and the outburst, the onslaughtOf Death's portentous passage through the door,Apollon stood a pitying moment-space:I caught one last gold gaze upon the nightNearing the world now: and the God was gone,And mortals left to deal with misery,As in came stealing slow, now this, now thatOld sojourner throughout the country-side,Servants grown friends to those unhappy here:And, cloudlike in their increase, all these griefsBroke and began the over-brimming wail,Out of a common impulse, word by word.
And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword,
The uprush and the outburst, the onslaught
Of Death's portentous passage through the door,
Apollon stood a pitying moment-space:
I caught one last gold gaze upon the night
Nearing the world now: and the God was gone,
And mortals left to deal with misery,
As in came stealing slow, now this, now that
Old sojourner throughout the country-side,
Servants grown friends to those unhappy here:
And, cloudlike in their increase, all these griefs
Broke and began the over-brimming wail,
Out of a common impulse, word by word.
"What now may mean the silence at the door?Why is Admetos' mansion stricken dumb?Not one friend near, to say if we should mournOur mistress dead, or if Alkestis livesAnd sees the light still, Pelias' child—to me,To all, conspicuously the best of wivesThat ever was toward husband in this world!Hears any one or wail beneath the roof,Or hands that strike each other, or the groanAnnouncing all is done and naught to dread?Still not a servant stationed at the gates!O Paian, that thou wouldst dispart the waveO' the woe, be present! Yet, had woe o'erwhelmedThe housemates, they were hardly silent thus:It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone.Whence comes thy gleam of hope? I dare not hope:What is the circumstance that heartens thee?How could Admetos have dismissed a wifeSo worthy, unescorted to the grave?Before the gates I see no hallowed vaseOf fountain-water, such as suits death's door;Nor any clipt locks strew the vestibule,Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead,Nor hand sounds smitten against youthful hand,The women's way. And yet—the appointed time—How speak the word?—this day is even the dayOrdained her for departing from its light.O touch calamitous to heart and soul!Needs must one, when the good are tortured so,Sorrow,—one reckoned faithful from the first."
"What now may mean the silence at the door?
Why is Admetos' mansion stricken dumb?
Not one friend near, to say if we should mourn
Our mistress dead, or if Alkestis lives
And sees the light still, Pelias' child—to me,
To all, conspicuously the best of wives
That ever was toward husband in this world!
Hears any one or wail beneath the roof,
Or hands that strike each other, or the groan
Announcing all is done and naught to dread?
Still not a servant stationed at the gates!
O Paian, that thou wouldst dispart the wave
O' the woe, be present! Yet, had woe o'erwhelmed
The housemates, they were hardly silent thus:
It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone.
Whence comes thy gleam of hope? I dare not hope:
What is the circumstance that heartens thee?
How could Admetos have dismissed a wife
So worthy, unescorted to the grave?
Before the gates I see no hallowed vase
Of fountain-water, such as suits death's door;
Nor any clipt locks strew the vestibule,
Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead,
Nor hand sounds smitten against youthful hand,
The women's way. And yet—the appointed time—
How speak the word?—this day is even the day
Ordained her for departing from its light.
O touch calamitous to heart and soul!
Needs must one, when the good are tortured so,
Sorrow,—one reckoned faithful from the first."
Then their souls rose together, and one sighWent up in cadence from the common mouth:How "Vainly—anywhither in the worldDirecting or land-labor or sea-search—To Lukia or the sand-waste, Ammon's seat—Might you set free their hapless lady's soulFrom the abrupt Fate's footstep instant now.Not a sheep-sacrificer at the hearthsOf Gods had they to go to: one there wasWho, if his eyes saw light still,—Phoibos' son,—Had wrought so, she might leave the shadowy placeAnd Hades' portal: for he propped up Death'sSubdued ones, till the Zeus-flung thunder-flameStruck him; and now what hope of life were hailedWith open arms? For, all the king could doIs done already,—not one God whereofThe altar fails to reek with sacrifice:And for assuagement of these evils—naught!"
Then their souls rose together, and one sigh
Went up in cadence from the common mouth:
How "Vainly—anywhither in the world
Directing or land-labor or sea-search—
To Lukia or the sand-waste, Ammon's seat—
Might you set free their hapless lady's soul
From the abrupt Fate's footstep instant now.
Not a sheep-sacrificer at the hearths
Of Gods had they to go to: one there was
Who, if his eyes saw light still,—Phoibos' son,—
Had wrought so, she might leave the shadowy place
And Hades' portal: for he propped up Death's
Subdued ones, till the Zeus-flung thunder-flame
Struck him; and now what hope of life were hailed
With open arms? For, all the king could do
Is done already,—not one God whereof
The altar fails to reek with sacrifice:
And for assuagement of these evils—naught!"
But here they broke off, for a matron movedForth from the house: and, as her tears flowed fast,They gathered round. "What fortune shall we hear?For mourning thus, if aught affect thy lord,We pardon thee: but lives the lady yetOr has she perished?—that we fain would know!"
But here they broke off, for a matron moved
Forth from the house: and, as her tears flowed fast,
They gathered round. "What fortune shall we hear?
For mourning thus, if aught affect thy lord,
We pardon thee: but lives the lady yet
Or has she perished?—that we fain would know!"
"Call her dead, call her living, each style serves,"The matron said: "though grave-ward bowed, she breathed;Nor knew her husband what the misery meantBefore he felt it: hope of life was none:The appointed day pressed hard; the funeral pompHe had prepared too."When the friends broke out,"Let her in dying know herself at leastSole wife, of all the wives 'neath the sun wide,For glory and for goodness!"—"Ah, how elseThan best? who controverts the claim?" quoth she:"What kind of creature should the woman proveThat has surpassed Alkestis?—surelier shownPreference for her husband to herselfThan by determining to die for him?But so much all our city knows indeed:Hear what she did indoors and wonder then!For, when she felt the crowning day was come,She washed with river-waters her white skin,And, taking from the cedar closets forthVesture and ornament, bedecked herselfNobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed:'Mistress, because I now depart the world,Falling before thee the last time, I ask—Be mother to my orphans! wed the oneTo a kind wife, and make the other's mateSome princely person: nor, as I who boreMy children perish, suffer that they tooDie all untimely, but live, happy pair,Their full glad life out in the fatherland!'And every altar through Admetos' houseShe visited and crowned and prayed before,Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the boughs,Without a tear, without a groan,—no changeAt all to that skin's nature, fair to see,Caused by the imminent evil. But this done,—Reaching her chamber, falling on her bed,There, truly, burst she into tears and spoke:'O bride-bed, where I loosened from my lifeVirginity for that same husband's sakeBecause of whom I die now—fare thee well!Since nowise do I hate thee: me aloneHast thou destroyed; for, shrinking to betrayThee and my spouse, I die: but thee, O bed,Some other woman shall possess as wife—Truer, no! but of better fortune, say!'—So falls on, kisses it till all the couchIs moistened with the eyes' sad overflow.But when of many tears she had her fill,She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forth,Yet—forth the chamber—still keeps turning backAnd casts her on the couch again once more.Her children, clinging to their mother's robe,Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms,And, as a dying woman might, embracedNow one and now the other: 'neath the roof,All of the household servants wept as well,Moved to compassion for their mistress; sheExtended her right hand to all and each,And there was no one of such low degreeShe spoke not to nor had an answer from.Such are the evils in Admetos' house.Dying,—why, he had died; but, living, gainsSuch grief as this he never will forget!"
"Call her dead, call her living, each style serves,"
The matron said: "though grave-ward bowed, she breathed;
Nor knew her husband what the misery meant
Before he felt it: hope of life was none:
The appointed day pressed hard; the funeral pomp
He had prepared too."
When the friends broke out,
"Let her in dying know herself at least
Sole wife, of all the wives 'neath the sun wide,
For glory and for goodness!"—"Ah, how else
Than best? who controverts the claim?" quoth she:
"What kind of creature should the woman prove
That has surpassed Alkestis?—surelier shown
Preference for her husband to herself
Than by determining to die for him?
But so much all our city knows indeed:
Hear what she did indoors and wonder then!
For, when she felt the crowning day was come,
She washed with river-waters her white skin,
And, taking from the cedar closets forth
Vesture and ornament, bedecked herself
Nobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed:
'Mistress, because I now depart the world,
Falling before thee the last time, I ask—
Be mother to my orphans! wed the one
To a kind wife, and make the other's mate
Some princely person: nor, as I who bore
My children perish, suffer that they too
Die all untimely, but live, happy pair,
Their full glad life out in the fatherland!'
And every altar through Admetos' house
She visited and crowned and prayed before,
Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the boughs,
Without a tear, without a groan,—no change
At all to that skin's nature, fair to see,
Caused by the imminent evil. But this done,—
Reaching her chamber, falling on her bed,
There, truly, burst she into tears and spoke:
'O bride-bed, where I loosened from my life
Virginity for that same husband's sake
Because of whom I die now—fare thee well!
Since nowise do I hate thee: me alone
Hast thou destroyed; for, shrinking to betray
Thee and my spouse, I die: but thee, O bed,
Some other woman shall possess as wife—
Truer, no! but of better fortune, say!'
—So falls on, kisses it till all the couch
Is moistened with the eyes' sad overflow.
But when of many tears she had her fill,
She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forth,
Yet—forth the chamber—still keeps turning back
And casts her on the couch again once more.
Her children, clinging to their mother's robe,
Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms,
And, as a dying woman might, embraced
Now one and now the other: 'neath the roof,
All of the household servants wept as well,
Moved to compassion for their mistress; she
Extended her right hand to all and each,
And there was no one of such low degree
She spoke not to nor had an answer from.
Such are the evils in Admetos' house.
Dying,—why, he had died; but, living, gains
Such grief as this he never will forget!"
And when they questioned of Admetos, "Well—Holding his dear wife in his hands, he weeps;Entreats her not to give him up, and seeksThe impossible, in fine: for there she wastesAnd withers by disease, abandoned now,A mere dead weight upon her husband's arm.Yet, none the less, although she breathe so faint,Her will is to behold the beams o' the sun:Since never more again, but this last once,Shall she see sun, its circlet or its ray.But I will go, announce your presence,—friendsIndeed; since 't is not all so love their lordsAs seek them in misfortune, kind the same:But you are the old friends I recognize."
And when they questioned of Admetos, "Well—
Holding his dear wife in his hands, he weeps;
Entreats her not to give him up, and seeks
The impossible, in fine: for there she wastes
And withers by disease, abandoned now,
A mere dead weight upon her husband's arm.
Yet, none the less, although she breathe so faint,
Her will is to behold the beams o' the sun:
Since never more again, but this last once,
Shall she see sun, its circlet or its ray.
But I will go, announce your presence,—friends
Indeed; since 't is not all so love their lords
As seek them in misfortune, kind the same:
But you are the old friends I recognize."
And at the word she turned again to go:The while they waited, taking up the plaintTo Zeus again: "What passage from this strait?What loosing of the heavy fortune fastAbout the palace? Will such help appear,Or must we clip the locks and cast aroundEach form already the black peplos' fold?Clearly the black robe, clearly! All the same,Pray to the Gods!—like Gods' no power so great!O thou king Paian, find some way to save!Reveal it, yea, reveal it! Since of oldThou found'st a cure, why, now again becomeReleaser from the bonds of Death, we beg,And give the sanguinary Hades pause!"So the song dwindled into a mere moan,How dear the wife, and what her husband's woe;When suddenly—"Behold, behold!" breaks forth:"Here is she coming from the house indeed!Her husband comes, too! Cry aloud, lament,Pheraian land, this best of women, bound—So is she withered by disease away—For realms below and their infernal king!Never will we affirm there's more of joyThan grief in marriage; making estimateBoth from old sorrows anciently observed,And this misfortune of the king we see—Admetos who, of bravest spouse bereaved,Will live life's remnant out, no life at all!"
And at the word she turned again to go:
The while they waited, taking up the plaint
To Zeus again: "What passage from this strait?
What loosing of the heavy fortune fast
About the palace? Will such help appear,
Or must we clip the locks and cast around
Each form already the black peplos' fold?
Clearly the black robe, clearly! All the same,
Pray to the Gods!—like Gods' no power so great!
O thou king Paian, find some way to save!
Reveal it, yea, reveal it! Since of old
Thou found'st a cure, why, now again become
Releaser from the bonds of Death, we beg,
And give the sanguinary Hades pause!"
So the song dwindled into a mere moan,
How dear the wife, and what her husband's woe;
When suddenly—
"Behold, behold!" breaks forth:
"Here is she coming from the house indeed!
Her husband comes, too! Cry aloud, lament,
Pheraian land, this best of women, bound—
So is she withered by disease away—
For realms below and their infernal king!
Never will we affirm there's more of joy
Than grief in marriage; making estimate
Both from old sorrows anciently observed,
And this misfortune of the king we see—
Admetos who, of bravest spouse bereaved,
Will live life's remnant out, no life at all!"
So wailed they, while a sad procession woundSlow from the innermost o' the palace, stoppedAt the extreme verge of the platform-front:There opened, and disclosed Alkestis' self,The consecrated lady, borne to lookHer last—and let the living look their last—She at the sun, we at Alkestis.We!For would you note a memorable thing?We grew to see in that severe regard,—Hear in that hard dry pressure to the point,Word slow pursuing word in monotone,—What Death meant when he called her consecrateHenceforth to Hades. I believe, the sword—Its office was to cut the soul at onceFrom life,—from something in this world which hidesTruth, and hides falsehood, and so lets us liveSomehow. Suppose a rider furls a cloakAbout a horse's head; unfrightened, so,Between the menace of a flame, betweenSolicitation of the pasturage,Untempted equally, he goes his gaitTo journey's end: then pluck the pharos off!Show what delusions steadied him i' the straightO' the path, made grass seem fire and fire seem grass,All through a little bandage o'er the eyes!As certainly with eyes unbandaged nowAlkestis looked upon the action here,Self-immolation for Admetos' sake;Saw, with a new sense, all her death would do,And which of her survivors had the right,And which the less right, to survive thereby.For, you shall note, she uttered no one wordOf love more to her husband, though he weptPlenteously, waxed importunate in prayer—Folly's old fashion when its seed bears fruit.I think she judged that she had bought the wareO' the seller at its value,—nor praised himNor blamed herself, but, with indifferent eye,Saw him purse money up, prepare to leaveThe buyer with a solitary bale—True purple—but in place of all that coin,Had made a hundred others happy too,If so willed fate or fortune! What remainedTo give away, should rather go to theseThan one with coin to clink and contemplate.Admetos had his share and might depart,The rest was for her children and herself.(Charopé makes a face: but wait awhile!)She saw things plain as Gods do: by one strokeO' the sword that rends the life-long veil away.(Also Euripedes saw plain enough:But you and I, Charopé!—you and IWill trust his sight until our own grow clear.)
So wailed they, while a sad procession wound
Slow from the innermost o' the palace, stopped
At the extreme verge of the platform-front:
There opened, and disclosed Alkestis' self,
The consecrated lady, borne to look
Her last—and let the living look their last—
She at the sun, we at Alkestis.
We!
For would you note a memorable thing?
We grew to see in that severe regard,—
Hear in that hard dry pressure to the point,
Word slow pursuing word in monotone,—
What Death meant when he called her consecrate
Henceforth to Hades. I believe, the sword—
Its office was to cut the soul at once
From life,—from something in this world which hides
Truth, and hides falsehood, and so lets us live
Somehow. Suppose a rider furls a cloak
About a horse's head; unfrightened, so,
Between the menace of a flame, between
Solicitation of the pasturage,
Untempted equally, he goes his gait
To journey's end: then pluck the pharos off!
Show what delusions steadied him i' the straight
O' the path, made grass seem fire and fire seem grass,
All through a little bandage o'er the eyes!
As certainly with eyes unbandaged now
Alkestis looked upon the action here,
Self-immolation for Admetos' sake;
Saw, with a new sense, all her death would do,
And which of her survivors had the right,
And which the less right, to survive thereby.
For, you shall note, she uttered no one word
Of love more to her husband, though he wept
Plenteously, waxed importunate in prayer—
Folly's old fashion when its seed bears fruit.
I think she judged that she had bought the ware
O' the seller at its value,—nor praised him
Nor blamed herself, but, with indifferent eye,
Saw him purse money up, prepare to leave
The buyer with a solitary bale—
True purple—but in place of all that coin,
Had made a hundred others happy too,
If so willed fate or fortune! What remained
To give away, should rather go to these
Than one with coin to clink and contemplate.
Admetos had his share and might depart,
The rest was for her children and herself.
(Charopé makes a face: but wait awhile!)
She saw things plain as Gods do: by one stroke
O' the sword that rends the life-long veil away.
(Also Euripedes saw plain enough:
But you and I, Charopé!—you and I
Will trust his sight until our own grow clear.)