Chapter 115

Her.And am I also murderer of my wife?Amph.All the work here was just one hand's work—thine!Her.Ai ai—for groans encompass me—a cloud!Amph.For these deeds' sake do I begroan thy fate!Her.Did I break up my house or dance it down?Amph.I know just one thing—all 's a woe with thee!Her.But where did the craze catch me, where destroy?Amph.When thou didst cleanse hands at the altar-flame.Her.Ah me! why is it then I save my life—Proved murderer of my dearest ones, my boys?Shall not I rush to the rock-level's leap,Or, darting sword through breast and all, becomeMy children's blood-avenger? or, this fleshBurning away with fire, so thrust awayThe infamy, which waits me there, from life?Ah, but,—a hindrance to my purposed death,Theseus arrives, my friend and kinsman, here!Eyes will be on me! my child-murder-plagueIn evidence before friends loved so much!O me, what shall I do? Where, taking wingOr gliding underground, shall I seek outA solitariness from misery?I will pull night upon my muffled head!Let this wretch here content him with his curseOf blood: I would pollute no innocents!Theseus.I come,—with others who await besideAsopos' stream, the armed Athenian youth,—Bring thy son, old man, spear's fight-fellowship!For a bruit reached the Erechtheidai's townThat, having seized the sceptre of this realm,Lukos prepares you battle-violence.So, paying good back,—Herakles began,Saving me down there,—I have come, old man,If aught, of my hand or my friends', you want.What 's here? Why all these corpses on the ground?Am I perhaps behindhand—come too lateFor newer ill? Who killed these children now?Whose wife was she, this woman I behold?Boys, at least, take no stand in reach of spear!Some other woe than war, I chance upon!Amph.O thou, who sway'st the olive-bearing height!—Thes.Why hail'st thou me with woeful prelude thus?Amph.Dire sufferings have we suffered from the gods.Thes.These boys,—who are they, thou art weeping o'er?Amph.He gave them birth, indeed, my hapless son!Begot, but killed them—dared their bloody death.Thes.Speak no such horror!Amph.Would I might obey!Thes.O teller of dread tidings!Amph.Lost are we—Lost—flown away from life!Thes.What sayest thou?What did he?Amph.Erring through a frenzy-fit,He did all, with the arrows dipt in dyeOf hundred-headed Hudra.Thes.Heré 's strife!But who is this among the dead, old man?Amph.Mine, mine, this progeny—the labor-plagued,Who went with gods once to Phlegruia's plain.And in the giant-slaying war bore shield!Thes.Woe—woe! What man was born mischanceful thus!Amph.Thou couldst not know another mortal manToil-weary, more outworn by wanderings.Thes.And why i' the peploi hides he his sad head?Amph.Not daring meet thine eye, thy friendlinessAnd kinship,—nor that children's—blood about!Thes.ButIcome to who shared my woe with me!Uncover him!Amph.O child, put from thine eyesThe peplos, throw it off, show face to sun!Woe's weight well matched contends with tears in thee.I supplicate thee, falling at thy cheekAnd knee and hand, and shedding this old tear!O son, remit the savage lion's mood,Since to a bloody, an unholy raceArt thou led forth, if thou be resoluteTo go on adding ill to ill, my child!Thes.Let me speak! Thee, who sittest—seated woe—I call upon to show thy friends thine eye!For there 's no darkness has a cloud so blackMay hide thy misery thus absolute.Why, waving hand, dost sign me—murder 's done?Lest a pollution strike me, from thy speech?Naught care I to—with thee, at least—fare ill:For I had joy once!Then,—soul rises to,—When thou didst save me from the dead to light!Friends' gratitude that tastes old age, I loathe,And him who likes to share when things look fine,But, sail along with friends in trouble—no!Arise, uncover thine unhappy head!Look on us! Every man of the right raceBears what, at least, the gods inflict, nor shrinks.Her.Theseus, hast seen this match—my boys with me?Thes.I heard of, now I see the ills thou sign'st.Her.Why then hast thou displayed my head to sun?Thes.Why? mortals bring no plague on aught divine!Her.Fly, O unhappy, this my impious plague!Thes.No plague of vengeance flits to friends from friends.Her.I praise thee! But I helped thee,—that is truth.Thes.And I, advantaged then, now pity thee.Her.—The pitiable,—my children's murderer!Thes.I mourn for thy sake, in this altered lot.Her.Hast thou found others in still greater woe?Thes.Thou, from earth, touchest heaven, one huge distress!Her.Accordingly, I am prepared to die.Thes.Think'st thou thy threats at all import the gods?Her.Gods please themselves: to gods I give their like.Thes.Shut thy mouth, lest big words bring bigger woe!Her.I am full fraught with ills—no stowing more!Thes.Thou wilt do—what, then? Whither moody borne?Her.Dying, I go below earth whence I came.Thes.Thou hast used words of—what man turns up first!Her.While thou, being outside sorrow, schoolest me.Thes.The much-enduring Herakles talks thus?—Her.Not the so much-enduring: measure's past!Thes.—Mainstay to mortals, and their mighty friend?Her.They nowise profit me: but Heré rules.Thes.Hellas forbids thou shouldst ineptly die.Her.But hear, then, how I strive by argumentsAgainst thy teachings! I will ope thee outMy life—past, present—as unlivable.First, I was born of this man, who had slainHis mother's aged sire, and, sullied so,Married Alkmené, she who gave me birth.Now, when the basis of a familyIs not laid right, what follows needs must fall;And Zeus, whoever Zeus is, formed me foeTo Heré (take not thou offence, old man!Since father, in Zeus' stead, account I thee)And, while I was at suck yet, frightful snakesShe introduced among my swaddling-clothes,—That bedfellow of Zeus!—to end me so.But when I gained the youthful garb of flesh,The labors I endured—what need to tell?What lions ever, or three-bodied brutes,Tuphons or giants, or the four-legg'd swarmsOf Kentaur-battle, did not I end out?And that hound, headed all about with headsWhich cropped up twice, the Hudra, having slain—I both went through a myriad other toilsIn full drove, and arrived among the deadTo convoy, as Eurustheus bade, to lightHaides' three-headed dog and doorkeeper.But then I,—wretch,—dared this last labor—see!Slew my sons, keystone-coped my house with ills,To such a strait I come! nor my dear ThebesDare I inhabit,—and, suppose I stay?Into what fane or festival of friendsAm I to go? My curse scarce courts accost!Shall I seek Argos? How, if fled from home?But say,—I hurry to some other town!And there they eye me, as notorious now,—Kept by sharp tongue-taunts under lock and key—"Is not this he, Zeus' son, who murdered onceChildren and wife? Let him go rot elsewhere!"To any man renowned as happy once,Reverses are a grave thing; but to whomEvil is old acquaintance, there 's no hurtTo speak of, he and misery are twins.To this degree of woe I think to come:For earth will utter voice forbidding meTo touch the ground, and sea—to pierce the wave,The river-springs—to drink, and I shall playIxion's part quite out, the chained and wheeled!And best of all will be, if so I 'scapeSight from one man of those Hellenes,—onceI lived among, felicitous and rich!Why ought I then to live? What gain accruesFrom good-for-nothing, wicked life I lead?In fine, let Zeus' brave consort dance and sing,Stamp foot, the Olumpian Zeus' own sandal-trick!What she has willed, that brings her will to pass—The foremost man of Hellas pedestalled,Up, over, and down whirling! Who would prayTo such a goddess?—that, begrudging ZeusBecause he loved a woman, ruins me—Lover of Hellas, faultless of the wrong!Thes.This strife is from no other of the godsThan Zeus' wife; rightly apprehend, as well,Why, to no death—thou meditatest now—I would persuade thee, but to bear thy woes!None, none of mortals boasts a fate unmixed,Nor gods—if poets' teaching be not false.Have not they joined in wedlock against lawWith one another? not, for sake of rule,Branded their sires in bondage? Yet they house,All the same, in Olumpos, carry headsHigh there, notorious sinners though they be!What wilt thou say, then, if thou, mortal-born,Bearest outrageously fate gods endure?Leave Thebes, now, pay obedience to the law,And follow me to Pallas' citadel!There, when thy hands are purified from stain,House will I give thee, and goods shared alike.What gifts I hold too from the citizensFor saving twice seven children, when I slewThe Knosian bull, these also give I thee.And everywhere about the land are plotsApportioned me: these, named by thine own name,Shall be henceforward styled by all men—thine,Thy life-long; but at death, when Haides-bound,All Athens shall uphold the honored oneWith sacrifices, and huge marble heaps:For that's a fair crown our Hellenes grantTheir people—glory, should they help the brave!And I repay thee back this grace for thineThat saved me, now that thou art lorn of friends—Since, when the gods give honor, friends may flit:For, a god's help suffices, if he please.Her.Ah me, these words are foreign to my woes!I neither fancy gods love lawless beds,Nor, that with chains they bind each other's hands,Have I judged worthy faith, at any time;Nor shall I be persuaded—one is bornHis fellows' master! since God stands in need—If he is really God—of naught at all.These are the poets' pitiful conceits!But this it was I pondered, though woe-whelmed—"Take heed lest thou be taxed with cowardiceSomehow in leaving thus the light of day!"For whoso cannot make a stand againstThese same misfortunes, neither could withstandA mere man's dart, oppose death, strength to strength.Therefore unto thy city I will goAnd have the grace of thy ten thousand gifts.There! I have tasted of ten thousand toilsAs truly—never waived a single one,Nor let these runnings drop from out my eyes!Nor ever thought it would have come to this—That I from out my eyes do drop tears! Well!At present, as it seems, one bows to fate.So be it! Old man, thou seest my exile—Seest, too, me—my children's murderer!These give thou to the tomb, and deck the dead,Doing them honor with thy tears—since meLaw does not sanction! Propping on her breast,And giving them into their mother's arms,—Reinstitute the sad communityWhich I, unhappy, brought to nothingness—Not by my will! And, when earth hides the dead,Live in this city!—sad, but, all the same,Force thy soul to bear woe along with me!O children, who begat and gave you birth—Your father—has destroyed you! naught you gainBy those fair deeds of mine I laid you up,As by main-force I labored glory outTo give you,—that fine gift of fatherhood!And thee, too, O my poor one, I destroyed.Not rendering like for like, as when thou kept'stMy marriage-bed inviolate,—those longHousehold-seclusions draining to the dregsInside my house! O me, my wife, my boys—And—O myself, how, miserably moved.Am I disyoked now from both boys and wife!Oh, bitter those delights of kisses now—And bitter these my weapons' fellowship!For I am doubtful whether shall I keepOr cast away these arrows which will clangEver such words out, as they knock my side—"Us—thou didst murder wife and children with!Us—child—destroyers—still thou keepest thine!"Ha, shall I bear them in my arms, then? WhatSay for excuse? Yet, naked of my dartsWherewith I did my bravest, Hellas through,Throwing myself beneath foot to my foes,Shall I die basely? No! relinquishmentOf these must never be,—companions once,We sorrowfully must observe the pact!In just one thing, co-operate with meThy sad friend, Theseus! Go along with himTo Argos, and in concert get arrangedThe price my due for bringing there the Hound!O land of Kadmos, Theban people all,Shear off your locks, lament one wide lament,Go to my children's grave and, in one strain,Lament the whole of us—my dead and me—Since all together are foredone and lost,Smitten by Herd's single stroke of fate!Thes.Rise up now from thy dead ones! Tears enough,Poor friend!Her.I cannot: for my limbs are fixed.Thes.Ay: even these strong men fate overthrows!Her.Woe!Here might I grow a stone, nor mind woes more!Thes.Cease! Give thy hand to friendly helpmate now!Her.Nay, but I wipe off blood upon thy robes!Thes.Squeeze out and spare no drop! I take it all!Her.Of sons bereaved, I have thee like my son!Thes.Give to my neck thy hand! 'tis I will lead.Her.Yoke-fellows friendly—one heartbroken, though!O father! such a man we need for friend!Amph.Certes, the land that bred him boasts good sons!Her.Turn me round, Theseus—to behold my boys!Thes.What? will the having such a love-charm soothe?Her.I want it; and to press my father's breast.Amph.See here, O son! for, what I love thou seek'st!Thes.Strange! Of thy labors no more memory?Her.All those were less than these, those ills I bore!Thes.Who sees thee grow a woman,—will not praise!Her.I live low to thee? Not so once, I think!Thes.Too low by far! "Famed Herakles"—where 's he?Her.Down amid evils, of what kind wastthou?Thes.As far as courage—least of all mankind!Her.How say'st, then,Iin evils shrink to naught?Thes.Forward!Her.Farewell, old father!Amph.Thou too, son!Her.Bury the boys as I enjoined!Amph.Andme—Who will be found to bury now, my child?Her.Myself!Amph.When, coming?Her.When thy task is done.Amph.How?Her.I will have thee carried forth from ThebesTo Athens. But bear in the children, earthIs burdened by! Myself,—who with these shamesHave cast away my house,—a ruined hulk,I follow—trailed by Theseus—on my way;And whoso rather would have wealth and strengthThan good friends, reasons foolishly therein!Cho.And we depart, with sorrow at heart,Sobs that increase with tears that start;The greatest of all our friends of yoreWe have lost forevermore!When the long silence ended,—"Our best friend—Lost, our best friend!" he muttered musingly.Then, "Lachares the sculptor" (half aloud)"Sinned he or sinned he not? 'Outrageous sin!'Shuddered our elders, 'Pallas should be clothed:He carved her naked.' 'But more beautiful!'Answers this generation: 'Wisdom formedFor love not fear!' And there the statue stands,Entraps the eye severer art repels.Moreover, Pallas wields the thunderbolt,Yet has not struck the artist all this while.Pheidias and Aischulos? EuripidesAnd Lachares? But youth will have its way!The ripe man ought to be as old as young—As young as old. I too have youth at need.Much may be said for stripping wisdom bare!"And who 's 'our best friend'? You play kottabos;Here 's the last mode of playing. Take a sphereWith orifices at due interval,Through topmost one of which, a throw adroitSends wine from cup, clean passage, from outsideTo where, in hollow midst, a manikinSuspended ever bobs with head erectRight underneath whatever hole 's a-topWhen you set orb a-rolling: plumb, he getsEver this benediction of the splash.An other-fashioned orb presents him fixed:Of all the outlets, he fronts only one,And only when that one—and rare the chance—Comes uppermost, does he turn upward too:He can't turn all sides with the turning orb.Inside this sphere of life—all objects, senseAnd soul perceive—Euripides hangs fixed,Gets knowledge through the single apertureOf High and Right: with visage fronting theseHe waits the wine thence ere he operate,Work in the world and write a tragedy.When that hole happens to revolve to point,In drops the knowledge, waiting meets reward.But, duly in rotation, Low and Wrong—When these enjoy the moment's altitude,His heels are found just where his head should be!No knowledge that way!Iam movable,—To slightest shift of orb make prompt response,Face Low and Wrong and Weak and all the rest,And still drink knowledge, wine-drenched every turn,—Equally favored by their opposites.Little and Bad exist, are natural:Then let me know them, and be twice as greatAs he who only knows one phase of life!So doubly shall I prove 'best friend of man,'If I report the whole truth—Vice, perceivedWhile he shut eyes to all but Virtue there.Man 's made of both: and both must be of useTo somebody: if not to him, to me.While, as to your imaginary Third,Who,—stationed (by mechanics past my guess)So as to take in every side at once,And not successively,—may reconcileThe High and Low in tragicomic verse,—He shall be hailed superior to us bothWhen born—in the Tin-islands! Meantime, hereIn bright Athenai, I contest the claim,Call myself Iostephanos' 'best friend,'Who took my own course, worked as I descriedOrdainment, stuck to my first faculty!"For, listen! There 's no failure breaks the heart,Whate'er be man's endeavor in this world,Like the rash poet's when he—nowise failsBy poetizing badly,—Zeus or makesOr mars a man, so—at it, merrily!But when,—made man,—much like myself,—equiptFor such and such achievement,—rash he turnsOut of the straight path, bent on snatch of featFrom—who 's the appointed fellow born thereto,—Crows take him!—in your Kassiterides?Half-doing his work, leaving mine untouched,That were the failure! Here I stand, heart-whole,No Thamuris!"Well thought of, Thamuris!Has zeal, pray, for 'best friend' EuripidesAllowed you to observe the honor doneHis elder rival, in our Poikilé?You don't know? Once and only once, trod stage,Sang and touched lyre in person, in his youth,Our Sophokles,—youth, beauty, dedicateTo Thamuris who named the tragedy.The voice of him was weak; face, limbs and lyre,These were worth saving: Thamuris stands yetPerfect as painting helps in such a case.At least you know the story, for 'best friend'Enriched his 'Rhesos' from the Blind Bard's store;So haste and see the work, and lay to heartWhat it was struck me when I eyed the piece!Here stands a poet punished for rash strifeWith Powers above his power, who see with sightBeyond his vision, sing accordinglyA song, which he must needs dare emulate!Poet, remain the man nor ape the Muse!"But—lend me the psalterion! Nay, for once—Once let my hand fall where the other's lay!I see it, just as I were Sophokles,That sunrise and combustion of the east!"And then he sang—are these unlike the words?Thamuris marching,—lyre and song of Thrace—(Perpend the first, the worst of woes that were,Allotted lyre and song, ye poet-race!)Thamuris from Oichalia, feasted thereBy kingly Eurutos of late, now boundFor Dorion at the uprise broad and bareOf Mount Pangaios (ore with earth enwoundGlittered beneath his footstep)—marching gayAnd glad, Thessalia through, came, robed and crowned,From triumph on to triumph, 'mid a rayOf early morn,—came, saw and knew the spotAssigned him for his worst of woes, that day.Balura—happier while its name was not—Met him, but nowise menaced; slipt aside,Obsequious river, to pursue its lotOf solacing the valley—say, some wideThick busy human cluster, house and home,Embanked for peace, or thrift that thanks the tide.Thamuris, marching, laughed "Each flake of foam"(As sparklingly the ripple raced him by)"Mocks slower clouds adrift in the blue dome!"For Autumn was the season: red the skyHeld morn's conclusive signet of the sunTo break the mists up, bid them blaze and die.Morn had the mastery as, one by one,All pomps produced themselves along the tractFrom earth's far ending to near heaven begun.Was there a ravaged tree? it laughed compactWith gold, a leaf-ball crisp, high-brandished now,Tempting to onset frost which late attacked.Was there a wizened shrub, a starveling bough,A fleecy thistle filched from by the wind,A weed, Pan's trampling hoof would disallow?Each, with a glory and a rapture twinedAbout it, joined the rush of air and lightAnd force: the world was of one joyous mind.Say not the birds flew! they forebore their right—Swam, revelling onward in the roll of things.Say not the beasts' mirth bounded! that was flight—How could the creatures leap, no lift of wings?Such earth's community of purpose, suchThe ease of earth's fulfilled imaginings,—So did the near and far appear to touchI' the moment's transport,—that an interchangeOf function, far with near, seemed scarce too much;And had the rooted plant aspired to rangeWith the snake's license, while the insect yearnedTo glow fixed as the flower it were not strange—No more than if the fluttery tree-top turnedTo actual music, sang itself aloft;Or if the wind, impassioned chantress, earnedThe right to soar embodied in some softFine form all fit for cloud-companionship,And, blissful, once touch beauty chased so oft.Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slipBorn of the fiery transport; lyre and songWere his, to smite with hand and launch from lip—Peerless recorded, since the list grew longOf poets (saith Homeros) free to standPedestalled 'mid the Muses' temple-throng,A statued service, laurelled, lyre in hand,(Ay, for we see them)—Thamuris of ThracePredominating foremost of the band.Therefore the morn-ray that enriched his face,If it gave lambent chill, took flame againFrom flush of pride; he saw, he knew the place.What wind arrived with all the rhythms from plain,Hill, dale, and that rough wildwood interspersed?Compounding these to one consummate strain,It reached him, music; but his own outburstOf victory concluded the account,And that grew song which was mere music erst."Be my Parnassos, thou Pangaian mount!And turn thee, river, nameless hitherto!Famed shalt thou vie with famed Pieria's fount!Here I await the end of this ado:Which wins—Earth's poet or the Heavenly Muse." ...But song broke up in laughter. "Tell the rest,Who may!Ihave not spurned the common life,Nor vaunted mine a lyre to match the MuseWho sings for gods, not men! Accordingly,I shall not decorate her vestibule—Mute marble, blind the eyes and quenched the brain,Loose in the hand a bright, a broken lyre!—Not Thamuris but Aristophanes!"There! I have sung content back to myself,And started subject for a play beside.My next performance shall content you both.Did 'Prelude-Battle' maul 'best friend' too much?Then 'Main-Fight' be my next song, fairness' self!Its subject—Contest for the Tragic Crown.Ay, you shall hear none else but AischulosLay down the law of Tragedy, and prove'Best friend' a stray-away,—no praise deniedHis manifold deservings, never fear—Nor word more of the old fun! Death defends!Sound admonition has its due effect.Oh, you have uttered weighty words, believe!Such as shall bear abundant fruit, next year,In judgment, regular, legitimate.Let Bacchos' self preside in person! Ay—For there 's a buzz about those 'Bacchanals'Rumor attributes to your great and deadFor final effort: just the prodigyGreat dead men leave, to lay survivors low!—Until we make acquaintance with our fateAnd find, fate's worst done, we, the same, survivePerchance to honor more the patron-god,Fitlier inaugurate a festal year.Now that the cloud has broken, sky laughs blue,Earth blossoms youthfully! Athenai breathes!After a twenty-six years' wintry blankStruck from her life,—war-madness, one long swoon,She wakes up: Arginousai bids good cheer!We have disposed of Kallikratidas;Once more will Sparté sue for terms,—who knows?Cede Dekeleia, as the rumor runs:Terms which Athenai, of right mind again,Accepts—she can no other! Peace declared,Have my long labors borne their fruit or no?Grinned coarse buffoonery so oft in vain?Enough—it simply saved you. Saved ones, praiseTheoria's beauty and Opora's breadth!Nor, when Peace realizes promised bliss,Forget the Bald Bard, Envy! but go burstAs the cup goes round, and the cates abound,Collops of hare, with roast spinks rare!Confess my pipings, dancings, posings servedA purpose: guttlings, guzzlings, had their use!Say whether light Muse, Rosy-finger-tips,Or, 'best friend's' Heavy-hand, Melpomené,Touched lyre to purpose, played Amphion's part,And built Athenai to the skies once more!Farewell, brave couple! Next year, welcome me!"No doubt, in what he said that night, sincere!One story he referred to, false or fact,Was not without adaptability.They do say—Laïs the Corinthian onceChancing to see Euripides (who pacedComposing in a garden, tablet-bookIn left hand, with appended stulos prompt)—"Answer me," she began, "O Poet,—this!What didst intend by writing in thy play,Go hang, thou filthy doer?" Struck on heap,Euripides, at the audacious speech—"Well now," quoth he, "thyself art just the oneI should imagine fit for deeds of filth!"She laughingly retorted his own line"What 's filth,—unless who does it, thinks it so?"

Her.And am I also murderer of my wife?

Amph.All the work here was just one hand's work—thine!

Her.Ai ai—for groans encompass me—a cloud!

Amph.For these deeds' sake do I begroan thy fate!

Her.Did I break up my house or dance it down?

Amph.I know just one thing—all 's a woe with thee!

Her.But where did the craze catch me, where destroy?

Amph.When thou didst cleanse hands at the altar-flame.

Her.Ah me! why is it then I save my life—Proved murderer of my dearest ones, my boys?Shall not I rush to the rock-level's leap,Or, darting sword through breast and all, becomeMy children's blood-avenger? or, this fleshBurning away with fire, so thrust awayThe infamy, which waits me there, from life?Ah, but,—a hindrance to my purposed death,Theseus arrives, my friend and kinsman, here!Eyes will be on me! my child-murder-plagueIn evidence before friends loved so much!O me, what shall I do? Where, taking wingOr gliding underground, shall I seek outA solitariness from misery?I will pull night upon my muffled head!Let this wretch here content him with his curseOf blood: I would pollute no innocents!

Her.Ah me! why is it then I save my life—

Proved murderer of my dearest ones, my boys?

Shall not I rush to the rock-level's leap,

Or, darting sword through breast and all, become

My children's blood-avenger? or, this flesh

Burning away with fire, so thrust away

The infamy, which waits me there, from life?

Ah, but,—a hindrance to my purposed death,

Theseus arrives, my friend and kinsman, here!

Eyes will be on me! my child-murder-plague

In evidence before friends loved so much!

O me, what shall I do? Where, taking wing

Or gliding underground, shall I seek out

A solitariness from misery?

I will pull night upon my muffled head!

Let this wretch here content him with his curse

Of blood: I would pollute no innocents!

Theseus.I come,—with others who await besideAsopos' stream, the armed Athenian youth,—Bring thy son, old man, spear's fight-fellowship!For a bruit reached the Erechtheidai's townThat, having seized the sceptre of this realm,Lukos prepares you battle-violence.So, paying good back,—Herakles began,Saving me down there,—I have come, old man,If aught, of my hand or my friends', you want.What 's here? Why all these corpses on the ground?Am I perhaps behindhand—come too lateFor newer ill? Who killed these children now?Whose wife was she, this woman I behold?Boys, at least, take no stand in reach of spear!Some other woe than war, I chance upon!

Theseus.I come,—with others who await beside

Asopos' stream, the armed Athenian youth,—

Bring thy son, old man, spear's fight-fellowship!

For a bruit reached the Erechtheidai's town

That, having seized the sceptre of this realm,

Lukos prepares you battle-violence.

So, paying good back,—Herakles began,

Saving me down there,—I have come, old man,

If aught, of my hand or my friends', you want.

What 's here? Why all these corpses on the ground?

Am I perhaps behindhand—come too late

For newer ill? Who killed these children now?

Whose wife was she, this woman I behold?

Boys, at least, take no stand in reach of spear!

Some other woe than war, I chance upon!

Amph.O thou, who sway'st the olive-bearing height!—

Thes.Why hail'st thou me with woeful prelude thus?

Amph.Dire sufferings have we suffered from the gods.

Thes.These boys,—who are they, thou art weeping o'er?

Amph.He gave them birth, indeed, my hapless son!Begot, but killed them—dared their bloody death.

Amph.He gave them birth, indeed, my hapless son!

Begot, but killed them—dared their bloody death.

Thes.Speak no such horror!

Amph.Would I might obey!

Thes.O teller of dread tidings!

Amph.Lost are we—Lost—flown away from life!

Amph.Lost are we—

Lost—flown away from life!

Thes.What sayest thou?What did he?

Thes.What sayest thou?

What did he?

Amph.Erring through a frenzy-fit,He did all, with the arrows dipt in dyeOf hundred-headed Hudra.

Amph.Erring through a frenzy-fit,

He did all, with the arrows dipt in dye

Of hundred-headed Hudra.

Thes.Heré 's strife!But who is this among the dead, old man?

Thes.Heré 's strife!

But who is this among the dead, old man?

Amph.Mine, mine, this progeny—the labor-plagued,Who went with gods once to Phlegruia's plain.And in the giant-slaying war bore shield!

Amph.Mine, mine, this progeny—the labor-plagued,

Who went with gods once to Phlegruia's plain.

And in the giant-slaying war bore shield!

Thes.Woe—woe! What man was born mischanceful thus!

Amph.Thou couldst not know another mortal manToil-weary, more outworn by wanderings.

Amph.Thou couldst not know another mortal man

Toil-weary, more outworn by wanderings.

Thes.And why i' the peploi hides he his sad head?

Amph.Not daring meet thine eye, thy friendlinessAnd kinship,—nor that children's—blood about!

Amph.Not daring meet thine eye, thy friendliness

And kinship,—nor that children's—blood about!

Thes.ButIcome to who shared my woe with me!Uncover him!

Thes.ButIcome to who shared my woe with me!

Uncover him!

Amph.O child, put from thine eyesThe peplos, throw it off, show face to sun!Woe's weight well matched contends with tears in thee.I supplicate thee, falling at thy cheekAnd knee and hand, and shedding this old tear!O son, remit the savage lion's mood,Since to a bloody, an unholy raceArt thou led forth, if thou be resoluteTo go on adding ill to ill, my child!

Amph.O child, put from thine eyes

The peplos, throw it off, show face to sun!

Woe's weight well matched contends with tears in thee.

I supplicate thee, falling at thy cheek

And knee and hand, and shedding this old tear!

O son, remit the savage lion's mood,

Since to a bloody, an unholy race

Art thou led forth, if thou be resolute

To go on adding ill to ill, my child!

Thes.Let me speak! Thee, who sittest—seated woe—I call upon to show thy friends thine eye!For there 's no darkness has a cloud so blackMay hide thy misery thus absolute.Why, waving hand, dost sign me—murder 's done?Lest a pollution strike me, from thy speech?Naught care I to—with thee, at least—fare ill:For I had joy once!Then,—soul rises to,—When thou didst save me from the dead to light!Friends' gratitude that tastes old age, I loathe,And him who likes to share when things look fine,But, sail along with friends in trouble—no!Arise, uncover thine unhappy head!Look on us! Every man of the right raceBears what, at least, the gods inflict, nor shrinks.

Thes.Let me speak! Thee, who sittest—seated woe—

I call upon to show thy friends thine eye!

For there 's no darkness has a cloud so black

May hide thy misery thus absolute.

Why, waving hand, dost sign me—murder 's done?

Lest a pollution strike me, from thy speech?

Naught care I to—with thee, at least—fare ill:

For I had joy once!Then,—soul rises to,—

When thou didst save me from the dead to light!

Friends' gratitude that tastes old age, I loathe,

And him who likes to share when things look fine,

But, sail along with friends in trouble—no!

Arise, uncover thine unhappy head!

Look on us! Every man of the right race

Bears what, at least, the gods inflict, nor shrinks.

Her.Theseus, hast seen this match—my boys with me?

Thes.I heard of, now I see the ills thou sign'st.

Her.Why then hast thou displayed my head to sun?

Thes.Why? mortals bring no plague on aught divine!

Her.Fly, O unhappy, this my impious plague!

Thes.No plague of vengeance flits to friends from friends.

Her.I praise thee! But I helped thee,—that is truth.

Thes.And I, advantaged then, now pity thee.

Her.—The pitiable,—my children's murderer!

Thes.I mourn for thy sake, in this altered lot.

Her.Hast thou found others in still greater woe?

Thes.Thou, from earth, touchest heaven, one huge distress!

Her.Accordingly, I am prepared to die.

Thes.Think'st thou thy threats at all import the gods?

Her.Gods please themselves: to gods I give their like.

Thes.Shut thy mouth, lest big words bring bigger woe!

Her.I am full fraught with ills—no stowing more!

Thes.Thou wilt do—what, then? Whither moody borne?

Her.Dying, I go below earth whence I came.

Thes.Thou hast used words of—what man turns up first!

Her.While thou, being outside sorrow, schoolest me.

Thes.The much-enduring Herakles talks thus?—

Her.Not the so much-enduring: measure's past!

Thes.—Mainstay to mortals, and their mighty friend?

Her.They nowise profit me: but Heré rules.

Thes.Hellas forbids thou shouldst ineptly die.

Her.But hear, then, how I strive by argumentsAgainst thy teachings! I will ope thee outMy life—past, present—as unlivable.First, I was born of this man, who had slainHis mother's aged sire, and, sullied so,Married Alkmené, she who gave me birth.Now, when the basis of a familyIs not laid right, what follows needs must fall;And Zeus, whoever Zeus is, formed me foeTo Heré (take not thou offence, old man!Since father, in Zeus' stead, account I thee)And, while I was at suck yet, frightful snakesShe introduced among my swaddling-clothes,—That bedfellow of Zeus!—to end me so.But when I gained the youthful garb of flesh,The labors I endured—what need to tell?What lions ever, or three-bodied brutes,Tuphons or giants, or the four-legg'd swarmsOf Kentaur-battle, did not I end out?And that hound, headed all about with headsWhich cropped up twice, the Hudra, having slain—I both went through a myriad other toilsIn full drove, and arrived among the deadTo convoy, as Eurustheus bade, to lightHaides' three-headed dog and doorkeeper.But then I,—wretch,—dared this last labor—see!Slew my sons, keystone-coped my house with ills,To such a strait I come! nor my dear ThebesDare I inhabit,—and, suppose I stay?Into what fane or festival of friendsAm I to go? My curse scarce courts accost!Shall I seek Argos? How, if fled from home?But say,—I hurry to some other town!And there they eye me, as notorious now,—Kept by sharp tongue-taunts under lock and key—"Is not this he, Zeus' son, who murdered onceChildren and wife? Let him go rot elsewhere!"To any man renowned as happy once,Reverses are a grave thing; but to whomEvil is old acquaintance, there 's no hurtTo speak of, he and misery are twins.To this degree of woe I think to come:For earth will utter voice forbidding meTo touch the ground, and sea—to pierce the wave,The river-springs—to drink, and I shall playIxion's part quite out, the chained and wheeled!And best of all will be, if so I 'scapeSight from one man of those Hellenes,—onceI lived among, felicitous and rich!Why ought I then to live? What gain accruesFrom good-for-nothing, wicked life I lead?In fine, let Zeus' brave consort dance and sing,Stamp foot, the Olumpian Zeus' own sandal-trick!What she has willed, that brings her will to pass—The foremost man of Hellas pedestalled,Up, over, and down whirling! Who would prayTo such a goddess?—that, begrudging ZeusBecause he loved a woman, ruins me—Lover of Hellas, faultless of the wrong!

Her.But hear, then, how I strive by arguments

Against thy teachings! I will ope thee out

My life—past, present—as unlivable.

First, I was born of this man, who had slain

His mother's aged sire, and, sullied so,

Married Alkmené, she who gave me birth.

Now, when the basis of a family

Is not laid right, what follows needs must fall;

And Zeus, whoever Zeus is, formed me foe

To Heré (take not thou offence, old man!

Since father, in Zeus' stead, account I thee)

And, while I was at suck yet, frightful snakes

She introduced among my swaddling-clothes,—

That bedfellow of Zeus!—to end me so.

But when I gained the youthful garb of flesh,

The labors I endured—what need to tell?

What lions ever, or three-bodied brutes,

Tuphons or giants, or the four-legg'd swarms

Of Kentaur-battle, did not I end out?

And that hound, headed all about with heads

Which cropped up twice, the Hudra, having slain—

I both went through a myriad other toils

In full drove, and arrived among the dead

To convoy, as Eurustheus bade, to light

Haides' three-headed dog and doorkeeper.

But then I,—wretch,—dared this last labor—see!

Slew my sons, keystone-coped my house with ills,

To such a strait I come! nor my dear Thebes

Dare I inhabit,—and, suppose I stay?

Into what fane or festival of friends

Am I to go? My curse scarce courts accost!

Shall I seek Argos? How, if fled from home?

But say,—I hurry to some other town!

And there they eye me, as notorious now,—

Kept by sharp tongue-taunts under lock and key—

"Is not this he, Zeus' son, who murdered once

Children and wife? Let him go rot elsewhere!"

To any man renowned as happy once,

Reverses are a grave thing; but to whom

Evil is old acquaintance, there 's no hurt

To speak of, he and misery are twins.

To this degree of woe I think to come:

For earth will utter voice forbidding me

To touch the ground, and sea—to pierce the wave,

The river-springs—to drink, and I shall play

Ixion's part quite out, the chained and wheeled!

And best of all will be, if so I 'scape

Sight from one man of those Hellenes,—once

I lived among, felicitous and rich!

Why ought I then to live? What gain accrues

From good-for-nothing, wicked life I lead?

In fine, let Zeus' brave consort dance and sing,

Stamp foot, the Olumpian Zeus' own sandal-trick!

What she has willed, that brings her will to pass—

The foremost man of Hellas pedestalled,

Up, over, and down whirling! Who would pray

To such a goddess?—that, begrudging Zeus

Because he loved a woman, ruins me—

Lover of Hellas, faultless of the wrong!

Thes.This strife is from no other of the godsThan Zeus' wife; rightly apprehend, as well,Why, to no death—thou meditatest now—I would persuade thee, but to bear thy woes!None, none of mortals boasts a fate unmixed,Nor gods—if poets' teaching be not false.Have not they joined in wedlock against lawWith one another? not, for sake of rule,Branded their sires in bondage? Yet they house,All the same, in Olumpos, carry headsHigh there, notorious sinners though they be!What wilt thou say, then, if thou, mortal-born,Bearest outrageously fate gods endure?Leave Thebes, now, pay obedience to the law,And follow me to Pallas' citadel!There, when thy hands are purified from stain,House will I give thee, and goods shared alike.What gifts I hold too from the citizensFor saving twice seven children, when I slewThe Knosian bull, these also give I thee.And everywhere about the land are plotsApportioned me: these, named by thine own name,Shall be henceforward styled by all men—thine,Thy life-long; but at death, when Haides-bound,All Athens shall uphold the honored oneWith sacrifices, and huge marble heaps:For that's a fair crown our Hellenes grantTheir people—glory, should they help the brave!And I repay thee back this grace for thineThat saved me, now that thou art lorn of friends—Since, when the gods give honor, friends may flit:For, a god's help suffices, if he please.

Thes.This strife is from no other of the gods

Than Zeus' wife; rightly apprehend, as well,

Why, to no death—thou meditatest now—

I would persuade thee, but to bear thy woes!

None, none of mortals boasts a fate unmixed,

Nor gods—if poets' teaching be not false.

Have not they joined in wedlock against law

With one another? not, for sake of rule,

Branded their sires in bondage? Yet they house,

All the same, in Olumpos, carry heads

High there, notorious sinners though they be!

What wilt thou say, then, if thou, mortal-born,

Bearest outrageously fate gods endure?

Leave Thebes, now, pay obedience to the law,

And follow me to Pallas' citadel!

There, when thy hands are purified from stain,

House will I give thee, and goods shared alike.

What gifts I hold too from the citizens

For saving twice seven children, when I slew

The Knosian bull, these also give I thee.

And everywhere about the land are plots

Apportioned me: these, named by thine own name,

Shall be henceforward styled by all men—thine,

Thy life-long; but at death, when Haides-bound,

All Athens shall uphold the honored one

With sacrifices, and huge marble heaps:

For that's a fair crown our Hellenes grant

Their people—glory, should they help the brave!

And I repay thee back this grace for thine

That saved me, now that thou art lorn of friends—

Since, when the gods give honor, friends may flit:

For, a god's help suffices, if he please.

Her.Ah me, these words are foreign to my woes!I neither fancy gods love lawless beds,Nor, that with chains they bind each other's hands,Have I judged worthy faith, at any time;Nor shall I be persuaded—one is bornHis fellows' master! since God stands in need—If he is really God—of naught at all.These are the poets' pitiful conceits!But this it was I pondered, though woe-whelmed—"Take heed lest thou be taxed with cowardiceSomehow in leaving thus the light of day!"For whoso cannot make a stand againstThese same misfortunes, neither could withstandA mere man's dart, oppose death, strength to strength.Therefore unto thy city I will goAnd have the grace of thy ten thousand gifts.There! I have tasted of ten thousand toilsAs truly—never waived a single one,Nor let these runnings drop from out my eyes!Nor ever thought it would have come to this—That I from out my eyes do drop tears! Well!At present, as it seems, one bows to fate.So be it! Old man, thou seest my exile—Seest, too, me—my children's murderer!These give thou to the tomb, and deck the dead,Doing them honor with thy tears—since meLaw does not sanction! Propping on her breast,And giving them into their mother's arms,—Reinstitute the sad communityWhich I, unhappy, brought to nothingness—Not by my will! And, when earth hides the dead,Live in this city!—sad, but, all the same,Force thy soul to bear woe along with me!O children, who begat and gave you birth—Your father—has destroyed you! naught you gainBy those fair deeds of mine I laid you up,As by main-force I labored glory outTo give you,—that fine gift of fatherhood!And thee, too, O my poor one, I destroyed.Not rendering like for like, as when thou kept'stMy marriage-bed inviolate,—those longHousehold-seclusions draining to the dregsInside my house! O me, my wife, my boys—And—O myself, how, miserably moved.Am I disyoked now from both boys and wife!Oh, bitter those delights of kisses now—And bitter these my weapons' fellowship!For I am doubtful whether shall I keepOr cast away these arrows which will clangEver such words out, as they knock my side—"Us—thou didst murder wife and children with!Us—child—destroyers—still thou keepest thine!"Ha, shall I bear them in my arms, then? WhatSay for excuse? Yet, naked of my dartsWherewith I did my bravest, Hellas through,Throwing myself beneath foot to my foes,Shall I die basely? No! relinquishmentOf these must never be,—companions once,We sorrowfully must observe the pact!In just one thing, co-operate with meThy sad friend, Theseus! Go along with himTo Argos, and in concert get arrangedThe price my due for bringing there the Hound!O land of Kadmos, Theban people all,Shear off your locks, lament one wide lament,Go to my children's grave and, in one strain,Lament the whole of us—my dead and me—Since all together are foredone and lost,Smitten by Herd's single stroke of fate!

Her.Ah me, these words are foreign to my woes!

I neither fancy gods love lawless beds,

Nor, that with chains they bind each other's hands,

Have I judged worthy faith, at any time;

Nor shall I be persuaded—one is born

His fellows' master! since God stands in need—

If he is really God—of naught at all.

These are the poets' pitiful conceits!

But this it was I pondered, though woe-whelmed—

"Take heed lest thou be taxed with cowardice

Somehow in leaving thus the light of day!"

For whoso cannot make a stand against

These same misfortunes, neither could withstand

A mere man's dart, oppose death, strength to strength.

Therefore unto thy city I will go

And have the grace of thy ten thousand gifts.

There! I have tasted of ten thousand toils

As truly—never waived a single one,

Nor let these runnings drop from out my eyes!

Nor ever thought it would have come to this—

That I from out my eyes do drop tears! Well!

At present, as it seems, one bows to fate.

So be it! Old man, thou seest my exile—

Seest, too, me—my children's murderer!

These give thou to the tomb, and deck the dead,

Doing them honor with thy tears—since me

Law does not sanction! Propping on her breast,

And giving them into their mother's arms,

—Reinstitute the sad community

Which I, unhappy, brought to nothingness—

Not by my will! And, when earth hides the dead,

Live in this city!—sad, but, all the same,

Force thy soul to bear woe along with me!

O children, who begat and gave you birth—

Your father—has destroyed you! naught you gain

By those fair deeds of mine I laid you up,

As by main-force I labored glory out

To give you,—that fine gift of fatherhood!

And thee, too, O my poor one, I destroyed.

Not rendering like for like, as when thou kept'st

My marriage-bed inviolate,—those long

Household-seclusions draining to the dregs

Inside my house! O me, my wife, my boys—

And—O myself, how, miserably moved.

Am I disyoked now from both boys and wife!

Oh, bitter those delights of kisses now—

And bitter these my weapons' fellowship!

For I am doubtful whether shall I keep

Or cast away these arrows which will clang

Ever such words out, as they knock my side—

"Us—thou didst murder wife and children with!

Us—child—destroyers—still thou keepest thine!"

Ha, shall I bear them in my arms, then? What

Say for excuse? Yet, naked of my darts

Wherewith I did my bravest, Hellas through,

Throwing myself beneath foot to my foes,

Shall I die basely? No! relinquishment

Of these must never be,—companions once,

We sorrowfully must observe the pact!

In just one thing, co-operate with me

Thy sad friend, Theseus! Go along with him

To Argos, and in concert get arranged

The price my due for bringing there the Hound!

O land of Kadmos, Theban people all,

Shear off your locks, lament one wide lament,

Go to my children's grave and, in one strain,

Lament the whole of us—my dead and me—

Since all together are foredone and lost,

Smitten by Herd's single stroke of fate!

Thes.Rise up now from thy dead ones! Tears enough,Poor friend!

Thes.Rise up now from thy dead ones! Tears enough,

Poor friend!

Her.I cannot: for my limbs are fixed.

Thes.Ay: even these strong men fate overthrows!

Her.Woe!Here might I grow a stone, nor mind woes more!

Her.Woe!

Here might I grow a stone, nor mind woes more!

Thes.Cease! Give thy hand to friendly helpmate now!

Her.Nay, but I wipe off blood upon thy robes!

Thes.Squeeze out and spare no drop! I take it all!

Her.Of sons bereaved, I have thee like my son!

Thes.Give to my neck thy hand! 'tis I will lead.

Her.Yoke-fellows friendly—one heartbroken, though!O father! such a man we need for friend!

Her.Yoke-fellows friendly—one heartbroken, though!

O father! such a man we need for friend!

Amph.Certes, the land that bred him boasts good sons!

Her.Turn me round, Theseus—to behold my boys!

Thes.What? will the having such a love-charm soothe?

Her.I want it; and to press my father's breast.

Amph.See here, O son! for, what I love thou seek'st!

Thes.Strange! Of thy labors no more memory?

Her.All those were less than these, those ills I bore!

Thes.Who sees thee grow a woman,—will not praise!

Her.I live low to thee? Not so once, I think!

Thes.Too low by far! "Famed Herakles"—where 's he?

Her.Down amid evils, of what kind wastthou?

Thes.As far as courage—least of all mankind!

Her.How say'st, then,Iin evils shrink to naught?

Thes.Forward!

Her.Farewell, old father!

Amph.Thou too, son!

Her.Bury the boys as I enjoined!

Amph.Andme—Who will be found to bury now, my child?

Amph.Andme—

Who will be found to bury now, my child?

Her.Myself!

Amph.When, coming?

Her.When thy task is done.

Amph.How?

Her.I will have thee carried forth from ThebesTo Athens. But bear in the children, earthIs burdened by! Myself,—who with these shamesHave cast away my house,—a ruined hulk,I follow—trailed by Theseus—on my way;And whoso rather would have wealth and strengthThan good friends, reasons foolishly therein!

Her.I will have thee carried forth from Thebes

To Athens. But bear in the children, earth

Is burdened by! Myself,—who with these shames

Have cast away my house,—a ruined hulk,

I follow—trailed by Theseus—on my way;

And whoso rather would have wealth and strength

Than good friends, reasons foolishly therein!

Cho.And we depart, with sorrow at heart,Sobs that increase with tears that start;The greatest of all our friends of yoreWe have lost forevermore!

Cho.And we depart, with sorrow at heart,

Sobs that increase with tears that start;

The greatest of all our friends of yore

We have lost forevermore!

When the long silence ended,—"Our best friend—Lost, our best friend!" he muttered musingly.Then, "Lachares the sculptor" (half aloud)"Sinned he or sinned he not? 'Outrageous sin!'Shuddered our elders, 'Pallas should be clothed:He carved her naked.' 'But more beautiful!'Answers this generation: 'Wisdom formedFor love not fear!' And there the statue stands,Entraps the eye severer art repels.Moreover, Pallas wields the thunderbolt,Yet has not struck the artist all this while.Pheidias and Aischulos? EuripidesAnd Lachares? But youth will have its way!The ripe man ought to be as old as young—As young as old. I too have youth at need.Much may be said for stripping wisdom bare!

When the long silence ended,—"Our best friend—

Lost, our best friend!" he muttered musingly.

Then, "Lachares the sculptor" (half aloud)

"Sinned he or sinned he not? 'Outrageous sin!'

Shuddered our elders, 'Pallas should be clothed:

He carved her naked.' 'But more beautiful!'

Answers this generation: 'Wisdom formed

For love not fear!' And there the statue stands,

Entraps the eye severer art repels.

Moreover, Pallas wields the thunderbolt,

Yet has not struck the artist all this while.

Pheidias and Aischulos? Euripides

And Lachares? But youth will have its way!

The ripe man ought to be as old as young—

As young as old. I too have youth at need.

Much may be said for stripping wisdom bare!

"And who 's 'our best friend'? You play kottabos;Here 's the last mode of playing. Take a sphereWith orifices at due interval,Through topmost one of which, a throw adroitSends wine from cup, clean passage, from outsideTo where, in hollow midst, a manikinSuspended ever bobs with head erectRight underneath whatever hole 's a-topWhen you set orb a-rolling: plumb, he getsEver this benediction of the splash.An other-fashioned orb presents him fixed:Of all the outlets, he fronts only one,And only when that one—and rare the chance—Comes uppermost, does he turn upward too:He can't turn all sides with the turning orb.Inside this sphere of life—all objects, senseAnd soul perceive—Euripides hangs fixed,Gets knowledge through the single apertureOf High and Right: with visage fronting theseHe waits the wine thence ere he operate,Work in the world and write a tragedy.When that hole happens to revolve to point,In drops the knowledge, waiting meets reward.But, duly in rotation, Low and Wrong—When these enjoy the moment's altitude,His heels are found just where his head should be!No knowledge that way!Iam movable,—To slightest shift of orb make prompt response,Face Low and Wrong and Weak and all the rest,And still drink knowledge, wine-drenched every turn,—Equally favored by their opposites.Little and Bad exist, are natural:Then let me know them, and be twice as greatAs he who only knows one phase of life!So doubly shall I prove 'best friend of man,'If I report the whole truth—Vice, perceivedWhile he shut eyes to all but Virtue there.Man 's made of both: and both must be of useTo somebody: if not to him, to me.While, as to your imaginary Third,Who,—stationed (by mechanics past my guess)So as to take in every side at once,And not successively,—may reconcileThe High and Low in tragicomic verse,—He shall be hailed superior to us bothWhen born—in the Tin-islands! Meantime, hereIn bright Athenai, I contest the claim,Call myself Iostephanos' 'best friend,'Who took my own course, worked as I descriedOrdainment, stuck to my first faculty!

"And who 's 'our best friend'? You play kottabos;

Here 's the last mode of playing. Take a sphere

With orifices at due interval,

Through topmost one of which, a throw adroit

Sends wine from cup, clean passage, from outside

To where, in hollow midst, a manikin

Suspended ever bobs with head erect

Right underneath whatever hole 's a-top

When you set orb a-rolling: plumb, he gets

Ever this benediction of the splash.

An other-fashioned orb presents him fixed:

Of all the outlets, he fronts only one,

And only when that one—and rare the chance—

Comes uppermost, does he turn upward too:

He can't turn all sides with the turning orb.

Inside this sphere of life—all objects, sense

And soul perceive—Euripides hangs fixed,

Gets knowledge through the single aperture

Of High and Right: with visage fronting these

He waits the wine thence ere he operate,

Work in the world and write a tragedy.

When that hole happens to revolve to point,

In drops the knowledge, waiting meets reward.

But, duly in rotation, Low and Wrong—

When these enjoy the moment's altitude,

His heels are found just where his head should be!

No knowledge that way!Iam movable,—

To slightest shift of orb make prompt response,

Face Low and Wrong and Weak and all the rest,

And still drink knowledge, wine-drenched every turn,—

Equally favored by their opposites.

Little and Bad exist, are natural:

Then let me know them, and be twice as great

As he who only knows one phase of life!

So doubly shall I prove 'best friend of man,'

If I report the whole truth—Vice, perceived

While he shut eyes to all but Virtue there.

Man 's made of both: and both must be of use

To somebody: if not to him, to me.

While, as to your imaginary Third,

Who,—stationed (by mechanics past my guess)

So as to take in every side at once,

And not successively,—may reconcile

The High and Low in tragicomic verse,—

He shall be hailed superior to us both

When born—in the Tin-islands! Meantime, here

In bright Athenai, I contest the claim,

Call myself Iostephanos' 'best friend,'

Who took my own course, worked as I descried

Ordainment, stuck to my first faculty!

"For, listen! There 's no failure breaks the heart,Whate'er be man's endeavor in this world,Like the rash poet's when he—nowise failsBy poetizing badly,—Zeus or makesOr mars a man, so—at it, merrily!But when,—made man,—much like myself,—equiptFor such and such achievement,—rash he turnsOut of the straight path, bent on snatch of featFrom—who 's the appointed fellow born thereto,—Crows take him!—in your Kassiterides?Half-doing his work, leaving mine untouched,That were the failure! Here I stand, heart-whole,No Thamuris!

"For, listen! There 's no failure breaks the heart,

Whate'er be man's endeavor in this world,

Like the rash poet's when he—nowise fails

By poetizing badly,—Zeus or makes

Or mars a man, so—at it, merrily!

But when,—made man,—much like myself,—equipt

For such and such achievement,—rash he turns

Out of the straight path, bent on snatch of feat

From—who 's the appointed fellow born thereto,—

Crows take him!—in your Kassiterides?

Half-doing his work, leaving mine untouched,

That were the failure! Here I stand, heart-whole,

No Thamuris!

"Well thought of, Thamuris!Has zeal, pray, for 'best friend' EuripidesAllowed you to observe the honor doneHis elder rival, in our Poikilé?You don't know? Once and only once, trod stage,Sang and touched lyre in person, in his youth,Our Sophokles,—youth, beauty, dedicateTo Thamuris who named the tragedy.The voice of him was weak; face, limbs and lyre,These were worth saving: Thamuris stands yetPerfect as painting helps in such a case.At least you know the story, for 'best friend'Enriched his 'Rhesos' from the Blind Bard's store;So haste and see the work, and lay to heartWhat it was struck me when I eyed the piece!Here stands a poet punished for rash strifeWith Powers above his power, who see with sightBeyond his vision, sing accordinglyA song, which he must needs dare emulate!Poet, remain the man nor ape the Muse!

"Well thought of, Thamuris!

Has zeal, pray, for 'best friend' Euripides

Allowed you to observe the honor done

His elder rival, in our Poikilé?

You don't know? Once and only once, trod stage,

Sang and touched lyre in person, in his youth,

Our Sophokles,—youth, beauty, dedicate

To Thamuris who named the tragedy.

The voice of him was weak; face, limbs and lyre,

These were worth saving: Thamuris stands yet

Perfect as painting helps in such a case.

At least you know the story, for 'best friend'

Enriched his 'Rhesos' from the Blind Bard's store;

So haste and see the work, and lay to heart

What it was struck me when I eyed the piece!

Here stands a poet punished for rash strife

With Powers above his power, who see with sight

Beyond his vision, sing accordingly

A song, which he must needs dare emulate!

Poet, remain the man nor ape the Muse!

"But—lend me the psalterion! Nay, for once—Once let my hand fall where the other's lay!I see it, just as I were Sophokles,That sunrise and combustion of the east!"

"But—lend me the psalterion! Nay, for once—

Once let my hand fall where the other's lay!

I see it, just as I were Sophokles,

That sunrise and combustion of the east!"

And then he sang—are these unlike the words?

Thamuris marching,—lyre and song of Thrace—(Perpend the first, the worst of woes that were,Allotted lyre and song, ye poet-race!)

Thamuris marching,—lyre and song of Thrace—

(Perpend the first, the worst of woes that were,

Allotted lyre and song, ye poet-race!)

Thamuris from Oichalia, feasted thereBy kingly Eurutos of late, now boundFor Dorion at the uprise broad and bare

Thamuris from Oichalia, feasted there

By kingly Eurutos of late, now bound

For Dorion at the uprise broad and bare

Of Mount Pangaios (ore with earth enwoundGlittered beneath his footstep)—marching gayAnd glad, Thessalia through, came, robed and crowned,

Of Mount Pangaios (ore with earth enwound

Glittered beneath his footstep)—marching gay

And glad, Thessalia through, came, robed and crowned,

From triumph on to triumph, 'mid a rayOf early morn,—came, saw and knew the spotAssigned him for his worst of woes, that day.

From triumph on to triumph, 'mid a ray

Of early morn,—came, saw and knew the spot

Assigned him for his worst of woes, that day.

Balura—happier while its name was not—Met him, but nowise menaced; slipt aside,Obsequious river, to pursue its lot

Balura—happier while its name was not—

Met him, but nowise menaced; slipt aside,

Obsequious river, to pursue its lot

Of solacing the valley—say, some wideThick busy human cluster, house and home,Embanked for peace, or thrift that thanks the tide.

Of solacing the valley—say, some wide

Thick busy human cluster, house and home,

Embanked for peace, or thrift that thanks the tide.

Thamuris, marching, laughed "Each flake of foam"(As sparklingly the ripple raced him by)"Mocks slower clouds adrift in the blue dome!"

Thamuris, marching, laughed "Each flake of foam"

(As sparklingly the ripple raced him by)

"Mocks slower clouds adrift in the blue dome!"

For Autumn was the season: red the skyHeld morn's conclusive signet of the sunTo break the mists up, bid them blaze and die.

For Autumn was the season: red the sky

Held morn's conclusive signet of the sun

To break the mists up, bid them blaze and die.

Morn had the mastery as, one by one,All pomps produced themselves along the tractFrom earth's far ending to near heaven begun.

Morn had the mastery as, one by one,

All pomps produced themselves along the tract

From earth's far ending to near heaven begun.

Was there a ravaged tree? it laughed compactWith gold, a leaf-ball crisp, high-brandished now,Tempting to onset frost which late attacked.

Was there a ravaged tree? it laughed compact

With gold, a leaf-ball crisp, high-brandished now,

Tempting to onset frost which late attacked.

Was there a wizened shrub, a starveling bough,A fleecy thistle filched from by the wind,A weed, Pan's trampling hoof would disallow?

Was there a wizened shrub, a starveling bough,

A fleecy thistle filched from by the wind,

A weed, Pan's trampling hoof would disallow?

Each, with a glory and a rapture twinedAbout it, joined the rush of air and lightAnd force: the world was of one joyous mind.

Each, with a glory and a rapture twined

About it, joined the rush of air and light

And force: the world was of one joyous mind.

Say not the birds flew! they forebore their right—Swam, revelling onward in the roll of things.Say not the beasts' mirth bounded! that was flight—

Say not the birds flew! they forebore their right—

Swam, revelling onward in the roll of things.

Say not the beasts' mirth bounded! that was flight—

How could the creatures leap, no lift of wings?Such earth's community of purpose, suchThe ease of earth's fulfilled imaginings,—

How could the creatures leap, no lift of wings?

Such earth's community of purpose, such

The ease of earth's fulfilled imaginings,—

So did the near and far appear to touchI' the moment's transport,—that an interchangeOf function, far with near, seemed scarce too much;

So did the near and far appear to touch

I' the moment's transport,—that an interchange

Of function, far with near, seemed scarce too much;

And had the rooted plant aspired to rangeWith the snake's license, while the insect yearnedTo glow fixed as the flower it were not strange—

And had the rooted plant aspired to range

With the snake's license, while the insect yearned

To glow fixed as the flower it were not strange—

No more than if the fluttery tree-top turnedTo actual music, sang itself aloft;Or if the wind, impassioned chantress, earned

No more than if the fluttery tree-top turned

To actual music, sang itself aloft;

Or if the wind, impassioned chantress, earned

The right to soar embodied in some softFine form all fit for cloud-companionship,And, blissful, once touch beauty chased so oft.

The right to soar embodied in some soft

Fine form all fit for cloud-companionship,

And, blissful, once touch beauty chased so oft.

Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slipBorn of the fiery transport; lyre and songWere his, to smite with hand and launch from lip—

Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slip

Born of the fiery transport; lyre and song

Were his, to smite with hand and launch from lip—

Peerless recorded, since the list grew longOf poets (saith Homeros) free to standPedestalled 'mid the Muses' temple-throng,

Peerless recorded, since the list grew long

Of poets (saith Homeros) free to stand

Pedestalled 'mid the Muses' temple-throng,

A statued service, laurelled, lyre in hand,(Ay, for we see them)—Thamuris of ThracePredominating foremost of the band.

A statued service, laurelled, lyre in hand,

(Ay, for we see them)—Thamuris of Thrace

Predominating foremost of the band.

Therefore the morn-ray that enriched his face,If it gave lambent chill, took flame againFrom flush of pride; he saw, he knew the place.

Therefore the morn-ray that enriched his face,

If it gave lambent chill, took flame again

From flush of pride; he saw, he knew the place.

What wind arrived with all the rhythms from plain,Hill, dale, and that rough wildwood interspersed?Compounding these to one consummate strain,

What wind arrived with all the rhythms from plain,

Hill, dale, and that rough wildwood interspersed?

Compounding these to one consummate strain,

It reached him, music; but his own outburstOf victory concluded the account,And that grew song which was mere music erst.

It reached him, music; but his own outburst

Of victory concluded the account,

And that grew song which was mere music erst.

"Be my Parnassos, thou Pangaian mount!And turn thee, river, nameless hitherto!Famed shalt thou vie with famed Pieria's fount!

"Be my Parnassos, thou Pangaian mount!

And turn thee, river, nameless hitherto!

Famed shalt thou vie with famed Pieria's fount!

Here I await the end of this ado:Which wins—Earth's poet or the Heavenly Muse." ...

Here I await the end of this ado:

Which wins—Earth's poet or the Heavenly Muse." ...

But song broke up in laughter. "Tell the rest,Who may!Ihave not spurned the common life,Nor vaunted mine a lyre to match the MuseWho sings for gods, not men! Accordingly,I shall not decorate her vestibule—Mute marble, blind the eyes and quenched the brain,Loose in the hand a bright, a broken lyre!—Not Thamuris but Aristophanes!

But song broke up in laughter. "Tell the rest,

Who may!Ihave not spurned the common life,

Nor vaunted mine a lyre to match the Muse

Who sings for gods, not men! Accordingly,

I shall not decorate her vestibule—

Mute marble, blind the eyes and quenched the brain,

Loose in the hand a bright, a broken lyre!

—Not Thamuris but Aristophanes!

"There! I have sung content back to myself,And started subject for a play beside.My next performance shall content you both.Did 'Prelude-Battle' maul 'best friend' too much?Then 'Main-Fight' be my next song, fairness' self!Its subject—Contest for the Tragic Crown.Ay, you shall hear none else but AischulosLay down the law of Tragedy, and prove'Best friend' a stray-away,—no praise deniedHis manifold deservings, never fear—Nor word more of the old fun! Death defends!Sound admonition has its due effect.Oh, you have uttered weighty words, believe!Such as shall bear abundant fruit, next year,In judgment, regular, legitimate.Let Bacchos' self preside in person! Ay—For there 's a buzz about those 'Bacchanals'Rumor attributes to your great and deadFor final effort: just the prodigyGreat dead men leave, to lay survivors low!—Until we make acquaintance with our fateAnd find, fate's worst done, we, the same, survivePerchance to honor more the patron-god,Fitlier inaugurate a festal year.Now that the cloud has broken, sky laughs blue,Earth blossoms youthfully! Athenai breathes!After a twenty-six years' wintry blankStruck from her life,—war-madness, one long swoon,She wakes up: Arginousai bids good cheer!We have disposed of Kallikratidas;Once more will Sparté sue for terms,—who knows?Cede Dekeleia, as the rumor runs:Terms which Athenai, of right mind again,Accepts—she can no other! Peace declared,Have my long labors borne their fruit or no?Grinned coarse buffoonery so oft in vain?Enough—it simply saved you. Saved ones, praiseTheoria's beauty and Opora's breadth!Nor, when Peace realizes promised bliss,Forget the Bald Bard, Envy! but go burstAs the cup goes round, and the cates abound,Collops of hare, with roast spinks rare!Confess my pipings, dancings, posings servedA purpose: guttlings, guzzlings, had their use!Say whether light Muse, Rosy-finger-tips,Or, 'best friend's' Heavy-hand, Melpomené,Touched lyre to purpose, played Amphion's part,And built Athenai to the skies once more!Farewell, brave couple! Next year, welcome me!"

"There! I have sung content back to myself,

And started subject for a play beside.

My next performance shall content you both.

Did 'Prelude-Battle' maul 'best friend' too much?

Then 'Main-Fight' be my next song, fairness' self!

Its subject—Contest for the Tragic Crown.

Ay, you shall hear none else but Aischulos

Lay down the law of Tragedy, and prove

'Best friend' a stray-away,—no praise denied

His manifold deservings, never fear—

Nor word more of the old fun! Death defends!

Sound admonition has its due effect.

Oh, you have uttered weighty words, believe!

Such as shall bear abundant fruit, next year,

In judgment, regular, legitimate.

Let Bacchos' self preside in person! Ay—

For there 's a buzz about those 'Bacchanals'

Rumor attributes to your great and dead

For final effort: just the prodigy

Great dead men leave, to lay survivors low!

—Until we make acquaintance with our fate

And find, fate's worst done, we, the same, survive

Perchance to honor more the patron-god,

Fitlier inaugurate a festal year.

Now that the cloud has broken, sky laughs blue,

Earth blossoms youthfully! Athenai breathes!

After a twenty-six years' wintry blank

Struck from her life,—war-madness, one long swoon,

She wakes up: Arginousai bids good cheer!

We have disposed of Kallikratidas;

Once more will Sparté sue for terms,—who knows?

Cede Dekeleia, as the rumor runs:

Terms which Athenai, of right mind again,

Accepts—she can no other! Peace declared,

Have my long labors borne their fruit or no?

Grinned coarse buffoonery so oft in vain?

Enough—it simply saved you. Saved ones, praise

Theoria's beauty and Opora's breadth!

Nor, when Peace realizes promised bliss,

Forget the Bald Bard, Envy! but go burst

As the cup goes round, and the cates abound,

Collops of hare, with roast spinks rare!

Confess my pipings, dancings, posings served

A purpose: guttlings, guzzlings, had their use!

Say whether light Muse, Rosy-finger-tips,

Or, 'best friend's' Heavy-hand, Melpomené,

Touched lyre to purpose, played Amphion's part,

And built Athenai to the skies once more!

Farewell, brave couple! Next year, welcome me!"

No doubt, in what he said that night, sincere!One story he referred to, false or fact,Was not without adaptability.They do say—Laïs the Corinthian onceChancing to see Euripides (who pacedComposing in a garden, tablet-bookIn left hand, with appended stulos prompt)—"Answer me," she began, "O Poet,—this!What didst intend by writing in thy play,Go hang, thou filthy doer?" Struck on heap,Euripides, at the audacious speech—"Well now," quoth he, "thyself art just the oneI should imagine fit for deeds of filth!"She laughingly retorted his own line"What 's filth,—unless who does it, thinks it so?"

No doubt, in what he said that night, sincere!

One story he referred to, false or fact,

Was not without adaptability.

They do say—Laïs the Corinthian once

Chancing to see Euripides (who paced

Composing in a garden, tablet-book

In left hand, with appended stulos prompt)—

"Answer me," she began, "O Poet,—this!

What didst intend by writing in thy play,

Go hang, thou filthy doer?" Struck on heap,

Euripides, at the audacious speech—

"Well now," quoth he, "thyself art just the one

I should imagine fit for deeds of filth!"

She laughingly retorted his own line

"What 's filth,—unless who does it, thinks it so?"

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