So might he doubtless think. "Farewell," said we.And he was gone, lost in the morning-gray,Rose-streaked and gold to eastward. Did we dream?Could the poor twelve-hours hold this argumentWe render durable from fugitive,As duly at each sunset's droop of sail,Delay of oar, submission to sea-might,I still remember, you as duly dintRemembrance, with the punctual rapid style,Into—what calm cold page!Thus soul escapesFrom eloquence made captive: thus mere words—Ah, would the lifeless body stay! But no:Change upon change till,—who may recognizeWhat did soul service, in the dusty heap?What energy of AristophanesInflames the wreck Balaustion saves to show?Ashes be evidence how fire—with smoke—All night went lamping on! But morn must rise.The poet—I shall say—burned up and, blank,Smouldered this ash, now white and cold enough.Nay, Euthukles! for best, though mine it be,Comes yet! Write on, write ever, wrong no word!Add, first,—he gone, if jollity went too,Some of the graver mood, which mixed and marred,Departed likewise. Sight of narrow scopeHas this meek consolation: neither illsWe dread, nor joys we dare anticipate,Perform to promise. Each soul sows a seed—Euripides and Aristophanes;Seed bears crop, scarce within our little lives;But germinates—perhaps enough to judge—Next year?Whereas, next year brought harvest-time!For, next year came, and went not, but is now,Still now, while you and I are bound for RhodesThat 's all but reached!—and harvest has it brought,Dire as the homicidal dragon-crop!Sophokles had dismissal ere it dawned,Happy as ever; though men mournfullyPlausive,—when only soul could triumph now,And Iophon produced his father's play,—Crowned the consummate song where OidipousDared the descent 'mid earthquake-thundering,And hardly Theseus' hands availed to guardEyes from the horror, as their grove disgorgedIts dread ones, while each daughter sank to ground.Then Aristophanes, on heel of that,Triumphant also, followed with his "Frogs:"Produced at next Lenaia,—three months since,—The promised Main-Fight, loyal, license-free!As if the poet, primed with Thasian juice,(Himself swore—wine that conquers every kindFor long abiding in the head) could fixThenceforward any object in its truth,Through eyeballs bathed by mere Castalian dew,Nor miss the borrowed medium,—vinous dropThat colors all to the right crimson pitchWhen mirth grows mockery, censure takes the tingeOf malice!All was Aristophanes:There blazed the glory, there shot black the shame!Ay, Bacchos did stand forth, the Tragic GodIn person! and when duly dragged through mire,—Having lied, filched, played fool, proved coward, flungThe boys their dose of fit indecency,And finally got trounced to heart's content,At his own feast, in his own theatre(—Oh, never fear! 'T was consecrated sport,Exact tradition, warranted no whitOffensive to instructed taste,—indeed,Essential to Athenai's liberty,Could the poor stranger understand!) why, then—He was pronounced the rarely-qualifiedTo rate the work, adjust the claims to worth,Of Aischulos (of whom, in other mood,This same appreciative poet pleasedTo say, "He 's all one stiff and gluey pieceOf back of swine's-neck!")—and of ChatterboxWho, "twisting words like wool," usurped his seatIn Plouton's realm: "the arch-rogue, liar, scampThat lives by snatching-up of altar-orts,"—Who failed to recognize Euripides?Then came a contest for supremacy—Crammed full of genius, wit and fun and freak.No spice of undue spite to spoil the dishOf all sorts,—for the Mystics matched the FrogsIn poetry, no Seiren sang so sweet!—Till, pressed into the service (how dispenseWith Phaps-Elaphion and free foot-display?)The Muse of dead Euripides danced frank,Rattled her bits of tile, made all too plainHow baby-work like "Herakles" had birth!Last, Bacchos—candidly disclaiming brainsAble to follow finer argument—Confessed himself much moved by three main facts:First,—if you stick a "Lost his flask of oil"At pause of period, you perplex the sense,—Were it the Elegy for Marathon!Next, if you weigh two verses, "car"—the word,Will outweigh "club"—the word, in each packed line!And—last, worst fact of all! in rivalryThe younger poet dared to improviseLaudation less distinct of—Triphales?(Nay, that served when ourself abused the youth!)Pheidippides—(nor that's appropriate now!)Then,—Alkibiades, our city's hope,Since times change and we Comics should change too!These three main facts, well weighed, drew judgment down,Conclusively assigned the wretch his fate—"Fate due," admonished the sage Mystic choir,"To sitting, prate-apace, with Sokrates,Neglecting music and each tragic aid!"—All wound-up by a wish "We soon may ceaseFrom certain griefs, and warfare, worst of them!"—Since, deaf to Comedy's persistent voice,War still raged, still was like to rage. In vainHad Sparté cried once more, "But grant us Peace,We give you Dekeleia back!" Too shrewdWas Kleophon to let escape, forsooth,The enemy—at final gasp, besides!So, Aristophanes obtained the prize,And so Athenai felt she had a friendFar better than her "best friend," lost last year;And so, such fame had "Frogs" that, when came roundThis present year, those Frogs croaked gay againAt the great Feast, Elaphebolion-month.Only—there happened Aigispotamoi!And, in the midst of the frog-merriment,Plump o' the sudden, pounces stern King StorkOn the light-hearted people of the marsh!Spartan Lusandros swooped precipitate,Ended Athenai, rowed her sacred bayWith oars which brought a hundred triremes backCaptive!And first word of the conquerorWas "Down with those Long Walls, Peiraios' pride!Destroy, yourselves, your bulwarks! Peace needs none!"And "We obey" they shuddered in their dream.But, at next quick imposure of decree—"No longer democratic government!Henceforth such oligarchy as ourselvesPlease to appoint you!"—then the horror-stungDreamers awake; they started up a-stareAt the half-helot captain and his crew—Spartans, "men used to let their hair grow long,To fast, be dirty, and just—Sokratize"—Whose word was "Trample on Themistokles!"So, as the way is with much misery,The heads swam, hands refused their office, heartsSunk as they stood in stupor. "Wreck the Walls?Ruin Peiraios?—with our Pallas armedFor interference?—Herakles apprised,And Theseus hasting? Lay the Long Walls low?"Three days they stood, stared,—stonier than their walls.Whereupon, sleep who might, Lusandros woke:Saw the prostration of his enemy,Utter and absolute beyond belief,Past hope of hatred even. I surmiseHe also probably saw fade in fumeCertain fears, bred of Bakis-prophecy,Nor apprehended any more that godsAnd heroes,—fire, must glow forth, guard the groundWhere prone, by sober day-dawn, corpse-like layPowerless Athenai, late predominantLady of Hellas,—Sparté's slave-prize now!Where should a menace lurk in those slack limbs?What was to move his circumspection? WhyDemolish just Peiraios?"Stay!" bade he:"Already promise-breakers? True to type,Athenians! past, and present, and to come,—The fickle and the false! No stone dislodged,No implement applied, yet three days' graceExpire! Forbearance is no longer-lived.By breaking promise, terms of peace you break—Too gently framed for falsehood, fickleness!All must be reconsidered—yours the fault!"Wherewith, he called a council of allies.Pent-up resentment used its privilege,—Outburst at ending: this the summed result."Because we would avenge no transient wrongBut an eternity of insolence,Aggression,—folly, no disasters mend,Pride, no reverses teach humility,—Because too plainly were all punishment,Such as comports with less obdurate crime,Evadable by falsehood, fickleness—Experience proves the true Athenian type,—Therefore, 't is need we dig deep down intoThe root of evil; lop nor bole nor branch.Look up, look round and see, on every side,What nurtured the rank tree to noisome fruit!We who live hutted (so they laugh) not housed,Build barns for temples, prize mud-monuments,Nor show the sneering stranger aught but—men,—Spartans take insult of Athenians justBecause they boast Akropolis to mount,And Propulaia to make entry by,Through a mad maze of marble arroganceSuch as you see—such as let none see more!Abolish the detested luxury!Leave not one stone upon another, razeAthenai to the rock! Let hill and plainBecome a waste, a grassy pasture-groundWhere sheep may wander, grazing goats dependFrom shapeless crags once columns! so at lastShall peace inhabit there, and peace enough."Whereon, a shout approved "Such peace bestow!"Then did a Man of Phokis rise—O heart!Rise—when no bolt of Zeus disparted sky,No omen-bird from Pallas scared the crew,Rise—when mere human argument could stemNo foam-fringe of the passion surging fierce,Baffle no wrath-wave that o'er barrier broke—Whowas the Man of Phokis rose and flungA flower i' the way of that fierce foot's advance,Which—stop for?—nay, had stamped down sword's assault!Could it beHestayed Sparté with the snatch—"Daughter of Agamemnon, late my liege,Elektra, palaced, once a visitantTo thy poor rustic dwelling, now I come?"Ay, facing fury of revenge, and lustOf hate, and malice moaning to appeaseHunger on prey presumptuous, prostrate now—Full in the hideous faces—last resource,You flung that choric flower, my Euthukles!And see, as through some pinhole, should the windWedgingly pierce but once, in with a rushHurries the whole wild weather, rends to ragsThe weak sail stretched against the outside storm—So did the power of that triumphant playPour in, and oversweep the assembled foe!Triumphant play, wherein our poet firstDared bring the grandeur of the Tragic TwoDown to the level of our common life,Close to the beating of our common heart.Elektra? 'T was Athenai, Sparté's iceThawed to, while that sad portraiture appealed—Agamemnonian lady, lost by faultOf her own kindred, cast from house and home,Despoiled of all the brave inheritance,Dowered humbly as befits a herdsman's mate,Partaker of his cottage, clothed in rags,Patient performer of the poorest chares,Yet mindful, all the while, of glory pastWhen she walked darling of Mukenai, dearBeyond Orestes to the King of Men!So, because Greeks are Greeks, though Sparté's brood,And hearts are hearts, though in Lusandros' breast,And poetry is power, and EuthuklesHad faith therein to, full-face, fling the same—Sudden, the ice-thaw! The assembled foe,Heaving and swaying with strange friendliness,Cried, "Reverence Elektra!"—cried, "AbstainLike that chaste Herdsman, nor dare violateThe sanctity of such reverse! Let standAthenai!"Mindful of that story's close,Perchance, and how,—when he, the Herdsman chaste,Needs apprehend no break of tranquil sleep,—All in due time, a stranger, dark, disguised,Knocks at the door: with searching glance, notes keen,Knows quick, through mean attire and disrespect,The ravaged princess! Ay, right on, the clutchOf guiding retribution has in chargeThe author of the outrage! While one hand,Elektra's, pulls the door behind, made fastOn fate,—the other strains, prepared to pushThe victim-queen, should she make frightened pauseBefore that serpentining blood which stealsOut of the darkness where, a pace beyond,Above the slain Aigisthos, bides his blowDreadful Orestes!Klutaimnestra, wiseThis time, forebore; Elektra held her own;Saved was Athenai through Euripides,Through Euthukles, through—more than ever—me,Balaustion, me, who, Wild-pomegranate-flower,Felt my fruit triumph, and fade proudly so!But next day, as ungracious minds are wont,The Spartan, late surprised into a grace,Grew sudden sober at the enormity,And grudged, by daybreak, midnight's easy gift;Splenetically must repay its costBy due increase of rigor, doglike snatchAt aught still left dog to concede like man.Rough sea, at flow of tide, may lip, perchance,Smoothly the land-line reached as for repose—Lie indolent in all unquestioned sway;But ebbing, when needs must, all thwart and loth,Sea claws at sand relinquished strugglingly.So, harsh Lusandros—pinioned to inflictThe lesser penalty alone—spoke harsh,As minded to embitter scathe by scorn."Athenai's self be saved then, thank the Lyre!If Tragedy withdraws her presence—quick,If Comedy replace her,—what more just?Let Comedy do service, frisk away,Dance off stage these indomitable stones,Long Walls, Peiraian bulwarks! Hew and heave,Pick at, pound into dust each dear defence!Not to the Kommos—eleleleleuWith breast bethumped, as Tragic lyre prefers,But Comedy shall sound the flute, and crowAt kordax-end—the hearty slapping-dance!Collect those flute-girls—trash who flattered earWith whistlings, and fed eye with caper-cuts,While we Lakonians supped black broth or crunchedSea-urchin, conchs and all, unpricked—coarse brutes!Command they lead off step, time steady strokeTo spade and pickaxe, till demolished lieAthenai's pride in powder!"Done that day—That sixteenth famed day of Munuchion-month!The day when Hellas fought at Salamis,The very day Euripides was born,Those flute-girls—Phaps-Elaphion at their head—Did blow their best, did dance their worst, the whileSparté pulled down the walls, wrecked wide the works,Laid low each merest molehill of defence,And so the Power, Athenai, passed away!We would not see its passing! Ere I knewThe issue of their counsels,—crouching lowAnd shrouded by my peplos,—I conceived,Despite the shut eyes, the stopped ears,—by countOnly of heart-beats, telling the slow time,—Athenai's doom was signed and signifiedIn that assembly,—ay, but knew there watchedOne who would dare and do, nor bate at allThe stranger's licensed duty,—speak the wordAllowed the Man from Phokis! Naught remainedBut urge departure, flee the sights and sounds,Hideous exultings, wailings worth contempt,And pressed to other earth, new heaven, by seaThat somehow ever prompts to 'scape despair.Help rose to heart's wish; at the harbor-side,The old gray mariner did reverenceTo who had saved his ship, still weather-tightAs when with prow gay-garlanded she praisedThe hospitable port and pushed to sea."Convoy Balaustion back to Rhodes, for sakeOf her and her Euripides!" laughed he.Rhodes,—shall it not be there, my Euthukles,Till this brief trouble of a lifetime end,That solitude—two make so populous!—For food finds memories of the past suffice,Maybe, anticipations,—hope so swells,—Of some great future we, familiar onceWith who so taught, should hail and entertain?He lies now in the little valley, laughedAnd moaned about by those mysterious streams,Boiling and freezing, like the love and hateWhich helped or harmed him through his earthly course.They mix in Arethousa by his grave.The warm spring, traveller, dip thine arms into,Brighten thy brow with! Life detests black cold!I sent the tablets, the psalterion, soRewarded Sicily; the tyrant thereBestowed them worthily in Phoibos' shrine.A gold-graved writing tells—"I also lovedThe poet, Free Athenai cheaply prized—King Dionusios,—Archelaos-like!"And see if young Philemon,—sure one dayTo do good service and be loved himself,—If he too have not made a votive verse!"Grant, in good sooth, our great dead, all the same,Retain their sense, as certain wise men say,I 'd hang myself—to see Euripides!"Hands off, Philemon! nowise hang thyself,But pen the prime plays, labor the right life,And die at good old age as grand men use,—Keeping thee, with that great thought, warm the while,—That he does live, Philemon! Ay, most sure!"He lives!" hark,—waves say, winds sing out the same,And yonder dares the citied ridge of RhodesIts headlong plunge from sky to sea, dispartsNorth bay from south,—each guarded calm, that guestMay enter gladly, blow what wind there will,—Boiled round with breakers, to no other cry!All in one choros,—what the master-wordThey take up?—hark! "There are no gods, no gods!Glory to God—who saves Euripides!"
So might he doubtless think. "Farewell," said we.And he was gone, lost in the morning-gray,Rose-streaked and gold to eastward. Did we dream?Could the poor twelve-hours hold this argumentWe render durable from fugitive,As duly at each sunset's droop of sail,Delay of oar, submission to sea-might,I still remember, you as duly dintRemembrance, with the punctual rapid style,Into—what calm cold page!Thus soul escapesFrom eloquence made captive: thus mere words—Ah, would the lifeless body stay! But no:Change upon change till,—who may recognizeWhat did soul service, in the dusty heap?What energy of AristophanesInflames the wreck Balaustion saves to show?Ashes be evidence how fire—with smoke—All night went lamping on! But morn must rise.The poet—I shall say—burned up and, blank,Smouldered this ash, now white and cold enough.Nay, Euthukles! for best, though mine it be,Comes yet! Write on, write ever, wrong no word!Add, first,—he gone, if jollity went too,Some of the graver mood, which mixed and marred,Departed likewise. Sight of narrow scopeHas this meek consolation: neither illsWe dread, nor joys we dare anticipate,Perform to promise. Each soul sows a seed—Euripides and Aristophanes;Seed bears crop, scarce within our little lives;But germinates—perhaps enough to judge—Next year?Whereas, next year brought harvest-time!For, next year came, and went not, but is now,Still now, while you and I are bound for RhodesThat 's all but reached!—and harvest has it brought,Dire as the homicidal dragon-crop!Sophokles had dismissal ere it dawned,Happy as ever; though men mournfullyPlausive,—when only soul could triumph now,And Iophon produced his father's play,—Crowned the consummate song where OidipousDared the descent 'mid earthquake-thundering,And hardly Theseus' hands availed to guardEyes from the horror, as their grove disgorgedIts dread ones, while each daughter sank to ground.Then Aristophanes, on heel of that,Triumphant also, followed with his "Frogs:"Produced at next Lenaia,—three months since,—The promised Main-Fight, loyal, license-free!As if the poet, primed with Thasian juice,(Himself swore—wine that conquers every kindFor long abiding in the head) could fixThenceforward any object in its truth,Through eyeballs bathed by mere Castalian dew,Nor miss the borrowed medium,—vinous dropThat colors all to the right crimson pitchWhen mirth grows mockery, censure takes the tingeOf malice!All was Aristophanes:There blazed the glory, there shot black the shame!Ay, Bacchos did stand forth, the Tragic GodIn person! and when duly dragged through mire,—Having lied, filched, played fool, proved coward, flungThe boys their dose of fit indecency,And finally got trounced to heart's content,At his own feast, in his own theatre(—Oh, never fear! 'T was consecrated sport,Exact tradition, warranted no whitOffensive to instructed taste,—indeed,Essential to Athenai's liberty,Could the poor stranger understand!) why, then—He was pronounced the rarely-qualifiedTo rate the work, adjust the claims to worth,Of Aischulos (of whom, in other mood,This same appreciative poet pleasedTo say, "He 's all one stiff and gluey pieceOf back of swine's-neck!")—and of ChatterboxWho, "twisting words like wool," usurped his seatIn Plouton's realm: "the arch-rogue, liar, scampThat lives by snatching-up of altar-orts,"—Who failed to recognize Euripides?Then came a contest for supremacy—Crammed full of genius, wit and fun and freak.No spice of undue spite to spoil the dishOf all sorts,—for the Mystics matched the FrogsIn poetry, no Seiren sang so sweet!—Till, pressed into the service (how dispenseWith Phaps-Elaphion and free foot-display?)The Muse of dead Euripides danced frank,Rattled her bits of tile, made all too plainHow baby-work like "Herakles" had birth!Last, Bacchos—candidly disclaiming brainsAble to follow finer argument—Confessed himself much moved by three main facts:First,—if you stick a "Lost his flask of oil"At pause of period, you perplex the sense,—Were it the Elegy for Marathon!Next, if you weigh two verses, "car"—the word,Will outweigh "club"—the word, in each packed line!And—last, worst fact of all! in rivalryThe younger poet dared to improviseLaudation less distinct of—Triphales?(Nay, that served when ourself abused the youth!)Pheidippides—(nor that's appropriate now!)Then,—Alkibiades, our city's hope,Since times change and we Comics should change too!These three main facts, well weighed, drew judgment down,Conclusively assigned the wretch his fate—"Fate due," admonished the sage Mystic choir,"To sitting, prate-apace, with Sokrates,Neglecting music and each tragic aid!"—All wound-up by a wish "We soon may ceaseFrom certain griefs, and warfare, worst of them!"—Since, deaf to Comedy's persistent voice,War still raged, still was like to rage. In vainHad Sparté cried once more, "But grant us Peace,We give you Dekeleia back!" Too shrewdWas Kleophon to let escape, forsooth,The enemy—at final gasp, besides!So, Aristophanes obtained the prize,And so Athenai felt she had a friendFar better than her "best friend," lost last year;And so, such fame had "Frogs" that, when came roundThis present year, those Frogs croaked gay againAt the great Feast, Elaphebolion-month.Only—there happened Aigispotamoi!And, in the midst of the frog-merriment,Plump o' the sudden, pounces stern King StorkOn the light-hearted people of the marsh!Spartan Lusandros swooped precipitate,Ended Athenai, rowed her sacred bayWith oars which brought a hundred triremes backCaptive!And first word of the conquerorWas "Down with those Long Walls, Peiraios' pride!Destroy, yourselves, your bulwarks! Peace needs none!"And "We obey" they shuddered in their dream.But, at next quick imposure of decree—"No longer democratic government!Henceforth such oligarchy as ourselvesPlease to appoint you!"—then the horror-stungDreamers awake; they started up a-stareAt the half-helot captain and his crew—Spartans, "men used to let their hair grow long,To fast, be dirty, and just—Sokratize"—Whose word was "Trample on Themistokles!"So, as the way is with much misery,The heads swam, hands refused their office, heartsSunk as they stood in stupor. "Wreck the Walls?Ruin Peiraios?—with our Pallas armedFor interference?—Herakles apprised,And Theseus hasting? Lay the Long Walls low?"Three days they stood, stared,—stonier than their walls.Whereupon, sleep who might, Lusandros woke:Saw the prostration of his enemy,Utter and absolute beyond belief,Past hope of hatred even. I surmiseHe also probably saw fade in fumeCertain fears, bred of Bakis-prophecy,Nor apprehended any more that godsAnd heroes,—fire, must glow forth, guard the groundWhere prone, by sober day-dawn, corpse-like layPowerless Athenai, late predominantLady of Hellas,—Sparté's slave-prize now!Where should a menace lurk in those slack limbs?What was to move his circumspection? WhyDemolish just Peiraios?"Stay!" bade he:"Already promise-breakers? True to type,Athenians! past, and present, and to come,—The fickle and the false! No stone dislodged,No implement applied, yet three days' graceExpire! Forbearance is no longer-lived.By breaking promise, terms of peace you break—Too gently framed for falsehood, fickleness!All must be reconsidered—yours the fault!"Wherewith, he called a council of allies.Pent-up resentment used its privilege,—Outburst at ending: this the summed result."Because we would avenge no transient wrongBut an eternity of insolence,Aggression,—folly, no disasters mend,Pride, no reverses teach humility,—Because too plainly were all punishment,Such as comports with less obdurate crime,Evadable by falsehood, fickleness—Experience proves the true Athenian type,—Therefore, 't is need we dig deep down intoThe root of evil; lop nor bole nor branch.Look up, look round and see, on every side,What nurtured the rank tree to noisome fruit!We who live hutted (so they laugh) not housed,Build barns for temples, prize mud-monuments,Nor show the sneering stranger aught but—men,—Spartans take insult of Athenians justBecause they boast Akropolis to mount,And Propulaia to make entry by,Through a mad maze of marble arroganceSuch as you see—such as let none see more!Abolish the detested luxury!Leave not one stone upon another, razeAthenai to the rock! Let hill and plainBecome a waste, a grassy pasture-groundWhere sheep may wander, grazing goats dependFrom shapeless crags once columns! so at lastShall peace inhabit there, and peace enough."Whereon, a shout approved "Such peace bestow!"Then did a Man of Phokis rise—O heart!Rise—when no bolt of Zeus disparted sky,No omen-bird from Pallas scared the crew,Rise—when mere human argument could stemNo foam-fringe of the passion surging fierce,Baffle no wrath-wave that o'er barrier broke—Whowas the Man of Phokis rose and flungA flower i' the way of that fierce foot's advance,Which—stop for?—nay, had stamped down sword's assault!Could it beHestayed Sparté with the snatch—"Daughter of Agamemnon, late my liege,Elektra, palaced, once a visitantTo thy poor rustic dwelling, now I come?"Ay, facing fury of revenge, and lustOf hate, and malice moaning to appeaseHunger on prey presumptuous, prostrate now—Full in the hideous faces—last resource,You flung that choric flower, my Euthukles!And see, as through some pinhole, should the windWedgingly pierce but once, in with a rushHurries the whole wild weather, rends to ragsThe weak sail stretched against the outside storm—So did the power of that triumphant playPour in, and oversweep the assembled foe!Triumphant play, wherein our poet firstDared bring the grandeur of the Tragic TwoDown to the level of our common life,Close to the beating of our common heart.Elektra? 'T was Athenai, Sparté's iceThawed to, while that sad portraiture appealed—Agamemnonian lady, lost by faultOf her own kindred, cast from house and home,Despoiled of all the brave inheritance,Dowered humbly as befits a herdsman's mate,Partaker of his cottage, clothed in rags,Patient performer of the poorest chares,Yet mindful, all the while, of glory pastWhen she walked darling of Mukenai, dearBeyond Orestes to the King of Men!So, because Greeks are Greeks, though Sparté's brood,And hearts are hearts, though in Lusandros' breast,And poetry is power, and EuthuklesHad faith therein to, full-face, fling the same—Sudden, the ice-thaw! The assembled foe,Heaving and swaying with strange friendliness,Cried, "Reverence Elektra!"—cried, "AbstainLike that chaste Herdsman, nor dare violateThe sanctity of such reverse! Let standAthenai!"Mindful of that story's close,Perchance, and how,—when he, the Herdsman chaste,Needs apprehend no break of tranquil sleep,—All in due time, a stranger, dark, disguised,Knocks at the door: with searching glance, notes keen,Knows quick, through mean attire and disrespect,The ravaged princess! Ay, right on, the clutchOf guiding retribution has in chargeThe author of the outrage! While one hand,Elektra's, pulls the door behind, made fastOn fate,—the other strains, prepared to pushThe victim-queen, should she make frightened pauseBefore that serpentining blood which stealsOut of the darkness where, a pace beyond,Above the slain Aigisthos, bides his blowDreadful Orestes!Klutaimnestra, wiseThis time, forebore; Elektra held her own;Saved was Athenai through Euripides,Through Euthukles, through—more than ever—me,Balaustion, me, who, Wild-pomegranate-flower,Felt my fruit triumph, and fade proudly so!But next day, as ungracious minds are wont,The Spartan, late surprised into a grace,Grew sudden sober at the enormity,And grudged, by daybreak, midnight's easy gift;Splenetically must repay its costBy due increase of rigor, doglike snatchAt aught still left dog to concede like man.Rough sea, at flow of tide, may lip, perchance,Smoothly the land-line reached as for repose—Lie indolent in all unquestioned sway;But ebbing, when needs must, all thwart and loth,Sea claws at sand relinquished strugglingly.So, harsh Lusandros—pinioned to inflictThe lesser penalty alone—spoke harsh,As minded to embitter scathe by scorn."Athenai's self be saved then, thank the Lyre!If Tragedy withdraws her presence—quick,If Comedy replace her,—what more just?Let Comedy do service, frisk away,Dance off stage these indomitable stones,Long Walls, Peiraian bulwarks! Hew and heave,Pick at, pound into dust each dear defence!Not to the Kommos—eleleleleuWith breast bethumped, as Tragic lyre prefers,But Comedy shall sound the flute, and crowAt kordax-end—the hearty slapping-dance!Collect those flute-girls—trash who flattered earWith whistlings, and fed eye with caper-cuts,While we Lakonians supped black broth or crunchedSea-urchin, conchs and all, unpricked—coarse brutes!Command they lead off step, time steady strokeTo spade and pickaxe, till demolished lieAthenai's pride in powder!"Done that day—That sixteenth famed day of Munuchion-month!The day when Hellas fought at Salamis,The very day Euripides was born,Those flute-girls—Phaps-Elaphion at their head—Did blow their best, did dance their worst, the whileSparté pulled down the walls, wrecked wide the works,Laid low each merest molehill of defence,And so the Power, Athenai, passed away!We would not see its passing! Ere I knewThe issue of their counsels,—crouching lowAnd shrouded by my peplos,—I conceived,Despite the shut eyes, the stopped ears,—by countOnly of heart-beats, telling the slow time,—Athenai's doom was signed and signifiedIn that assembly,—ay, but knew there watchedOne who would dare and do, nor bate at allThe stranger's licensed duty,—speak the wordAllowed the Man from Phokis! Naught remainedBut urge departure, flee the sights and sounds,Hideous exultings, wailings worth contempt,And pressed to other earth, new heaven, by seaThat somehow ever prompts to 'scape despair.Help rose to heart's wish; at the harbor-side,The old gray mariner did reverenceTo who had saved his ship, still weather-tightAs when with prow gay-garlanded she praisedThe hospitable port and pushed to sea."Convoy Balaustion back to Rhodes, for sakeOf her and her Euripides!" laughed he.Rhodes,—shall it not be there, my Euthukles,Till this brief trouble of a lifetime end,That solitude—two make so populous!—For food finds memories of the past suffice,Maybe, anticipations,—hope so swells,—Of some great future we, familiar onceWith who so taught, should hail and entertain?He lies now in the little valley, laughedAnd moaned about by those mysterious streams,Boiling and freezing, like the love and hateWhich helped or harmed him through his earthly course.They mix in Arethousa by his grave.The warm spring, traveller, dip thine arms into,Brighten thy brow with! Life detests black cold!I sent the tablets, the psalterion, soRewarded Sicily; the tyrant thereBestowed them worthily in Phoibos' shrine.A gold-graved writing tells—"I also lovedThe poet, Free Athenai cheaply prized—King Dionusios,—Archelaos-like!"And see if young Philemon,—sure one dayTo do good service and be loved himself,—If he too have not made a votive verse!"Grant, in good sooth, our great dead, all the same,Retain their sense, as certain wise men say,I 'd hang myself—to see Euripides!"Hands off, Philemon! nowise hang thyself,But pen the prime plays, labor the right life,And die at good old age as grand men use,—Keeping thee, with that great thought, warm the while,—That he does live, Philemon! Ay, most sure!"He lives!" hark,—waves say, winds sing out the same,And yonder dares the citied ridge of RhodesIts headlong plunge from sky to sea, dispartsNorth bay from south,—each guarded calm, that guestMay enter gladly, blow what wind there will,—Boiled round with breakers, to no other cry!All in one choros,—what the master-wordThey take up?—hark! "There are no gods, no gods!Glory to God—who saves Euripides!"
So might he doubtless think. "Farewell," said we.
So might he doubtless think. "Farewell," said we.
And he was gone, lost in the morning-gray,Rose-streaked and gold to eastward. Did we dream?Could the poor twelve-hours hold this argumentWe render durable from fugitive,As duly at each sunset's droop of sail,Delay of oar, submission to sea-might,I still remember, you as duly dintRemembrance, with the punctual rapid style,Into—what calm cold page!
And he was gone, lost in the morning-gray,
Rose-streaked and gold to eastward. Did we dream?
Could the poor twelve-hours hold this argument
We render durable from fugitive,
As duly at each sunset's droop of sail,
Delay of oar, submission to sea-might,
I still remember, you as duly dint
Remembrance, with the punctual rapid style,
Into—what calm cold page!
Thus soul escapesFrom eloquence made captive: thus mere words—Ah, would the lifeless body stay! But no:Change upon change till,—who may recognizeWhat did soul service, in the dusty heap?What energy of AristophanesInflames the wreck Balaustion saves to show?Ashes be evidence how fire—with smoke—All night went lamping on! But morn must rise.The poet—I shall say—burned up and, blank,Smouldered this ash, now white and cold enough.
Thus soul escapes
From eloquence made captive: thus mere words
—Ah, would the lifeless body stay! But no:
Change upon change till,—who may recognize
What did soul service, in the dusty heap?
What energy of Aristophanes
Inflames the wreck Balaustion saves to show?
Ashes be evidence how fire—with smoke—
All night went lamping on! But morn must rise.
The poet—I shall say—burned up and, blank,
Smouldered this ash, now white and cold enough.
Nay, Euthukles! for best, though mine it be,Comes yet! Write on, write ever, wrong no word!
Nay, Euthukles! for best, though mine it be,
Comes yet! Write on, write ever, wrong no word!
Add, first,—he gone, if jollity went too,Some of the graver mood, which mixed and marred,Departed likewise. Sight of narrow scopeHas this meek consolation: neither illsWe dread, nor joys we dare anticipate,Perform to promise. Each soul sows a seed—Euripides and Aristophanes;Seed bears crop, scarce within our little lives;But germinates—perhaps enough to judge—Next year?
Add, first,—he gone, if jollity went too,
Some of the graver mood, which mixed and marred,
Departed likewise. Sight of narrow scope
Has this meek consolation: neither ills
We dread, nor joys we dare anticipate,
Perform to promise. Each soul sows a seed—
Euripides and Aristophanes;
Seed bears crop, scarce within our little lives;
But germinates—perhaps enough to judge—
Next year?
Whereas, next year brought harvest-time!For, next year came, and went not, but is now,Still now, while you and I are bound for RhodesThat 's all but reached!—and harvest has it brought,Dire as the homicidal dragon-crop!Sophokles had dismissal ere it dawned,Happy as ever; though men mournfullyPlausive,—when only soul could triumph now,And Iophon produced his father's play,—Crowned the consummate song where OidipousDared the descent 'mid earthquake-thundering,And hardly Theseus' hands availed to guardEyes from the horror, as their grove disgorgedIts dread ones, while each daughter sank to ground.
Whereas, next year brought harvest-time!
For, next year came, and went not, but is now,
Still now, while you and I are bound for Rhodes
That 's all but reached!—and harvest has it brought,
Dire as the homicidal dragon-crop!
Sophokles had dismissal ere it dawned,
Happy as ever; though men mournfully
Plausive,—when only soul could triumph now,
And Iophon produced his father's play,—
Crowned the consummate song where Oidipous
Dared the descent 'mid earthquake-thundering,
And hardly Theseus' hands availed to guard
Eyes from the horror, as their grove disgorged
Its dread ones, while each daughter sank to ground.
Then Aristophanes, on heel of that,Triumphant also, followed with his "Frogs:"Produced at next Lenaia,—three months since,—The promised Main-Fight, loyal, license-free!As if the poet, primed with Thasian juice,(Himself swore—wine that conquers every kindFor long abiding in the head) could fixThenceforward any object in its truth,Through eyeballs bathed by mere Castalian dew,Nor miss the borrowed medium,—vinous dropThat colors all to the right crimson pitchWhen mirth grows mockery, censure takes the tingeOf malice!
Then Aristophanes, on heel of that,
Triumphant also, followed with his "Frogs:"
Produced at next Lenaia,—three months since,—
The promised Main-Fight, loyal, license-free!
As if the poet, primed with Thasian juice,
(Himself swore—wine that conquers every kind
For long abiding in the head) could fix
Thenceforward any object in its truth,
Through eyeballs bathed by mere Castalian dew,
Nor miss the borrowed medium,—vinous drop
That colors all to the right crimson pitch
When mirth grows mockery, censure takes the tinge
Of malice!
All was Aristophanes:There blazed the glory, there shot black the shame!Ay, Bacchos did stand forth, the Tragic GodIn person! and when duly dragged through mire,—Having lied, filched, played fool, proved coward, flungThe boys their dose of fit indecency,And finally got trounced to heart's content,At his own feast, in his own theatre(—Oh, never fear! 'T was consecrated sport,Exact tradition, warranted no whitOffensive to instructed taste,—indeed,Essential to Athenai's liberty,Could the poor stranger understand!) why, then—He was pronounced the rarely-qualifiedTo rate the work, adjust the claims to worth,Of Aischulos (of whom, in other mood,This same appreciative poet pleasedTo say, "He 's all one stiff and gluey pieceOf back of swine's-neck!")—and of ChatterboxWho, "twisting words like wool," usurped his seatIn Plouton's realm: "the arch-rogue, liar, scampThat lives by snatching-up of altar-orts,"—Who failed to recognize Euripides?
All was Aristophanes:
There blazed the glory, there shot black the shame!
Ay, Bacchos did stand forth, the Tragic God
In person! and when duly dragged through mire,—
Having lied, filched, played fool, proved coward, flung
The boys their dose of fit indecency,
And finally got trounced to heart's content,
At his own feast, in his own theatre
(—Oh, never fear! 'T was consecrated sport,
Exact tradition, warranted no whit
Offensive to instructed taste,—indeed,
Essential to Athenai's liberty,
Could the poor stranger understand!) why, then—
He was pronounced the rarely-qualified
To rate the work, adjust the claims to worth,
Of Aischulos (of whom, in other mood,
This same appreciative poet pleased
To say, "He 's all one stiff and gluey piece
Of back of swine's-neck!")—and of Chatterbox
Who, "twisting words like wool," usurped his seat
In Plouton's realm: "the arch-rogue, liar, scamp
That lives by snatching-up of altar-orts,"
—Who failed to recognize Euripides?
Then came a contest for supremacy—Crammed full of genius, wit and fun and freak.No spice of undue spite to spoil the dishOf all sorts,—for the Mystics matched the FrogsIn poetry, no Seiren sang so sweet!—Till, pressed into the service (how dispenseWith Phaps-Elaphion and free foot-display?)The Muse of dead Euripides danced frank,Rattled her bits of tile, made all too plainHow baby-work like "Herakles" had birth!Last, Bacchos—candidly disclaiming brainsAble to follow finer argument—Confessed himself much moved by three main facts:First,—if you stick a "Lost his flask of oil"At pause of period, you perplex the sense,—Were it the Elegy for Marathon!Next, if you weigh two verses, "car"—the word,Will outweigh "club"—the word, in each packed line!And—last, worst fact of all! in rivalryThe younger poet dared to improviseLaudation less distinct of—Triphales?(Nay, that served when ourself abused the youth!)Pheidippides—(nor that's appropriate now!)Then,—Alkibiades, our city's hope,Since times change and we Comics should change too!These three main facts, well weighed, drew judgment down,Conclusively assigned the wretch his fate—"Fate due," admonished the sage Mystic choir,"To sitting, prate-apace, with Sokrates,Neglecting music and each tragic aid!"—All wound-up by a wish "We soon may ceaseFrom certain griefs, and warfare, worst of them!"—Since, deaf to Comedy's persistent voice,War still raged, still was like to rage. In vainHad Sparté cried once more, "But grant us Peace,We give you Dekeleia back!" Too shrewdWas Kleophon to let escape, forsooth,The enemy—at final gasp, besides!
Then came a contest for supremacy—
Crammed full of genius, wit and fun and freak.
No spice of undue spite to spoil the dish
Of all sorts,—for the Mystics matched the Frogs
In poetry, no Seiren sang so sweet!—
Till, pressed into the service (how dispense
With Phaps-Elaphion and free foot-display?)
The Muse of dead Euripides danced frank,
Rattled her bits of tile, made all too plain
How baby-work like "Herakles" had birth!
Last, Bacchos—candidly disclaiming brains
Able to follow finer argument—
Confessed himself much moved by three main facts:
First,—if you stick a "Lost his flask of oil"
At pause of period, you perplex the sense,—
Were it the Elegy for Marathon!
Next, if you weigh two verses, "car"—the word,
Will outweigh "club"—the word, in each packed line!
And—last, worst fact of all! in rivalry
The younger poet dared to improvise
Laudation less distinct of—Triphales?
(Nay, that served when ourself abused the youth!)
Pheidippides—(nor that's appropriate now!)
Then,—Alkibiades, our city's hope,
Since times change and we Comics should change too!
These three main facts, well weighed, drew judgment down,
Conclusively assigned the wretch his fate—
"Fate due," admonished the sage Mystic choir,
"To sitting, prate-apace, with Sokrates,
Neglecting music and each tragic aid!"
—All wound-up by a wish "We soon may cease
From certain griefs, and warfare, worst of them!"
—Since, deaf to Comedy's persistent voice,
War still raged, still was like to rage. In vain
Had Sparté cried once more, "But grant us Peace,
We give you Dekeleia back!" Too shrewd
Was Kleophon to let escape, forsooth,
The enemy—at final gasp, besides!
So, Aristophanes obtained the prize,And so Athenai felt she had a friendFar better than her "best friend," lost last year;And so, such fame had "Frogs" that, when came roundThis present year, those Frogs croaked gay againAt the great Feast, Elaphebolion-month.Only—there happened Aigispotamoi!
So, Aristophanes obtained the prize,
And so Athenai felt she had a friend
Far better than her "best friend," lost last year;
And so, such fame had "Frogs" that, when came round
This present year, those Frogs croaked gay again
At the great Feast, Elaphebolion-month.
Only—there happened Aigispotamoi!
And, in the midst of the frog-merriment,Plump o' the sudden, pounces stern King StorkOn the light-hearted people of the marsh!Spartan Lusandros swooped precipitate,Ended Athenai, rowed her sacred bayWith oars which brought a hundred triremes backCaptive!
And, in the midst of the frog-merriment,
Plump o' the sudden, pounces stern King Stork
On the light-hearted people of the marsh!
Spartan Lusandros swooped precipitate,
Ended Athenai, rowed her sacred bay
With oars which brought a hundred triremes back
Captive!
And first word of the conquerorWas "Down with those Long Walls, Peiraios' pride!Destroy, yourselves, your bulwarks! Peace needs none!"And "We obey" they shuddered in their dream.
And first word of the conqueror
Was "Down with those Long Walls, Peiraios' pride!
Destroy, yourselves, your bulwarks! Peace needs none!"
And "We obey" they shuddered in their dream.
But, at next quick imposure of decree—"No longer democratic government!Henceforth such oligarchy as ourselvesPlease to appoint you!"—then the horror-stungDreamers awake; they started up a-stareAt the half-helot captain and his crew—Spartans, "men used to let their hair grow long,To fast, be dirty, and just—Sokratize"—Whose word was "Trample on Themistokles!"
But, at next quick imposure of decree—
"No longer democratic government!
Henceforth such oligarchy as ourselves
Please to appoint you!"—then the horror-stung
Dreamers awake; they started up a-stare
At the half-helot captain and his crew
—Spartans, "men used to let their hair grow long,
To fast, be dirty, and just—Sokratize"—
Whose word was "Trample on Themistokles!"
So, as the way is with much misery,The heads swam, hands refused their office, heartsSunk as they stood in stupor. "Wreck the Walls?Ruin Peiraios?—with our Pallas armedFor interference?—Herakles apprised,And Theseus hasting? Lay the Long Walls low?"
So, as the way is with much misery,
The heads swam, hands refused their office, hearts
Sunk as they stood in stupor. "Wreck the Walls?
Ruin Peiraios?—with our Pallas armed
For interference?—Herakles apprised,
And Theseus hasting? Lay the Long Walls low?"
Three days they stood, stared,—stonier than their walls.
Three days they stood, stared,—stonier than their walls.
Whereupon, sleep who might, Lusandros woke:Saw the prostration of his enemy,Utter and absolute beyond belief,Past hope of hatred even. I surmiseHe also probably saw fade in fumeCertain fears, bred of Bakis-prophecy,Nor apprehended any more that godsAnd heroes,—fire, must glow forth, guard the groundWhere prone, by sober day-dawn, corpse-like layPowerless Athenai, late predominantLady of Hellas,—Sparté's slave-prize now!Where should a menace lurk in those slack limbs?What was to move his circumspection? WhyDemolish just Peiraios?
Whereupon, sleep who might, Lusandros woke:
Saw the prostration of his enemy,
Utter and absolute beyond belief,
Past hope of hatred even. I surmise
He also probably saw fade in fume
Certain fears, bred of Bakis-prophecy,
Nor apprehended any more that gods
And heroes,—fire, must glow forth, guard the ground
Where prone, by sober day-dawn, corpse-like lay
Powerless Athenai, late predominant
Lady of Hellas,—Sparté's slave-prize now!
Where should a menace lurk in those slack limbs?
What was to move his circumspection? Why
Demolish just Peiraios?
"Stay!" bade he:"Already promise-breakers? True to type,Athenians! past, and present, and to come,—The fickle and the false! No stone dislodged,No implement applied, yet three days' graceExpire! Forbearance is no longer-lived.By breaking promise, terms of peace you break—Too gently framed for falsehood, fickleness!All must be reconsidered—yours the fault!"
"Stay!" bade he:
"Already promise-breakers? True to type,
Athenians! past, and present, and to come,—
The fickle and the false! No stone dislodged,
No implement applied, yet three days' grace
Expire! Forbearance is no longer-lived.
By breaking promise, terms of peace you break—
Too gently framed for falsehood, fickleness!
All must be reconsidered—yours the fault!"
Wherewith, he called a council of allies.Pent-up resentment used its privilege,—Outburst at ending: this the summed result.
Wherewith, he called a council of allies.
Pent-up resentment used its privilege,—
Outburst at ending: this the summed result.
"Because we would avenge no transient wrongBut an eternity of insolence,Aggression,—folly, no disasters mend,Pride, no reverses teach humility,—Because too plainly were all punishment,Such as comports with less obdurate crime,Evadable by falsehood, fickleness—Experience proves the true Athenian type,—Therefore, 't is need we dig deep down intoThe root of evil; lop nor bole nor branch.Look up, look round and see, on every side,What nurtured the rank tree to noisome fruit!We who live hutted (so they laugh) not housed,Build barns for temples, prize mud-monuments,Nor show the sneering stranger aught but—men,—Spartans take insult of Athenians justBecause they boast Akropolis to mount,And Propulaia to make entry by,Through a mad maze of marble arroganceSuch as you see—such as let none see more!Abolish the detested luxury!Leave not one stone upon another, razeAthenai to the rock! Let hill and plainBecome a waste, a grassy pasture-groundWhere sheep may wander, grazing goats dependFrom shapeless crags once columns! so at lastShall peace inhabit there, and peace enough."
"Because we would avenge no transient wrong
But an eternity of insolence,
Aggression,—folly, no disasters mend,
Pride, no reverses teach humility,—
Because too plainly were all punishment,
Such as comports with less obdurate crime,
Evadable by falsehood, fickleness—
Experience proves the true Athenian type,—
Therefore, 't is need we dig deep down into
The root of evil; lop nor bole nor branch.
Look up, look round and see, on every side,
What nurtured the rank tree to noisome fruit!
We who live hutted (so they laugh) not housed,
Build barns for temples, prize mud-monuments,
Nor show the sneering stranger aught but—men,—
Spartans take insult of Athenians just
Because they boast Akropolis to mount,
And Propulaia to make entry by,
Through a mad maze of marble arrogance
Such as you see—such as let none see more!
Abolish the detested luxury!
Leave not one stone upon another, raze
Athenai to the rock! Let hill and plain
Become a waste, a grassy pasture-ground
Where sheep may wander, grazing goats depend
From shapeless crags once columns! so at last
Shall peace inhabit there, and peace enough."
Whereon, a shout approved "Such peace bestow!"
Whereon, a shout approved "Such peace bestow!"
Then did a Man of Phokis rise—O heart!Rise—when no bolt of Zeus disparted sky,No omen-bird from Pallas scared the crew,Rise—when mere human argument could stemNo foam-fringe of the passion surging fierce,Baffle no wrath-wave that o'er barrier broke—Whowas the Man of Phokis rose and flungA flower i' the way of that fierce foot's advance,Which—stop for?—nay, had stamped down sword's assault!Could it beHestayed Sparté with the snatch—"Daughter of Agamemnon, late my liege,Elektra, palaced, once a visitantTo thy poor rustic dwelling, now I come?"
Then did a Man of Phokis rise—O heart!
Rise—when no bolt of Zeus disparted sky,
No omen-bird from Pallas scared the crew,
Rise—when mere human argument could stem
No foam-fringe of the passion surging fierce,
Baffle no wrath-wave that o'er barrier broke—
Whowas the Man of Phokis rose and flung
A flower i' the way of that fierce foot's advance,
Which—stop for?—nay, had stamped down sword's assault!
Could it beHestayed Sparté with the snatch—
"Daughter of Agamemnon, late my liege,
Elektra, palaced, once a visitant
To thy poor rustic dwelling, now I come?"
Ay, facing fury of revenge, and lustOf hate, and malice moaning to appeaseHunger on prey presumptuous, prostrate now—Full in the hideous faces—last resource,You flung that choric flower, my Euthukles!
Ay, facing fury of revenge, and lust
Of hate, and malice moaning to appease
Hunger on prey presumptuous, prostrate now—
Full in the hideous faces—last resource,
You flung that choric flower, my Euthukles!
And see, as through some pinhole, should the windWedgingly pierce but once, in with a rushHurries the whole wild weather, rends to ragsThe weak sail stretched against the outside storm—So did the power of that triumphant playPour in, and oversweep the assembled foe!Triumphant play, wherein our poet firstDared bring the grandeur of the Tragic TwoDown to the level of our common life,Close to the beating of our common heart.Elektra? 'T was Athenai, Sparté's iceThawed to, while that sad portraiture appealed—Agamemnonian lady, lost by faultOf her own kindred, cast from house and home,Despoiled of all the brave inheritance,Dowered humbly as befits a herdsman's mate,Partaker of his cottage, clothed in rags,Patient performer of the poorest chares,Yet mindful, all the while, of glory pastWhen she walked darling of Mukenai, dearBeyond Orestes to the King of Men!
And see, as through some pinhole, should the wind
Wedgingly pierce but once, in with a rush
Hurries the whole wild weather, rends to rags
The weak sail stretched against the outside storm—
So did the power of that triumphant play
Pour in, and oversweep the assembled foe!
Triumphant play, wherein our poet first
Dared bring the grandeur of the Tragic Two
Down to the level of our common life,
Close to the beating of our common heart.
Elektra? 'T was Athenai, Sparté's ice
Thawed to, while that sad portraiture appealed—
Agamemnonian lady, lost by fault
Of her own kindred, cast from house and home,
Despoiled of all the brave inheritance,
Dowered humbly as befits a herdsman's mate,
Partaker of his cottage, clothed in rags,
Patient performer of the poorest chares,
Yet mindful, all the while, of glory past
When she walked darling of Mukenai, dear
Beyond Orestes to the King of Men!
So, because Greeks are Greeks, though Sparté's brood,And hearts are hearts, though in Lusandros' breast,And poetry is power, and EuthuklesHad faith therein to, full-face, fling the same—Sudden, the ice-thaw! The assembled foe,Heaving and swaying with strange friendliness,Cried, "Reverence Elektra!"—cried, "AbstainLike that chaste Herdsman, nor dare violateThe sanctity of such reverse! Let standAthenai!"
So, because Greeks are Greeks, though Sparté's brood,
And hearts are hearts, though in Lusandros' breast,
And poetry is power, and Euthukles
Had faith therein to, full-face, fling the same—
Sudden, the ice-thaw! The assembled foe,
Heaving and swaying with strange friendliness,
Cried, "Reverence Elektra!"—cried, "Abstain
Like that chaste Herdsman, nor dare violate
The sanctity of such reverse! Let stand
Athenai!"
Mindful of that story's close,Perchance, and how,—when he, the Herdsman chaste,Needs apprehend no break of tranquil sleep,—All in due time, a stranger, dark, disguised,Knocks at the door: with searching glance, notes keen,Knows quick, through mean attire and disrespect,The ravaged princess! Ay, right on, the clutchOf guiding retribution has in chargeThe author of the outrage! While one hand,Elektra's, pulls the door behind, made fastOn fate,—the other strains, prepared to pushThe victim-queen, should she make frightened pauseBefore that serpentining blood which stealsOut of the darkness where, a pace beyond,Above the slain Aigisthos, bides his blowDreadful Orestes!
Mindful of that story's close,
Perchance, and how,—when he, the Herdsman chaste,
Needs apprehend no break of tranquil sleep,—
All in due time, a stranger, dark, disguised,
Knocks at the door: with searching glance, notes keen,
Knows quick, through mean attire and disrespect,
The ravaged princess! Ay, right on, the clutch
Of guiding retribution has in charge
The author of the outrage! While one hand,
Elektra's, pulls the door behind, made fast
On fate,—the other strains, prepared to push
The victim-queen, should she make frightened pause
Before that serpentining blood which steals
Out of the darkness where, a pace beyond,
Above the slain Aigisthos, bides his blow
Dreadful Orestes!
Klutaimnestra, wiseThis time, forebore; Elektra held her own;Saved was Athenai through Euripides,Through Euthukles, through—more than ever—me,Balaustion, me, who, Wild-pomegranate-flower,Felt my fruit triumph, and fade proudly so!
Klutaimnestra, wise
This time, forebore; Elektra held her own;
Saved was Athenai through Euripides,
Through Euthukles, through—more than ever—me,
Balaustion, me, who, Wild-pomegranate-flower,
Felt my fruit triumph, and fade proudly so!
But next day, as ungracious minds are wont,The Spartan, late surprised into a grace,Grew sudden sober at the enormity,And grudged, by daybreak, midnight's easy gift;Splenetically must repay its costBy due increase of rigor, doglike snatchAt aught still left dog to concede like man.Rough sea, at flow of tide, may lip, perchance,Smoothly the land-line reached as for repose—Lie indolent in all unquestioned sway;But ebbing, when needs must, all thwart and loth,Sea claws at sand relinquished strugglingly.So, harsh Lusandros—pinioned to inflictThe lesser penalty alone—spoke harsh,As minded to embitter scathe by scorn.
But next day, as ungracious minds are wont,
The Spartan, late surprised into a grace,
Grew sudden sober at the enormity,
And grudged, by daybreak, midnight's easy gift;
Splenetically must repay its cost
By due increase of rigor, doglike snatch
At aught still left dog to concede like man.
Rough sea, at flow of tide, may lip, perchance,
Smoothly the land-line reached as for repose—
Lie indolent in all unquestioned sway;
But ebbing, when needs must, all thwart and loth,
Sea claws at sand relinquished strugglingly.
So, harsh Lusandros—pinioned to inflict
The lesser penalty alone—spoke harsh,
As minded to embitter scathe by scorn.
"Athenai's self be saved then, thank the Lyre!If Tragedy withdraws her presence—quick,If Comedy replace her,—what more just?Let Comedy do service, frisk away,Dance off stage these indomitable stones,Long Walls, Peiraian bulwarks! Hew and heave,Pick at, pound into dust each dear defence!Not to the Kommos—eleleleleuWith breast bethumped, as Tragic lyre prefers,But Comedy shall sound the flute, and crowAt kordax-end—the hearty slapping-dance!Collect those flute-girls—trash who flattered earWith whistlings, and fed eye with caper-cuts,While we Lakonians supped black broth or crunchedSea-urchin, conchs and all, unpricked—coarse brutes!Command they lead off step, time steady strokeTo spade and pickaxe, till demolished lieAthenai's pride in powder!"
"Athenai's self be saved then, thank the Lyre!
If Tragedy withdraws her presence—quick,
If Comedy replace her,—what more just?
Let Comedy do service, frisk away,
Dance off stage these indomitable stones,
Long Walls, Peiraian bulwarks! Hew and heave,
Pick at, pound into dust each dear defence!
Not to the Kommos—eleleleleu
With breast bethumped, as Tragic lyre prefers,
But Comedy shall sound the flute, and crow
At kordax-end—the hearty slapping-dance!
Collect those flute-girls—trash who flattered ear
With whistlings, and fed eye with caper-cuts,
While we Lakonians supped black broth or crunched
Sea-urchin, conchs and all, unpricked—coarse brutes!
Command they lead off step, time steady stroke
To spade and pickaxe, till demolished lie
Athenai's pride in powder!"
Done that day—That sixteenth famed day of Munuchion-month!The day when Hellas fought at Salamis,The very day Euripides was born,Those flute-girls—Phaps-Elaphion at their head—Did blow their best, did dance their worst, the whileSparté pulled down the walls, wrecked wide the works,Laid low each merest molehill of defence,And so the Power, Athenai, passed away!
Done that day—
That sixteenth famed day of Munuchion-month!
The day when Hellas fought at Salamis,
The very day Euripides was born,
Those flute-girls—Phaps-Elaphion at their head—
Did blow their best, did dance their worst, the while
Sparté pulled down the walls, wrecked wide the works,
Laid low each merest molehill of defence,
And so the Power, Athenai, passed away!
We would not see its passing! Ere I knewThe issue of their counsels,—crouching lowAnd shrouded by my peplos,—I conceived,Despite the shut eyes, the stopped ears,—by countOnly of heart-beats, telling the slow time,—Athenai's doom was signed and signifiedIn that assembly,—ay, but knew there watchedOne who would dare and do, nor bate at allThe stranger's licensed duty,—speak the wordAllowed the Man from Phokis! Naught remainedBut urge departure, flee the sights and sounds,Hideous exultings, wailings worth contempt,And pressed to other earth, new heaven, by seaThat somehow ever prompts to 'scape despair.
We would not see its passing! Ere I knew
The issue of their counsels,—crouching low
And shrouded by my peplos,—I conceived,
Despite the shut eyes, the stopped ears,—by count
Only of heart-beats, telling the slow time,—
Athenai's doom was signed and signified
In that assembly,—ay, but knew there watched
One who would dare and do, nor bate at all
The stranger's licensed duty,—speak the word
Allowed the Man from Phokis! Naught remained
But urge departure, flee the sights and sounds,
Hideous exultings, wailings worth contempt,
And pressed to other earth, new heaven, by sea
That somehow ever prompts to 'scape despair.
Help rose to heart's wish; at the harbor-side,The old gray mariner did reverenceTo who had saved his ship, still weather-tightAs when with prow gay-garlanded she praisedThe hospitable port and pushed to sea."Convoy Balaustion back to Rhodes, for sakeOf her and her Euripides!" laughed he.
Help rose to heart's wish; at the harbor-side,
The old gray mariner did reverence
To who had saved his ship, still weather-tight
As when with prow gay-garlanded she praised
The hospitable port and pushed to sea.
"Convoy Balaustion back to Rhodes, for sake
Of her and her Euripides!" laughed he.
Rhodes,—shall it not be there, my Euthukles,Till this brief trouble of a lifetime end,That solitude—two make so populous!—For food finds memories of the past suffice,Maybe, anticipations,—hope so swells,—Of some great future we, familiar onceWith who so taught, should hail and entertain?He lies now in the little valley, laughedAnd moaned about by those mysterious streams,Boiling and freezing, like the love and hateWhich helped or harmed him through his earthly course.They mix in Arethousa by his grave.The warm spring, traveller, dip thine arms into,Brighten thy brow with! Life detests black cold!
Rhodes,—shall it not be there, my Euthukles,
Till this brief trouble of a lifetime end,
That solitude—two make so populous!—
For food finds memories of the past suffice,
Maybe, anticipations,—hope so swells,—
Of some great future we, familiar once
With who so taught, should hail and entertain?
He lies now in the little valley, laughed
And moaned about by those mysterious streams,
Boiling and freezing, like the love and hate
Which helped or harmed him through his earthly course.
They mix in Arethousa by his grave.
The warm spring, traveller, dip thine arms into,
Brighten thy brow with! Life detests black cold!
I sent the tablets, the psalterion, soRewarded Sicily; the tyrant thereBestowed them worthily in Phoibos' shrine.A gold-graved writing tells—"I also lovedThe poet, Free Athenai cheaply prized—King Dionusios,—Archelaos-like!"
I sent the tablets, the psalterion, so
Rewarded Sicily; the tyrant there
Bestowed them worthily in Phoibos' shrine.
A gold-graved writing tells—"I also loved
The poet, Free Athenai cheaply prized—
King Dionusios,—Archelaos-like!"
And see if young Philemon,—sure one dayTo do good service and be loved himself,—If he too have not made a votive verse!"Grant, in good sooth, our great dead, all the same,Retain their sense, as certain wise men say,I 'd hang myself—to see Euripides!"Hands off, Philemon! nowise hang thyself,But pen the prime plays, labor the right life,And die at good old age as grand men use,—Keeping thee, with that great thought, warm the while,—That he does live, Philemon! Ay, most sure!"He lives!" hark,—waves say, winds sing out the same,And yonder dares the citied ridge of RhodesIts headlong plunge from sky to sea, dispartsNorth bay from south,—each guarded calm, that guestMay enter gladly, blow what wind there will,—Boiled round with breakers, to no other cry!All in one choros,—what the master-wordThey take up?—hark! "There are no gods, no gods!Glory to God—who saves Euripides!"
And see if young Philemon,—sure one day
To do good service and be loved himself,—
If he too have not made a votive verse!
"Grant, in good sooth, our great dead, all the same,
Retain their sense, as certain wise men say,
I 'd hang myself—to see Euripides!"
Hands off, Philemon! nowise hang thyself,
But pen the prime plays, labor the right life,
And die at good old age as grand men use,—
Keeping thee, with that great thought, warm the while,—
That he does live, Philemon! Ay, most sure!
"He lives!" hark,—waves say, winds sing out the same,
And yonder dares the citied ridge of Rhodes
Its headlong plunge from sky to sea, disparts
North bay from south,—each guarded calm, that guest
May enter gladly, blow what wind there will,—
Boiled round with breakers, to no other cry!
All in one choros,—what the master-word
They take up?—hark! "There are no gods, no gods!
Glory to God—who saves Euripides!"