PARRHASIUS.There stood an unsold captive in the mart,A gray-haired and majestical old man,Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,And the last seller from the place had gone,And not a sound was heard but of a dogCrunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,As the faint captive changed his weary feet.He had stood there since morning, and had borneFrom every eye in Athens the cold gazeOf curious scorn. The Jew had taunted himFor an Olynthian slave. The buyer cameAnd roughly struck his palm upon his breast,And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneerPassed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent,He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep,The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threatsOf torture to his children, summoned backThe ebbing blood into his pallid face.'T was evening, and the half-descended sunTipped with a golden fire the many domesOf Athens, and a yellow atmosphereLay rich and dusky in the shaded streetThrough which the captive gazed. He had borne upWith a stout heart that long and weary day,Haughtily patient of his many wrongs,But now he was alone, and from his nerves
PARRHASIUS.
There stood an unsold captive in the mart,A gray-haired and majestical old man,Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,And the last seller from the place had gone,And not a sound was heard but of a dogCrunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,As the faint captive changed his weary feet.He had stood there since morning, and had borneFrom every eye in Athens the cold gazeOf curious scorn. The Jew had taunted himFor an Olynthian slave. The buyer cameAnd roughly struck his palm upon his breast,And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneerPassed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent,He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep,The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threatsOf torture to his children, summoned backThe ebbing blood into his pallid face.
'T was evening, and the half-descended sunTipped with a golden fire the many domesOf Athens, and a yellow atmosphereLay rich and dusky in the shaded streetThrough which the captive gazed. He had borne upWith a stout heart that long and weary day,Haughtily patient of his many wrongs,But now he was alone, and from his nerves
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
From an engraving of the portrait by C. L. Elliott.
The needless strength departed, and he leanedProne on his massy chain, and let his thoughtsThrong on him as they would. Unmarked of himParrhasius at the nearest pillar stood,Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheekFlushed as he measured with a painter's eyeThe moving picture. The abandoned limbs,Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veinsSwollen to purple fulness; the gray hair,Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes;And as a thought of wilder bitternessRose in his memory, his lips grew white,And the fast workings of his bloodless faceTold what a tooth of fire was at his heart.The golden light into the painter's roomStreamed richly, and the hidden colors stoleFrom the dark pictures radiantly forth,And in the soft and dewy atmosphereLike forms and landscapes magical they lay.The walls were hung with armor, and aboutIn the dim corners stood the sculptured formsOf Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,And from the casement soberly awayFell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,And like a veil of filmy mellowness,The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfullyUpon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus—The vulture at his vitals, and the linksOf the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forthWith its far reaching fancy, and with formAnd color clad them, his fine, earnest eyeFlashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curlOf his thin nostril, and his quivering lipWere like the winged god's breathing from his flight."Bring me the captive now!My hand feels skilful, and the shadows liftFrom my waked spirit airily and swift,And I could paint the bowUpon the bended heavens—around me playColors of such divinity to-day."Ha! bind him on his back!Look—as Prometheus in my picture here!Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near!Now—bend him to the rack!Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!And tear agape that healing wound afresh!"So—let him writhe! How longWill he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!What a fine agony works upon his brow!Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!How fearfully he stifles that short moan!Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!"'Pity' thee! So I do!I pity the dumb victim at the altar—But does the robed priest for his pity falter?I'd rack thee though I knewA thousand lives were perishing in thine—What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?"'Hereafter!' Ay—hereafter!A whip to keep a coward to his track!What gave Death ever from his kingdom backTo check the sceptic's laughter?Come from the grave to-morrow with that story,And I may take some softer path to glory."No, no, old man! we dieEven as the flowers, and we shall breathe awayOur life upon the chance wind, even as they!Strain well thy fainting eye—For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,The light of heaven will never reach thee more."Yet there's a deathless name!A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,And like a steadfast planet mount and burn;And though its crown of flameConsumed my brain to ashes as it shone,By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!—"Ay—though it bid me rifleMy heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst—Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—Though it should bid me stifleThe yearning in my throat for my sweet child,And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—"All—I would do it all—Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot,Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!Oh heaven!—but I appallYour heart, old man! forgive—ha! on your livesLet him not faint!—rack him till he revives!"Vain—vain—give o'er! His eyeGlazes apace. He does not feel you now—Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!Gods! if he do not dieBut for one moment—one—till I eclipseConception with the scorn of those calm lips!"Shivering! Hark! he muttersBrokenly now—that was a difficult breath—Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death!Look! how his temple flutters!Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he's dead."How like a mounting devil in the heartRules the unreigned ambition! Let it onceBut play the monarch, and its haughty browGlows with a beauty that bewilders thoughtAnd unthrones peace forever. Putting onThe very pomp of Lucifer, it turnsThe heart to ashes, and with not a springLeft in the bosom for the spirit's lip,We look upon our splendor and forgetThe thirst of which we perish! Yet hath lifeMany a falser idol. There are hopesPromising well; and love-touched dreams for some;And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemesFor gold and pleasure—yet will only thisBalk not the soul—Ambition, only, gives,Even of bitterness, a beaker full!Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,Troubled at best; Love is a lamp unseen,Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken;Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,And Quiet is a hunger never fed;And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose—From all but keen Ambition—will the soulSnatch the first moment of forgetfulnessTo wander like a restless child away.Oh, if there were not better hopes than these—Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame—If the proud wealth flung back upon the heartMust canker in its coffers—if the linksFalsehood hath broken will unite no more—If the deep yearning love, that hath not foundIts like in the cold world, must waste in tears—If truth and fervor and devotedness,Finding no worthy altar, must returnAnd die of their own fulness—if beyondThe grave there is no heaven in whose wide airThe spirit may find room, and in the loveOf whose bright habitants the lavish heartMay spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we!NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
The needless strength departed, and he leanedProne on his massy chain, and let his thoughtsThrong on him as they would. Unmarked of himParrhasius at the nearest pillar stood,Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheekFlushed as he measured with a painter's eyeThe moving picture. The abandoned limbs,Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veinsSwollen to purple fulness; the gray hair,Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes;And as a thought of wilder bitternessRose in his memory, his lips grew white,And the fast workings of his bloodless faceTold what a tooth of fire was at his heart.
The golden light into the painter's roomStreamed richly, and the hidden colors stoleFrom the dark pictures radiantly forth,And in the soft and dewy atmosphereLike forms and landscapes magical they lay.The walls were hung with armor, and aboutIn the dim corners stood the sculptured formsOf Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,And from the casement soberly awayFell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,And like a veil of filmy mellowness,The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfullyUpon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus—The vulture at his vitals, and the linksOf the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forthWith its far reaching fancy, and with formAnd color clad them, his fine, earnest eyeFlashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curlOf his thin nostril, and his quivering lipWere like the winged god's breathing from his flight.
"Bring me the captive now!My hand feels skilful, and the shadows liftFrom my waked spirit airily and swift,And I could paint the bowUpon the bended heavens—around me playColors of such divinity to-day.
"Ha! bind him on his back!Look—as Prometheus in my picture here!Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near!Now—bend him to the rack!Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
"So—let him writhe! How longWill he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!What a fine agony works upon his brow!Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!How fearfully he stifles that short moan!Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
"'Pity' thee! So I do!I pity the dumb victim at the altar—But does the robed priest for his pity falter?I'd rack thee though I knewA thousand lives were perishing in thine—What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
"'Hereafter!' Ay—hereafter!A whip to keep a coward to his track!What gave Death ever from his kingdom backTo check the sceptic's laughter?Come from the grave to-morrow with that story,And I may take some softer path to glory.
"No, no, old man! we dieEven as the flowers, and we shall breathe awayOur life upon the chance wind, even as they!Strain well thy fainting eye—For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
"Yet there's a deathless name!A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,And like a steadfast planet mount and burn;And though its crown of flameConsumed my brain to ashes as it shone,By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!—
"Ay—though it bid me rifleMy heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst—Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—Though it should bid me stifleThe yearning in my throat for my sweet child,And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—
"All—I would do it all—Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot,Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!Oh heaven!—but I appallYour heart, old man! forgive—ha! on your livesLet him not faint!—rack him till he revives!
"Vain—vain—give o'er! His eyeGlazes apace. He does not feel you now—Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!Gods! if he do not dieBut for one moment—one—till I eclipseConception with the scorn of those calm lips!
"Shivering! Hark! he muttersBrokenly now—that was a difficult breath—Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death!Look! how his temple flutters!Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he's dead."
How like a mounting devil in the heartRules the unreigned ambition! Let it onceBut play the monarch, and its haughty browGlows with a beauty that bewilders thoughtAnd unthrones peace forever. Putting onThe very pomp of Lucifer, it turnsThe heart to ashes, and with not a springLeft in the bosom for the spirit's lip,We look upon our splendor and forgetThe thirst of which we perish! Yet hath lifeMany a falser idol. There are hopesPromising well; and love-touched dreams for some;And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemesFor gold and pleasure—yet will only thisBalk not the soul—Ambition, only, gives,Even of bitterness, a beaker full!Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,Troubled at best; Love is a lamp unseen,Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken;Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,And Quiet is a hunger never fed;And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose—From all but keen Ambition—will the soulSnatch the first moment of forgetfulnessTo wander like a restless child away.Oh, if there were not better hopes than these—Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame—If the proud wealth flung back upon the heartMust canker in its coffers—if the linksFalsehood hath broken will unite no more—If the deep yearning love, that hath not foundIts like in the cold world, must waste in tears—If truth and fervor and devotedness,Finding no worthy altar, must returnAnd die of their own fulness—if beyondThe grave there is no heaven in whose wide airThe spirit may find room, and in the loveOf whose bright habitants the lavish heartMay spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we!
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THEBODY OF LUCRETIA.FROM "BRUTUS."Would you know why I summoned you together?Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!She was the mark and model of the time,The mould in which each female face was formed,The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!Fairer than ever was a form createdBy youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,And never-resting thought is all on fire!The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymphWho met old Numa in his hallowed walks,And whispered in his ear her strains divine,Can I conceive beyond her;—the young choirOf vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderfulAmid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds,Which now spring rife from the luxurious compostSpread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,—How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plantsHer father sheltered her, that not a leafWas blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfectionsMight have called back the torpid breast of ageTo long-forgotten rapture; such a mindMight have abashed the boldest libertineAnd turned desire to reverential loveAnd holiest affection! O my countrymen!You all can witness when that she went forthIt was a holiday in Rome; old ageForgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran,And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,"There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies!That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,Torn up by ruthless violence,—gone! gone! gone!Say, would you seek instruction? would ye askWhat ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,Which saw his poisoned brother,—Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia droveO'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge!Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purpleWith human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,The gods themselves, shall justify the cry,And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!And we will be revenged, my countrymen!Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a nameWhich will, when you're revenged, be dearer to himThan all the noblest titles earth can boast.Brutus your king!—No, fellow-citizens!If mad ambition in this guilty frameHad strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,—By all the gods, this dagger which I holdShould rip it out, though it intwined my heart.Now take the body up. Bear it before usTo Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,And in the blazing conflagration rearA pile, for these chaste relics, that shall sendHer soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THEBODY OF LUCRETIA.FROM "BRUTUS."
Would you know why I summoned you together?Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!She was the mark and model of the time,The mould in which each female face was formed,The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!Fairer than ever was a form createdBy youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,And never-resting thought is all on fire!The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymphWho met old Numa in his hallowed walks,And whispered in his ear her strains divine,Can I conceive beyond her;—the young choirOf vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderfulAmid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds,Which now spring rife from the luxurious compostSpread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,—How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plantsHer father sheltered her, that not a leafWas blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfectionsMight have called back the torpid breast of ageTo long-forgotten rapture; such a mindMight have abashed the boldest libertineAnd turned desire to reverential loveAnd holiest affection! O my countrymen!You all can witness when that she went forthIt was a holiday in Rome; old ageForgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran,And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,"There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies!That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,Torn up by ruthless violence,—gone! gone! gone!Say, would you seek instruction? would ye askWhat ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,Which saw his poisoned brother,—Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia droveO'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge!Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purpleWith human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,The gods themselves, shall justify the cry,And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!And we will be revenged, my countrymen!Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a nameWhich will, when you're revenged, be dearer to himThan all the noblest titles earth can boast.Brutus your king!—No, fellow-citizens!If mad ambition in this guilty frameHad strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,—By all the gods, this dagger which I holdShould rip it out, though it intwined my heart.Now take the body up. Bear it before usTo Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,And in the blazing conflagration rearA pile, for these chaste relics, that shall sendHer soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
THE ROMAN FATHER.FROM "VIRGINIA"Straightway Virginius led the maidA little space aside,To where the reeking shambles stood,Piled up with horn and hide;Close to yon low dark archway,Where, in a crimson flood,Leaps down to the great sewerThe gurgling stream of blood.Hard by, a flesher on a blockHad laid his whittle down:Virginius caught the whittle up,And hid it in his gown.And then his eyes grew very dim,And his throat began to swell,And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake,"Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!"O, how I loved my darling!Though stern I sometimes be,To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,—Who could be so to thee?And how my darling loved me!How glad she was to hearMy footstep on the thresholdWhen I came back last year!"And how she danced with pleasureTo see my civic crown,And took my sword, and hung it up,And brought me forth my gown!Now, all those things are over,—Yes, all thy pretty ways,Thy needlework, thy prattle,Thy snatches of old lays;"And none will grieve when I go forth,Or smile when I return,Or watch beside the old man's bed,Or weep upon his urn.The house that was the happiestWithin the Roman walls,The house that envied not the wealthOf Capua's marble halls,"Now, for the brightness of thy smile,Must have eternal gloom,And for the music of thy voice,The silence of the tomb.The time is come! See how he pointsHis eager hand this way!See how his eyes gloat on thy grief,Like a kite's upon the prey!"With all his wit, he little deemsThat, spurned, betrayed, bereft,Thy father hath, in his despair,One fearful refuge left.He little deems that in this handI clutch what still can saveThy gentle youth from taunts and blows,The portion of the slave;"Yea, and from nameless evil,That passes taunt and blow,—Foul outrage which thou knowest not,Which thou shalt never know.Then clasp me round the neck once more,And give me one more kiss;And now, mine own dear little girl,There is no way but this."With that he lifted high the steel,And smote her in the side,And in her blood she sank to earth,And with one sob she died.Then, for a little moment,All people held their breath;And through the crowded forumWas stillness as of death;And in another momentBrake forth, from one and all,A cry as if the VolsciansWere coming o'er the wall.Some with averted facesShrieking fled home amain;Some ran to call a leech; and someRan to lift up the slain.Some felt her lips and little wrist,If life might there be found;And some tore up their garments fast,And strove to stanch the wound.In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched;For never truer blowThat good right arm had dealt in fightAgainst a Volscian foe.When Appius Claudius saw that deed,He shuddered and sank down,And hid his face some little spaceWith the corner of his gown;Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes,Virginius tottered nigh,And stood before the judgment-seat,And held the knife on high."O dwellers in the nether gloom,Avengers of the slain,By this dear blood I cry to youDo right between us twain;And even as Appius ClaudiusHath dealt by me and mine,Deal you by Appius Claudius,And all the Claudian line!"So spake the slayer of his child,And turned and went his way;But first he cast one haggard glanceTo where the body lay,And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan,And then, with-steadfast feet,Strode right across the market-placeUnto the Sacred Street.Then up sprang Appius Claudius:"Stop him; alive or dead!Ten thousand pounds of copperTo the man who brings his head."He looked upon his clients;But none would work his will.He looked upon his lictors;But they trembled, and stood still.And as Virginius through the pressHis way in silence cleft,Ever the mighty multitudeFell back to right and left.And he hath passed in safetyOnto his woful home,And there ta'en horse to tell the campWhat deeds are done in Rome.THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.
THE ROMAN FATHER.FROM "VIRGINIA"
Straightway Virginius led the maidA little space aside,To where the reeking shambles stood,Piled up with horn and hide;Close to yon low dark archway,Where, in a crimson flood,Leaps down to the great sewerThe gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a blockHad laid his whittle down:Virginius caught the whittle up,And hid it in his gown.And then his eyes grew very dim,And his throat began to swell,And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake,"Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!
"O, how I loved my darling!Though stern I sometimes be,To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,—Who could be so to thee?And how my darling loved me!How glad she was to hearMy footstep on the thresholdWhen I came back last year!
"And how she danced with pleasureTo see my civic crown,And took my sword, and hung it up,And brought me forth my gown!Now, all those things are over,—Yes, all thy pretty ways,Thy needlework, thy prattle,Thy snatches of old lays;
"And none will grieve when I go forth,Or smile when I return,Or watch beside the old man's bed,Or weep upon his urn.The house that was the happiestWithin the Roman walls,The house that envied not the wealthOf Capua's marble halls,
"Now, for the brightness of thy smile,Must have eternal gloom,And for the music of thy voice,The silence of the tomb.The time is come! See how he pointsHis eager hand this way!See how his eyes gloat on thy grief,Like a kite's upon the prey!
"With all his wit, he little deemsThat, spurned, betrayed, bereft,Thy father hath, in his despair,One fearful refuge left.He little deems that in this handI clutch what still can saveThy gentle youth from taunts and blows,The portion of the slave;
"Yea, and from nameless evil,That passes taunt and blow,—Foul outrage which thou knowest not,Which thou shalt never know.Then clasp me round the neck once more,And give me one more kiss;And now, mine own dear little girl,There is no way but this."
With that he lifted high the steel,And smote her in the side,And in her blood she sank to earth,And with one sob she died.Then, for a little moment,All people held their breath;And through the crowded forumWas stillness as of death;
And in another momentBrake forth, from one and all,A cry as if the VolsciansWere coming o'er the wall.Some with averted facesShrieking fled home amain;Some ran to call a leech; and someRan to lift up the slain.
Some felt her lips and little wrist,If life might there be found;And some tore up their garments fast,And strove to stanch the wound.In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched;For never truer blowThat good right arm had dealt in fightAgainst a Volscian foe.
When Appius Claudius saw that deed,He shuddered and sank down,And hid his face some little spaceWith the corner of his gown;Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes,Virginius tottered nigh,And stood before the judgment-seat,And held the knife on high.
"O dwellers in the nether gloom,Avengers of the slain,By this dear blood I cry to youDo right between us twain;And even as Appius ClaudiusHath dealt by me and mine,Deal you by Appius Claudius,And all the Claudian line!"
So spake the slayer of his child,And turned and went his way;But first he cast one haggard glanceTo where the body lay,And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan,And then, with-steadfast feet,Strode right across the market-placeUnto the Sacred Street.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius:"Stop him; alive or dead!Ten thousand pounds of copperTo the man who brings his head."He looked upon his clients;But none would work his will.He looked upon his lictors;But they trembled, and stood still.
And as Virginius through the pressHis way in silence cleft,Ever the mighty multitudeFell back to right and left.And he hath passed in safetyOnto his woful home,And there ta'en horse to tell the campWhat deeds are done in Rome.
THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.
MARK ANTONY, OVER THE BODYOF CÆSAR.FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR," ACT III. SC. 2.Antony.—O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low?Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,Shrunk to this little measure?—Fare thee well.—(To the people.)Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interrèd with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault;And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,(For Brutus is an honorable man;So are they all, all honorable men,)Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me:But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransom did the general coffers fill:Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.You all did love him once,—not without cause!What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason!—Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause till it come back to me.————
MARK ANTONY, OVER THE BODYOF CÆSAR.FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR," ACT III. SC. 2.
Antony.—O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low?Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,Shrunk to this little measure?—Fare thee well.—
(To the people.)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interrèd with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault;And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,(For Brutus is an honorable man;So are they all, all honorable men,)Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me:But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransom did the general coffers fill:Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know.You all did love him once,—not without cause!What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason!—Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause till it come back to me.————
But yesterday, the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world! now lies he thereAnd none so poor to do him reverence.O masters! if I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men:I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,Than I will wrong such honorable men.But here 's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,—I found it in his closet,—'tis his will.Let but the commons hear this testament,(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,And dip their napkins in his sacred blood:Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,Unto their issue.4 Citizen.—We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.Citizens.—The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar's will.Antony.—Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad:'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs,For if you should, O, what would come of it!4 Citizen.—Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony;You shall read us the will,—Cæsar's will.Antony.—Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.I fear I wrong the honorable menWhose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it.4 Citizen.—They were traitors: honorable men!Citizens.—The will! the testament!2 Citizen.—They were villains, murderers: the will!read the will!Antony.—You will compel me, then, to read the will!Then make a ring about the corse of Cæsar,And let me show you him that made the will.Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?Citizens.—Come down.Antony.—Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.Citizens.—Stand back; room; bear back.Antony.—If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle: I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on;'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent;That day he overcame the Nervii:—Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:See what a rent the envious Casca made:Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey's statua,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity: these are gracious drops.Kind souls, what, weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.————
But yesterday, the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world! now lies he thereAnd none so poor to do him reverence.O masters! if I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men:I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,Than I will wrong such honorable men.But here 's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,—I found it in his closet,—'tis his will.Let but the commons hear this testament,(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,And dip their napkins in his sacred blood:Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,Unto their issue.
4 Citizen.—We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.
Citizens.—The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar's will.
Antony.—Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad:'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs,For if you should, O, what would come of it!
4 Citizen.—Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony;You shall read us the will,—Cæsar's will.
Antony.—Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.I fear I wrong the honorable menWhose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it.
4 Citizen.—They were traitors: honorable men!
Citizens.—The will! the testament!
2 Citizen.—They were villains, murderers: the will!read the will!
Antony.—You will compel me, then, to read the will!Then make a ring about the corse of Cæsar,And let me show you him that made the will.Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
Citizens.—Come down.
Antony.—Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
Citizens.—Stand back; room; bear back.
Antony.—If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle: I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on;'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent;That day he overcame the Nervii:—Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:See what a rent the envious Casca made:Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey's statua,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity: these are gracious drops.Kind souls, what, weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.————
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny.They that have done this deed are honorable;—What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,That made them do it;—they are wise and honorable,And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;I am no orator, as Brutus is;But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,That love my friend; and that they know full wellThat gave me public leave to speak of him:For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;I tell you that which you yourselves do know;Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar, that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.All.—We'll mutiny.1 Citizen.—We'll burn the house of Brutus.3 Citizen.—Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.Antony.—Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.All.—Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony.Antony.—Why, friends, you go to do you know not what.Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves?Alas, you know not!—I must tell you, then.You have forgot the will I told you of.All.—Most true;—the will!—let's stay and hear the will.Antony.—Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal:—To every Roman citizen he gives,To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.2 Citizen.—Most noble Cæsar!—we'll revenge his death.3 Citizen.—O royal Cæsar!Antony.—Hear me with patience.Citizens.—Peace, ho!Antony.—Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,His private arbors, and new-planted orchardsOn this side Tiber; he hath left them you,And to your heirs forever,—common pleasures,To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?1 Citizen.—Never, never!—Come away, away!We 'll burn his body in the holy place,And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.Take up the body......[Exeunt Citizens, with the body.]Antony.—Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,Take thou what course thou wilt.SHAKESPEARE.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny.They that have done this deed are honorable;—What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,That made them do it;—they are wise and honorable,And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;I am no orator, as Brutus is;But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,That love my friend; and that they know full wellThat gave me public leave to speak of him:For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;I tell you that which you yourselves do know;Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar, that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
All.—We'll mutiny.
1 Citizen.—We'll burn the house of Brutus.
3 Citizen.—Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.
Antony.—Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.
All.—Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony.
Antony.—Why, friends, you go to do you know not what.Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves?Alas, you know not!—I must tell you, then.You have forgot the will I told you of.
All.—Most true;—the will!—let's stay and hear the will.
Antony.—Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal:—To every Roman citizen he gives,To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
2 Citizen.—Most noble Cæsar!—we'll revenge his death.
3 Citizen.—O royal Cæsar!
Antony.—Hear me with patience.
Citizens.—Peace, ho!
Antony.—Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,His private arbors, and new-planted orchardsOn this side Tiber; he hath left them you,And to your heirs forever,—common pleasures,To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?
1 Citizen.—Never, never!—Come away, away!We 'll burn his body in the holy place,And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.Take up the body......[Exeunt Citizens, with the body.]
Antony.—Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,Take thou what course thou wilt.
SHAKESPEARE.
THE SACK OF THE CITY.Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above their wrecks.Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie,While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel.Died the pale mothers;—and the virgins, from their arms,O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charmsAt our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of death!Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all things must bend!As the priests prayed, the sword stopped their accursèd breath,—Vainly their sacred book for shield did they extend.Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steelStill drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian hound.To kiss thy sandal's foot, O King, thy people kneel,With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle bound.From the French ofVICTOR-MARIE HUGO.
THE SACK OF THE CITY.
Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above their wrecks.
Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie,While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel.
Died the pale mothers;—and the virgins, from their arms,O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charmsAt our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.
Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of death!Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all things must bend!As the priests prayed, the sword stopped their accursèd breath,—Vainly their sacred book for shield did they extend.
Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steelStill drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian hound.To kiss thy sandal's foot, O King, thy people kneel,With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle bound.
From the French ofVICTOR-MARIE HUGO.
THE SLAYING OF SOHRAB.FROM"SOHRAB AND RUSTUM."He spake; and Rustum answered not, but hurledHis spear. Down from the shoulder, down it came—As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk,That long has towered in the airy clouds,Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come,And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spearHissed, and went quivering down into the sand,Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threwIn turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. Sharp rangThe iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear.And Rustum seized his club, which none but heCould wield—an unlapped trunk it was, and huge,Still rough; like those which men, in treeless plains,To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers,Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high upBy their dark springs, the wind in winter-timeHas made in Himalayan forests wrack,And strewn the channels with torn boughs—so hugeThe club which Rustum lifted now, and struckOne stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club cameThundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand.And Rustum followed his own blow, and fellTo his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand.And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword,And pierced the mighty Rustum while he layDizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword;But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:—"Thou strik'st too hard; that club of thine will floatUpon the summer floods, and not my bones.But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I.No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.Thou sayest thou art not Rustum; be it so.Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?Boy as I am, I have seen battles too;Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,And heard their hollow roar of dying men;But never was my heart thus touched before.Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart?O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears,And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,And pledge each other in red wine, like friends;And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds.There are enough foes in the Persian hostWhom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thouMay'st fight: fight them, when they confront thy spear.But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!"He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had risen,And stood erect, trembling with rage. His clubHe left to lie, but had regained his spear,Whose fiery point now in his mailed right handBlazed bright and baleful—like that autumn star,The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiledHis stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms.His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and twice his voiceWas choked with rage. At last these words broke way:—"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!Fight! Let me hear thy hateful voice no more!Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens nowWith Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;But on the Oxus sands, and in the danceOf battle, and with me, who make no playOf war. I fight it out, and hand to hand.Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine!Remember all thy valor; try thy feintsAnd cunning; all the pity I had is gone;Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts,With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles."He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,And he too drew his sword. At once they rushedTogether; as two eagles on one preyCome rushing down together from the clouds,One from the east, one from the west. Their shieldsDashed with a clang together; and a dinRose, such as that the sinewy woodcuttersMake often in the forest's heart at morn,Of hewing axes, crashing trees; such blowsRustum and Sohrab on each other hailed.And you would say that sun and stars took partIn that unnatural conflict; for a cloudGrew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sunOver the fighters' heads; and a wind roseUnder their feet, and moaning swept the plain,And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair.In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone;For both the on-looking hosts on either handStood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyesAnd laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shieldWhich Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spearRent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin:And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan.Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helmNor clove its steel quite through; but all the crestHe shore away; and that proud horse-hair plume,Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust;And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloomGrew blacker; thunder rumbled in the air,And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse,Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry.No horse's cry was that, most like the roarOf some pained desert lion, who all dayHas trailed the hunter's javelin in his side,And comes at night to die upon the sand.The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for fear;And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream.But Sohrab heard, and quailed not—but rushed on,And struck again; and again Rustum bowedHis head. But this time all the blade, like glass,Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,And in his hand the hilt remained alone.Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyesGlared, and he shook on high his menacing spear,And shouted "Rustum!" Sohrab heard that shout,And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step,And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form;And then he stood bewildered; and he droppedHis covering shield, and the spear pierced his side.He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground.And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell,And the bright sun broke forth, and melted allThe cloud; and the two armies saw the pair—Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand.Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began:—"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to killA Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent;Or else that the great Rustum would come downHimself to fight, and that thy wiles would moveHis heart to take a gift, and let thee go.And then all the Tartar host would praiseThy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame,To glad thy father in his weak old age.Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man!Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be,Than to thy friends, and to thy father old."And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied:—"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain.Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.For were I matched with ten such men as thou,And I were he who till to-day I was,They should be lying here, I standing there.But that belovèd name unnerved my arm—That name, and something, I confess, in thee,Which troubles all my heart, and made my shieldFall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe.And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate.But hear thou this, fierce man—tremble to hear!The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!"My father, whom I seek through all the world,He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!"————So Rustum knew not his own loss; but stoodOver his dying son, and knew him not.But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said:—"What prate is this of fathers and revenge?The mighty Rustum never had a son."And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:—"Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I.Surely the news will one day reach his ear—Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;And pierce him like a stab, and make him leapTo arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee—Fierce man, bethink thee—for an only son!What will that grief, what will that vengeance be!Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen!Yet him I pity not so much, but her,My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwellsWith that old king, her father, who grows grayWith age, and rules over the valiant Koords.Her most I pity, who no more will seeSohrab returning from the Tartar camp,With spoils and honor, when the war is done,But a dark rumor will be bruited up,From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;And then will that defenceless woman learnThat Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more;But that in battle with a nameless foe,By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain."————And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:"O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a sonWhom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved!Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else menHave told thee false—thou art not Rustum's son.For Rustum had no son. One child he had—But one—a girl; who with her mother nowPlies some light female task, nor dreams of us;Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war."But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for nowThe anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce,And he desired to draw forth the steel,And let the blood flow free, and so to die.But first he would convince his stubborn foe;And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:"Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words?Truth sits upon the lips of dying men;And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bearThat seal which Rustum to my mother gave,That she might prick it on the babe she bore."He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks;And his knees tottered; and he smote his handAgainst his breast, his heavy mailèd hand,That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud;And to his heart he pressed the other hand,And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:"Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie.If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son."Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosedHis belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,And showed a sign in faint vermilion pointsPricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin,Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,An emperor's gift; at early morn he paints,And all day long; and, when night comes, the lampLights up his studious forehead and thin hands:So delicately pricked the sign appearedOn Sohrab's arm—the sign of Rustum's seal.It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal,Rustum's great father, whom they left to die,A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks,Him that kind creature found and reared and loved.Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm,And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes,And then he touched it with his hand and said:"How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper signOf Rustum's son, or of some other man's?"He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stoodSpeechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry—"O, boy—thy father!"—and his voice choked there,And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes,And his head swam, and he sank down to earth.But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and castHis arms about his neck, and kissed his lips.And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks,Trying to call him back to life. And lifeCame back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,And they stood wide with horror; and he seizedIn both his hands the dust which lay around,And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair—His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms;And strong, convulsive groanings shook his breast,And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his swordTo draw it, and for ever let life out.But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands;And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said:"Father, forbear! for I but meet to-dayThe doom that at my birth was written downIn heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand.Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too,I know it. But fate trod those promptings downUnder its iron heel; fate, fate engagedThe strife, and hurled me on my father's spear.But let us speak no more of this—I findMy father; let me feel that I have found.Come, sit beside me on this sand, and takeMy head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,And wash them with thy tears, and say, 'My son!'Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life,And swift; for like the lightning to this fieldI came, and like the wind I go away—Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.But it was writ in heaven that this should be."So said he: and his voice released the heartOf Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he castHis arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud,And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hostsWhen they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse,With his head bowing to the ground, and maneSweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe,First to the one, then to the other movedHis head, as if inquiring what their griefMight mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand.But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feetShould then have rotted on thy nimble joints,When first they bore thy master to this field."But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said:"Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days,My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed—My terrible father's terrible horse! and saidThat I should one day find thy lord and thee.Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane.O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;For thou hast gone where I shall never go,And snuffed the breezes of my father's home,And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan,And seen the river of Helmund, and the lakeOf Zirrah; and the aged Zal himselfHas often stroked thy neck, and given thee food—Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine—And said—'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' But IHave never known my grandsire's furrowed face,Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan,Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream;But lodged among my father's foes, and seenAfrasiab's cities only, Samarcand,Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunkThe desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend,Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream—The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die."And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied:"Oh that its waves were flowing over me!Oh that I saw its grains of yellow siltRoll tumbling in the current o'er my head!"And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied:"Desire not that, my father! Thou must live;For some are born to do great deeds, and live;As some are born to be obscured, and die.Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,And reap a second glory in thine age;Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.But come! thou seest this great host of menWhich follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!Let me entreat for them—what have they done?They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star.Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,But carry me with thee to Seïstan,And place me on a bed, and mourn for me—Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends.And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,And heap a stately mound above my bones,And plant a far-seen pillar over all;That so the passing horseman on the wasteMay see my tomb a great way off, and say:Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there,Whom his great father did in ignorance kill—And I be not forgotten in my grave."And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:"Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,So shall it be; for I will burn my tents,And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,And carry thee away to Seïstan,And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,And heap a stately mound above thy bones,And plant a far-seen pillar over all;And men shall not forget thee in thy grave;And I will spare thy host—yea, let them go—Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.What should I do with slaying any more?For would that all whom I have ever slainMight be once more alive—my bitterest foes,And they who were called champions in their time,And through whose death I won that fame I have—And I were nothing but a common man,A poor, mean soldier, and without renown;So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!Or rather, would that I, even I myself,Might now be lying on this bloody sand,Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine.Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou;And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan;And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;And say—O son, I weep thee not too sore,For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!—But now in blood and battles was my youth,And full of blood and battles is my age;And I shall never end this life of blood."Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied:—"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man!But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now,Not yet. But thou shalt have it on that dayWhen thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship,Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo,Returning home over the salt, blue sea,From laying thy dear master in his grave."And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and said:—"Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure."He spoke: and Sohrab smiled on him, and tookThe spear, and drew it from his side, and easedHis wound's imperious anguish. But the bloodCame welling from the open gash, and lifeFlowed with the stream; all down his cold white sideThe crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled—Like the soiled tissue of white violetsLeft, freshly gathered, on their native bankBy romping children, whom their nurses callFrom the hot fields at noon. His head drooped low;His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay—White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame,Convulsed him back to life, he opened them,And fixed them feebly on his father's face.Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbsUnwillingly the spirit fled away,Regretting the warm mansion which it left,And youth and bloom, and this delightful world.So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead.And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloakDown o'er his face, and sate by his dead son.As those black granite pillars, once high-rearedBy Jemshid in Persepolis, to bearHis house, now, mid their broken flights of steps,Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side—So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.And night came down over the solemn waste,And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night,Crept from the Oxus.MATTHEW ARNOLD.
THE SLAYING OF SOHRAB.FROM"SOHRAB AND RUSTUM."
He spake; and Rustum answered not, but hurledHis spear. Down from the shoulder, down it came—As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk,That long has towered in the airy clouds,Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come,And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spearHissed, and went quivering down into the sand,Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threwIn turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. Sharp rangThe iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear.And Rustum seized his club, which none but heCould wield—an unlapped trunk it was, and huge,Still rough; like those which men, in treeless plains,To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers,Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high upBy their dark springs, the wind in winter-timeHas made in Himalayan forests wrack,And strewn the channels with torn boughs—so hugeThe club which Rustum lifted now, and struckOne stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club cameThundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand.And Rustum followed his own blow, and fellTo his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand.And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword,And pierced the mighty Rustum while he layDizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword;But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:—"Thou strik'st too hard; that club of thine will floatUpon the summer floods, and not my bones.But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I.No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.Thou sayest thou art not Rustum; be it so.Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?Boy as I am, I have seen battles too;Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,And heard their hollow roar of dying men;But never was my heart thus touched before.Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart?O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears,And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,And pledge each other in red wine, like friends;And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds.There are enough foes in the Persian hostWhom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thouMay'st fight: fight them, when they confront thy spear.But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!"He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had risen,And stood erect, trembling with rage. His clubHe left to lie, but had regained his spear,Whose fiery point now in his mailed right handBlazed bright and baleful—like that autumn star,The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiledHis stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms.His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and twice his voiceWas choked with rage. At last these words broke way:—"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!Fight! Let me hear thy hateful voice no more!Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens nowWith Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;But on the Oxus sands, and in the danceOf battle, and with me, who make no playOf war. I fight it out, and hand to hand.Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine!Remember all thy valor; try thy feintsAnd cunning; all the pity I had is gone;Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts,With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles."He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,And he too drew his sword. At once they rushedTogether; as two eagles on one preyCome rushing down together from the clouds,One from the east, one from the west. Their shieldsDashed with a clang together; and a dinRose, such as that the sinewy woodcuttersMake often in the forest's heart at morn,Of hewing axes, crashing trees; such blowsRustum and Sohrab on each other hailed.And you would say that sun and stars took partIn that unnatural conflict; for a cloudGrew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sunOver the fighters' heads; and a wind roseUnder their feet, and moaning swept the plain,And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair.In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone;For both the on-looking hosts on either handStood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyesAnd laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shieldWhich Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spearRent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin:And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan.Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helmNor clove its steel quite through; but all the crestHe shore away; and that proud horse-hair plume,Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust;And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloomGrew blacker; thunder rumbled in the air,And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse,Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry.No horse's cry was that, most like the roarOf some pained desert lion, who all dayHas trailed the hunter's javelin in his side,And comes at night to die upon the sand.The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for fear;And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream.But Sohrab heard, and quailed not—but rushed on,And struck again; and again Rustum bowedHis head. But this time all the blade, like glass,Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,And in his hand the hilt remained alone.Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyesGlared, and he shook on high his menacing spear,And shouted "Rustum!" Sohrab heard that shout,And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step,And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form;And then he stood bewildered; and he droppedHis covering shield, and the spear pierced his side.He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground.And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell,And the bright sun broke forth, and melted allThe cloud; and the two armies saw the pair—Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand.Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began:—"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to killA Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent;Or else that the great Rustum would come downHimself to fight, and that thy wiles would moveHis heart to take a gift, and let thee go.And then all the Tartar host would praiseThy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame,To glad thy father in his weak old age.Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man!Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be,Than to thy friends, and to thy father old."And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied:—"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain.Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.For were I matched with ten such men as thou,And I were he who till to-day I was,They should be lying here, I standing there.But that belovèd name unnerved my arm—That name, and something, I confess, in thee,Which troubles all my heart, and made my shieldFall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe.And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate.But hear thou this, fierce man—tremble to hear!The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!"My father, whom I seek through all the world,He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!"————
So Rustum knew not his own loss; but stoodOver his dying son, and knew him not.But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said:—"What prate is this of fathers and revenge?The mighty Rustum never had a son."And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:—"Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I.Surely the news will one day reach his ear—Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;And pierce him like a stab, and make him leapTo arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee—Fierce man, bethink thee—for an only son!What will that grief, what will that vengeance be!Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen!Yet him I pity not so much, but her,My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwellsWith that old king, her father, who grows grayWith age, and rules over the valiant Koords.Her most I pity, who no more will seeSohrab returning from the Tartar camp,With spoils and honor, when the war is done,But a dark rumor will be bruited up,From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;And then will that defenceless woman learnThat Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more;But that in battle with a nameless foe,By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain."————
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:"O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a sonWhom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved!Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else menHave told thee false—thou art not Rustum's son.For Rustum had no son. One child he had—But one—a girl; who with her mother nowPlies some light female task, nor dreams of us;Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war."But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for nowThe anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce,And he desired to draw forth the steel,And let the blood flow free, and so to die.But first he would convince his stubborn foe;And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:"Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words?Truth sits upon the lips of dying men;And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bearThat seal which Rustum to my mother gave,That she might prick it on the babe she bore."He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks;And his knees tottered; and he smote his handAgainst his breast, his heavy mailèd hand,That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud;And to his heart he pressed the other hand,And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:"Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie.If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son."Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosedHis belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,And showed a sign in faint vermilion pointsPricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin,Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,An emperor's gift; at early morn he paints,And all day long; and, when night comes, the lampLights up his studious forehead and thin hands:So delicately pricked the sign appearedOn Sohrab's arm—the sign of Rustum's seal.It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal,Rustum's great father, whom they left to die,A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks,Him that kind creature found and reared and loved.Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm,And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes,And then he touched it with his hand and said:"How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper signOf Rustum's son, or of some other man's?"He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stoodSpeechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry—"O, boy—thy father!"—and his voice choked there,And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes,And his head swam, and he sank down to earth.But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and castHis arms about his neck, and kissed his lips.And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks,Trying to call him back to life. And lifeCame back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,And they stood wide with horror; and he seizedIn both his hands the dust which lay around,And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair—His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms;And strong, convulsive groanings shook his breast,And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his swordTo draw it, and for ever let life out.But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands;And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said:"Father, forbear! for I but meet to-dayThe doom that at my birth was written downIn heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand.Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too,I know it. But fate trod those promptings downUnder its iron heel; fate, fate engagedThe strife, and hurled me on my father's spear.But let us speak no more of this—I findMy father; let me feel that I have found.Come, sit beside me on this sand, and takeMy head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,And wash them with thy tears, and say, 'My son!'Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life,And swift; for like the lightning to this fieldI came, and like the wind I go away—Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.But it was writ in heaven that this should be."So said he: and his voice released the heartOf Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he castHis arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud,And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hostsWhen they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse,With his head bowing to the ground, and maneSweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe,First to the one, then to the other movedHis head, as if inquiring what their griefMight mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand.But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feetShould then have rotted on thy nimble joints,When first they bore thy master to this field."But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said:"Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days,My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed—My terrible father's terrible horse! and saidThat I should one day find thy lord and thee.Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane.O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;For thou hast gone where I shall never go,And snuffed the breezes of my father's home,And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan,And seen the river of Helmund, and the lakeOf Zirrah; and the aged Zal himselfHas often stroked thy neck, and given thee food—Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine—And said—'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' But IHave never known my grandsire's furrowed face,Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan,Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream;But lodged among my father's foes, and seenAfrasiab's cities only, Samarcand,Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunkThe desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend,Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream—The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die."And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied:"Oh that its waves were flowing over me!Oh that I saw its grains of yellow siltRoll tumbling in the current o'er my head!"And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied:"Desire not that, my father! Thou must live;For some are born to do great deeds, and live;As some are born to be obscured, and die.Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,And reap a second glory in thine age;Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.But come! thou seest this great host of menWhich follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!Let me entreat for them—what have they done?They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star.Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,But carry me with thee to Seïstan,And place me on a bed, and mourn for me—Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends.And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,And heap a stately mound above my bones,And plant a far-seen pillar over all;That so the passing horseman on the wasteMay see my tomb a great way off, and say:Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there,Whom his great father did in ignorance kill—And I be not forgotten in my grave."And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:"Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,So shall it be; for I will burn my tents,And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,And carry thee away to Seïstan,And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,And heap a stately mound above thy bones,And plant a far-seen pillar over all;And men shall not forget thee in thy grave;And I will spare thy host—yea, let them go—Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.What should I do with slaying any more?For would that all whom I have ever slainMight be once more alive—my bitterest foes,And they who were called champions in their time,And through whose death I won that fame I have—And I were nothing but a common man,A poor, mean soldier, and without renown;So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!Or rather, would that I, even I myself,Might now be lying on this bloody sand,Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine.Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou;And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan;And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;And say—O son, I weep thee not too sore,For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!—But now in blood and battles was my youth,And full of blood and battles is my age;And I shall never end this life of blood."Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied:—"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man!But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now,Not yet. But thou shalt have it on that dayWhen thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship,Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo,Returning home over the salt, blue sea,From laying thy dear master in his grave."And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and said:—"Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure."He spoke: and Sohrab smiled on him, and tookThe spear, and drew it from his side, and easedHis wound's imperious anguish. But the bloodCame welling from the open gash, and lifeFlowed with the stream; all down his cold white sideThe crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled—Like the soiled tissue of white violetsLeft, freshly gathered, on their native bankBy romping children, whom their nurses callFrom the hot fields at noon. His head drooped low;His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay—White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame,Convulsed him back to life, he opened them,And fixed them feebly on his father's face.Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbsUnwillingly the spirit fled away,Regretting the warm mansion which it left,And youth and bloom, and this delightful world.So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead.And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloakDown o'er his face, and sate by his dead son.As those black granite pillars, once high-rearedBy Jemshid in Persepolis, to bearHis house, now, mid their broken flights of steps,Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side—So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.And night came down over the solemn waste,And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night,Crept from the Oxus.
MATTHEW ARNOLD.