Chapter LXXXV: Epilogue: FIRST SPEAKER, as David (26)

_Her._ Ha,--
In breath indeed I am--see things I ought--
Æther, and earth, and these the sunbeam-shafts!
But then--some billow and strange whirl of sense
I have fallen into! and breathings hot I breathe--
Smoked upwards, not the steady work from lungs.
See now! Why, bound--at moorings like a ship,--
About my young breast and young arm, to this
Stone piece of carved work broke in half, do I
Sit, have my rest in corpses' neighborhood?
Strewn on the ground are wingèd darts, and bow
Which played, my brother-shieldman, held in hand,--
Guarded my side, and got my guardianship!
I cannot have gone back to Haides--twice.
Begun Eurustheus' race I ended thence?
But I nor see the Sisupheian stone,
Nor Plouton, nor Demeter's sceptred maid!
I am struck witless sure! Where can I be?
Ho there! what friend of mine is near or far--
Some one to cure me of bewilderment?
For naught familiar do I recognize.

_Amph._ Old friends, shall I go close to these my woes?

_Cho._ Ay, and let me too,--nor desert your ills!

_Her._ Father, why weepest thou, and buriest up
Thine eyes, aloof so from thy much-loved son?

_Amph._ O child!--for, faring badly, mine thou art!

_Her._ Do I fare somehow ill, that tears should flow?

_Amph._ Ill,--would cause any god who bore to groan!

_Her._ That's boasting, truly! still, you state no hap.

_Amph._ For, thyself seest--if in thy wits again.

_Her._ Heyday! How riddlingly that hint returns!

_Amph._ Well, I am trying--art thou sane and sound!

_Her._ Say if thou lay'st aught strange to my life's charge!

_Amph._ If thou no more art Haides-drunk,--I tell!

_Her._ I bring to mind no drunkenness of soul.

_Amph._ Shall I unbind my son, old men, or what?

_Her._ And who was binder, tell!--not _that_, my deed!

_Amph._ Mind that much of misfortune--pass the rest!

_Her._ Enough! from silence, I nor learn nor wish.

_Amph._ O Zeus, dost witness here throned Heré's work?

_Her._ But have I had to bear aught hostile thence?

_Amph._ Let be the goddess--bury thine own guilt!

_Her._ Undone! What is the sorrow thou wilt say?

_Amph._ Look! See the ruins of thy children here!

_Her._ Ah me! What sight do wretched I behold?

_Amph._ Unfair fight, son, this fight thou fastenedst
On thine own children!

_Her._ What fight? Who slew these?

_Amph._ Thou and thy bow, and who of gods was cause.

_Her._ How say'st? What did I? Ill-announcing sire!

_Amph._ --Go mad! Thou askest a sad clearing up!

_Her._ And am I also murderer of my wife?

_Amph._ All the work here was just one hand's work--thine!

_Her._ Ai ai--for groans encompass me--a cloud!

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

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

_Amph._ I know just one thing--all 's a woe with thee!

_Her._ But where did the craze catch me, where destroy?

_Amph._ When thou didst cleanse hands at the altar-flame.

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

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

_Amph._ O thou, who sway'st the olive-bearing height!--

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

_Amph._ Dire sufferings have we suffered from the gods.

_Thes._ These boys,--who are they, thou art weeping o'er?

_Amph._ He gave them birth, indeed, my hapless son!
Begot, but killed them--dared their bloody death.

_Thes._ Speak no such horror!

_Amph._ Would I might obey!

_Thes._ O teller of dread tidings!

_Amph._ Lost are we--
Lost--flown away from life!

_Thes._ What sayest thou?
What did he?

_Amph._ Erring through a frenzy-fit,
He did all, with the arrows dipt in dye
Of hundred-headed Hudra.

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

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

_Thes._ Woe--woe! What man was born mischanceful thus!

_Amph._ Thou couldst not know another mortal man
Toil-weary, more outworn by wanderings.

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

_Amph._ Not daring meet thine eye, thy friendliness
And kinship,--nor that children's--blood about!

_Thes._ But _I_ come to who shared my woe with me!
Uncover him!

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

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

_Her._ Theseus, hast seen this match--my boys with me?

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

_Her._ Why then hast thou displayed my head to sun?

_Thes._ Why? mortals bring no plague on aught divine!

_Her._ Fly, O unhappy, this my impious plague!

_Thes._ No plague of vengeance flits to friends from friends.

_Her._ I praise thee! But I helped thee,--that is truth.

_Thes._ And I, advantaged then, now pity thee.

_Her._ --The pitiable,--my children's murderer!

_Thes._ I mourn for thy sake, in this altered lot.

_Her._ Hast thou found others in still greater woe?

_Thes._ Thou, from earth, touchest heaven, one huge distress!

_Her._ Accordingly, I am prepared to die.

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

_Her._ Gods please themselves: to gods I give their like.

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

_Her._ I am full fraught with ills--no stowing more!

_Thes._ Thou wilt do--what, then? Whither moody borne?

_Her._ Dying, I go below earth whence I came.

_Thes._ Thou hast used words of--what man turns up first!

_Her._ While thou, being outside sorrow, schoolest me.

_Thes._ The much-enduring Herakles talks thus?--

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

_Thes._ --Mainstay to mortals, and their mighty friend?

_Her._ They nowise profit me: but Heré rules.

_Thes._ Hellas forbids thou shouldst ineptly die.

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

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

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

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

_Her._ I cannot: for my limbs are fixed.

_Thes._ Ay: even these strong men fate overthrows!

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

_Thes._ Cease! Give thy hand to friendly helpmate now!

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Her._ Turn me round, Theseus--to behold my boys!

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

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

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

_Thes._ Strange! Of thy labors no more memory?

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

_Thes._ Who sees thee grow a woman,--will not praise!

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

_Thes._ Too low by far! "Famed Herakles"--where 's he?

_Her._ Down amid evils, of what kind wast _thou?_

_Thes._ As far as courage--least of all mankind!

_Her._ How say'st, then, _I_ in evils shrink to naught?

_Thes._ Forward!

_Her._ Farewell, old father!

_Amph._ Thou too, son!

_Her._ Bury the boys as I enjoined!

_Amph._ And _me_--
Who will be found to bury now, my child?

_Her._ Myself!

_Amph._ When, coming?

_Her._ When thy task is done.

_Amph._ How?

_Her._ I will have thee carried forth from Thebes
To Athens. But bear in the children, earth
Is burdened by! Myself,--who with these shames
Have cast away my house,--a ruined hulk,
I follow--trailed by Theseus--on my way;
And whoso rather would have wealth and strength
Than good friends, reasons foolishly therein!

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

And then he sang--are these unlike the words?

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

Thamuris from Oichalia, feasted there
By kingly Eurutos of late, now bound
For Dorion at the uprise broad and bare

Of Mount Pangaios (ore with earth enwound
Glittered beneath his footstep)--marching gay
And glad, Thessalia through, came, robed and crowned,

From triumph on to triumph, 'mid a ray
Of early morn,--came, saw and knew the spot
Assigned him for his worst of woes, that day.

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

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

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

For Autumn was the season: red the sky
Held morn's conclusive signet of the sun
To break the mists up, bid them blaze and die.

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

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

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

Each, with a glory and a rapture twined
About it, joined the rush of air and light
And force: the world was of one joyous mind.

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

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

So did the near and far appear to touch
I' the moment's transport,--that an interchange
Of function, far with near, seemed scarce too much;

And had the rooted plant aspired to range
With the snake's license, while the insect yearned
To glow fixed as the flower it were not strange--

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

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

Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slip
Born of the fiery transport; lyre and song
Were his, to smite with hand and launch from lip--

Peerless recorded, since the list grew long
Of poets (saith Homeros) free to stand
Pedestalled 'mid the Muses' temple-throng,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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 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 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!

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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.

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' 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.

"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!"

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--
_Who_ was 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 be _He_ stayed 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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--_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 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 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 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 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, 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 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!"

PRINCE HOHENSTIEL-SCHWANGAU

SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY

Ὕδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ' ἄλλον πόνων
διῆλφον ἀγέλας ...
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τονδ' ἔτλην τάλας
πόνον,
... ~δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς~.

I slew the Hydra, and from labor pass'd
To labor--tribes of labors! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labor, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I _crowned the edifice_.

This poem, written in Scotland in 1871, shortly after the downfall of Napoleon III., was published in December of the same year. The suggestion of the emperor is transparent, and Browning writing in January, 1872, to Miss Isa Blagden, says of it: "I am glad you have got my little book, and seen for yourself whether I make the best or the worst of the case. I think, in the main, he meant to do what I say, and, but for weakness--grown more apparent in his last years than formerly--would have done what I say he did not. I thought badly of him at the beginning of his career, _et pour cause:_ better afterward, on the strength of the promises he made, and gave indications of intending to redeem. I think him very weak in the last miserable year. At his worst I prefer him to Thiers's best. I am told my little thing is succeeding--sold 1400 in the first five days, and before any notice appeared." And again, to the same correspondent: "I am glad you like what the editor of the _Edinburgh_ calls my eulogium on the second empire--which it is not, any more than what another wiseacre affirms it to be, 'a scandalous attack on the old constant friend of England'--it is just what I imagine the man might, if he pleased, say for himself." Mrs. Browning's well-known enthusiasm for Napoleon III. as instanced in her poems unquestionably gave distinctness to Browning's own reflections. The motto is from the _Hercules Furens_ of Euripides, vv. 1276-1280, and the translation is presumably by Browning. There is a palace Hohen-Schwangau, built by the Bavarian mad king Ludwig.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I--
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphinx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphinx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede,--
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,--
What if the once redoubted Sphinx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy,)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord,
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Laïs' sake,
Who finds me hardly gray, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!

First, how to make the matter plain, of course--
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here 's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit--not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I 'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One--thus--up, up to blot Two--thus--
Which I at last reach, thus, and here 's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
Better to draw than leave undrawn, I think,
Fitter to do than let alone, I hold,
Though better, fitter, by but one degree.
Therefore it was that, rather than sit still
Simply, my right-hand drew it while my left
Pulled smooth and pinched the moustache to a point.

Now I permit your plump lips to unpurse:
"So far, one possibly may understand
Without recourse to witchcraft!" True, my dear.
Thus folks begin with Euclid,--finish, how?
Trying to square the circle!--at any rate,
Solving abstruser problems than this first,
"How find the nearest way 'twixt point and point."
Deal but with moral mathematics so--
Master one merest moment's work of mine,
Even this practising with pen and ink,--
Demonstrate why I rather plied the quill
Than left the space a blank,--you gain a fact,
And God knows what a fact 's worth! So proceed
By inference from just this moral fact
--I don't say, to that plaguy quadrature,
"What the whole man meant, whom you wish you knew,"
But, what meant certain things he did of old,
Which puzzled Europe,--why, you 'll find them plain,
This way, not otherwise: I guarantee,
Understand one, you comprehend the rest.
Rays from all round converge to any point:
Study the point then ere you track the rays!
The size o' the circle 's nothing; subdivide
Earth, and earth's smallest grain of mustard-seed,
You count as many parts, small matching large
If you can use the mind's eye: otherwise,
Material optics, being gross at best,
Prefer the large and leave our mind the small--
And pray how many folk have minds can see?
Certainly you--and somebody in Thrace
Whose name escapes me at the moment. You--
Lend me your mind then! Analyze with me
This instance of the line 'twixt blot and blot
I rather chose to draw than leave a blank,
Things else being equal. You are taught thereby
That 't is my nature, when I am at ease,
Rather than idle out my life too long,
To want to do a thing--to put a thought,
Whether a great thought or a little one,
Into an act, as nearly as may be.
Make what is absolutely new--I can't,
Mar what is made already well enough--
I won't: but turn to best account the thing
That 's half-made--that I can. Two blots, you saw
I knew how to extend into a line
Symmetric on the sheet they blurred before--
Such little act sufficed, this time, such thought.

Now, we 'll extend rays, widen out the verge,
Describe a larger circle; leave this first
Clod of an instance we began with, rise
To the complete world many clods effect.
Only continue patient while I throw,
Delver-like, spadeful after spadeful up,
Just as truths come, the subsoil of me, mould
Whence spring my moods: your object,--just to find,
Alike from handlift and from barrow-load,
What salts and silts may constitute the earth--
If it be proper stuff to blow man glass,
Or bake him pottery, bear him oaks or wheat--
What 's born of me, in brief; which found, all 's known.
If it were genius did the digging-job,
Logic would speedily sift its product smooth
And leave the crude truths bare for poetry;
But I 'm no poet, and am stiff i' the back.
What one spread fails to bring, another may.
In goes the shovel and out comes scoop--as here!