  INCLUDING A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES, BEING THE LAST ADVENTURE OF BALAUSTION ??? ?s?? ?e???e?'? ?p?ta? d? ???? t?, ???e? e. "I eat no carrion; when you sacrifice Some cleanly creature—call me for a slice!" made our city great when citizens Like Aristeides and like Miltiades Wore each a golden tettix in his hair." What do they wear now under—Kleophon? Well, for such reasons,—I am out of breath, But loathsomeness we needs must hurry past,— I did not go to see, nor then nor now, The "Thesmophoriazousai." But, since males Choose to brave first, blame afterward, nor brand Without fair taste of what they stigmatize, Euthukles had not missed the first display, Original portrait of Euripides By "Virtue laughingly reproving Vice:" "Virtue,"—the author, Aristophanes, Who mixed an image out of his own depths, Ticketed as I tell you. Oh, this time No more pretension to recondite worth! No joke in aid of Peace, no demagogue Pun-pelleted from Pnux, no kordax-dance Overt helped covertly the Ancient Faith! All now was muck, home-produce, honestman The author's soul secreted to a play Which gained the prize that day we heard the death. I thought "How thoroughly death alters things! Where is the wrong now, done our dead and great? How natural seems grandeur in relief, Cliff-base with frothy spites against its calm!" Euthukles interposed—he read my thought— "O'er them, too, in a moment came the change. The crowd's enthusiastic, to a man: Since, rake as such may please the ordure-heap Because of certain sparkles presumed ore, At first flash of true lightning overhead, They look up, nor resume their search too soon. The insect-scattering sign is evident, And nowhere winks a firefly rival now, Nor bustles any beetle of the brood With trundled dung-ball meant to menace heaven. Contrariwise, the cry is 'Honor him!' 'A statue in the theatre!' wants one; Another 'Bring the poet's body back, Bury him in Peiraios: o'er his tomb Let Alkamenes carve the music-witch, The songstress-siren, meed of melody: Thoukudides invent his epitaph!' To-night the whole town pays its tribute thus." Our tribute should not be the same, my friend! Statue? Within our heart he stood, he stands! As for the vest outgrown now by the form, Low flesh that clothed high soul,—a vesture's fate— Why, let it fade, mix with the elements There where it, falling, freed Euripides! But for the soul that's tutelary now Till time end, o'er the world to teach and bless— How better hail its freedom than by first Singing, we two, its own song back again, Up to that face from which flowed beauty—face Now abler to see triumph and take love Than when it glorified Athenai once? The sweet and strange Alkestis, which saved me, Secured me—you, ends nowise, to my mind, In pardon of Admetos. Hearts are fain To follow cheerful weary Herakles Striding away from the huge gratitude, Club shouldered, lion-fleece round loin and flank, Bound on the next new labor "height o'er height Ever surmounting,—destiny's decree!" Thither He helps us: that's the story's end; He smiling said so, when I told him mine— My great adventure, how Alkestis helped. Afterward, when the time for parting fell, He gave me, with two other precious gifts, This third and best, consummating the grace, "Herakles," writ by his own hand, each line. "If it have worth, reward is still to seek. Somebody, I forget who, gained the prize And proved arch-poet: time must show!" he smiled: "Take this, and, when the noise tires out, judge me— Some day, not slow to dawn, when somebody— Who? I forget—proves nobody at all!" Is not that day come? What if you and I Re-sing the song, inaugurate the fame? We have not waited to acquaint ourselves With song and subject; we can prologize How, at Eurustheus' bidding,—hate strained hard,— Herakles had departed, one time more, On his last labor, worst of all the twelve; Descended into Haides, thence to drag The triple-headed hound, which sun should see Spite of the god whose darkness whelped the Fear. Down went the hero, "back—how should he come?" So laughed King Lukos, an old enemy, Who judged that absence testified defeat Of the land's loved one,—since he saved the land And for that service wedded Megara Daughter of Thebai, realm her child should rule. Ambition, greed and malice seized their prey, The Heracleian House, defenceless left, Father and wife and child, to trample out Trace of its hearth-fire: since extreme old age Wakes pity, woman's wrong wins championship, And child may grow up man and take revenge. Hence see we that, from out their palace-home Hunted, for last resource they cluster now Couched on the cold ground, hapless supplicants About their court-yard altar,—Household Zeus It is, the Three in funeral garb beseech, Delaying death so, till deliverance come— When did it ever?—from the deep and dark. And thus breaks silence old Amphitruon's voice.... Say I not true thus far, my Euthukles? Suddenly, torch-light! knocking at the door, Loud, quick, "Admittance for the revels' lord!" Some unintelligible Komos-cry— Raw-flesh red, no cap upon his head, Dionusos, Bacchos, Phales, Iacchos, In let him reel with the kid-skin at his heel, Where it buries in the spread of the bushy myrtle-bed! (Our Rhodian Jackdaw-song was sense to that!) Then laughter, outbursts ruder and more rude, Through which, with silver point, a fluting pierced, And ever "Open, open, Bacchos bids!" But at last—one authoritative word, One name of an immense significance: For Euthukles rose up, threw wide the door. There trooped the
sh wives away— 'Gravity,' one, the other 'Sophist-lore'— And mate with the Bald Bard's hetairai twain— 'Goodhumor' and 'Indulgence:' on they tripped, MurrhinÉ, Akalanthis,—'beautiful Their whole belongings'—crowd joined choros there! And while the Toxotes wound up his part By shower of nuts and sweetmeats on the mob, The woman-choros celebrated New Kalligeneia, the frank last-day rite. Brief, I was chairÉd and caressed and crowned And the whole theatre broke out a-roar, Echoed my admonition—choros-cap— Rivals of mine, your hands to your faces! Summon no more the Muses, the Graces, Since here by my side they have chosen their places! And so we all flocked merrily to feast,— I, my choragos, choros, actors, mutes And flutes aforesaid, friends in crowd, no fear, At the Priest's supper; and hilarity Grew none the less that, early in the piece, Ran a report, from row to row close-packed, Of messenger's arrival at the Port With weighty tidings, 'Of Lusandros' flight,' Opined one; 'That Euboia penitent Sends the Confederation fifty ships,' Preferred another; while 'The Great King's Eye Has brought a present for Elaphion here, That rarest peacock Kompolakuthes!' Such was the supposition of a third. 'No matter what the news,' friend Strattis laughed, 'It won't be worse for waiting: while each click Of the klepsudra sets a shaking grave Resentment in our shark's-head, boiled and spoiled By this time: dished in Sphettian vinegar, Silphion and honey, served with cocks'-brain-sauce! So, swift to supper, Poet! No mistake, This play; nor, like the unflavored "Grasshoppers," Salt without thyme!' Right merrily we supped, Till—something happened. "Out it shall, at last! "Mirth drew to ending, for the cup was crowned To the Triumphant!' Kleonclapper erst, Now, Plier of a scourge Euripides Fairly turns tail from, flying AttikÉ For Makedonia's rocks and frosts and bears, Where, furry grown, he growls to match the squeak Of girl-voiced, crocus-vested Agathon! Ha ha, he he!' When suddenly a knock— Sharp, solitary, cold, authoritative. "'Babaiax! Sokrates a-passing by, A-peering in, for Aristullos' sake, To put a question touching Comic Law?' "No! Enters an old pale-swathed majesty, Makes slow mute passage through two ranks as mute, (Strattis stood up with all the rest, the sneak!) Gray brow still bent on ground, upraised at length When, our Priest reached, full front the vision paused. "'Priest!'—the deep tone succeeded the fixed gaze— 'Thou carest that thy god have spectacle Decent and seemly; wherefore, I announce That, since Euripides is dead to-day, My Choros, at the Greater Feast, next month, Shall, clothed in black, appear ungarlanded!' "Then the gray brow sank low, and Sophokles Re-swathed him, sweeping doorward: mutely passed 'Twixt rows as mute, to mingle possibly With certain gods who convoy age to port; And night resumed him. "When our stupor broke, Chirpings took courage, and grew audible. "'Dead—so one speaks now of Euripides!' 'Ungarlanded dance Choros, did he say? I guess the reason: in extreme old age No doubt such have the gods for visitants. Why did he dedicate to Herakles An altar else, but that the god, turned Judge, Told him in dream who took the crown of gold? He who restored Akropolis the theft, Himself may feel perhaps a timely twinge At thought of certain other crowns he filched From—who now visits Herakles the Judge. Instance "Medeia"! that play yielded palm To Sophokles; and he again—to whom? Euphorion! Why? Ask Herakles the Judge!' 'Ungarlanded, just means—economy! Suppress robes, chaplets, everything suppress Except the poet's present! An old tale Put capitally by Trugaios—eh? News from the world of transformation strange! How Sophokles is grown Simonides, And—aged, rotten—all the same, for greed Would venture on a hurdle out to sea! So jokes Philonides. Kallistratos Retorts, Mistake! Instead of stinginess— The fact is, in extreme decrepitude, He has discarded poet and turned priest, Priest of Half-Hero Alkon: visited In his own house too by Asklepios' self, So he avers. Meanwhile, his own estate Lies fallow; Iophon 's the manager,— Nay, touches up a play, brings out the same, Asserts true sonship. See to what you sink After your dozen-dozen prodigies! Looking so old—Euripides seems young, Born ten years later.' "'Just his tricky style! Since, stealing first away, he wins first word Out of good-natured rival Sophokles, Procures himself no bad panegyric. Had fate willed otherwise, himself were taxed To pay survivor's-tribute,—harder squeezed From anybody beaten first to last, Than one who, steadily a conqueror, Finds that his magnanimity is tasked To merely make pretence and—beat itself!' "So chirped the feasters though suppressedly. "But I—what else do you suppose?—had pierced Quite through friends' outside-straining, foes' mock-praise, And reached conviction hearted under all. Death's rapid line had closed a life's account, And cut off, left unalterably clear The summed-up value of Euripides. "Well, it might be the Thasian! Certainly There sang suggestive music in my ears; And, through—what sophists style—the wall of sense My eyes pierced: death seemed life and life seem
No, I attacked war's representative; Kleon? No, flattery of the populace; Sokrates? No, but that pernicious seed Of sophists whereby hopeful youth is taught To jabber argument, chop logic, pore On sun and moon, and worship Whirligig. Oh, your tragedian, with the lofty grace, Aims at no other and effects as much? Candidly: what 's a polished period worth, Filed curt sententiousness of loaded line, When he who deals out doctrine, primly steps From just that selfsame moon he maunders of, And, blood-thinned by his pallid nutriment, Proposes to rich earth-blood—purity? In me, 't was equal-balanced flesh rebuked Excess alike in stuff-guts Glauketes Or starveling Chairephon; I challenged both,— Strong understander of our common life, I urged sustainment of humanity. Whereas when your tragedian cries up Peace— He 's silent as to cheese-cakes Peace may chew; Seeing through rabble-rule, he shuts his eye To what were better done than crowding Pnux— That 's dance 'Threttanelo, the Kuklops drunk!' "My power has hardly need to vaunt itself! Opposers peep and mutter, or speak plain: 'No naming names in Comedy!' votes one, 'Nor vilifying live folk!' legislates Another, 'urge amendment on the dead!' 'Don't throw away hard cash,' supplies a third, 'But crib from actor's dresses, choros-treats!' Then Kleon did his best to bully me: Called me before the Law Court: 'Such a play Satirized citizens with strangers there, Such other,'—why, its fault was in myself! I was, this time, the stranger, privileged To act no play at all,—Egyptian, I— Rhodian or Kameirensian, Aiginete, Lindian, or any foreigner he liked— Because I can't write Attic, probably! Go ask my rivals,—how they roughed my fleece, And how, shorn pink themselves, the huddled sheep Shiver at distance from the snapping shears! Why must they needs provoke me? "All the same, No matter for my triumph, I foretell Subsidence of the day-star: quench his beams? No Aias e'er was equal to the feat By throw of shield, tough-hided seven times seven, 'Twixt sky and earth! 't is dullards soft and sure Who breathe against his brightest, here a sigh And there a 'So let be, we pardon you!' Till the minute mist hangs a block, has tamed Noonblaze to 'twilight mild and equable,' Vote the old women spinning out of doors. Give me the earth-spasm, when the lion ramped And the bull gendered in the brave gold flare! Oh, you shall have amusement,—better still, Instruction! no more horse-play, naming names, Taxing the fancy when plain sense will serve! Thearion, now, my friend who bakes you bread, What 's worthier limning than his household life? His whims and ways, his quarrels with the spouse, And how the son, instead of learning knead Kilikian loaves, brings heartbreak on his sire By buying horseflesh branded San, each flank, From shrewd Menippos who imports the ware: While pretty daughter KepphÉ too much haunts The shop of Sporgilos the barber! brave! Out with Thearion's meal-tub politics In lieu of Pisthetairos, Strepsiades! That 's your exchange? O Muse of Megara! Advise the fools 'Feed babe on weasel-lap For wild-boar's marrow, Cheiron's hero-pap, And rear, for man—Ariphrades, mayhap!' Yes, my Balaustion, yes, my Euthukles, That 's your exchange,—who, foreigners in fact And fancy, would impose your squeamishness On sturdy health, and substitute such brat For the right offspring of us Rocky Ones, Because babe kicks the cradle,—crows, not mewls! "Which brings me to the prime fault, poison-speck Whence all the plague springs—that first feud of all 'Twixt me and you and your Euripides. 'Unworld the world,' frowns he, my opposite. I cry, 'Life!' 'Death,' he groans, 'our better Life!' Despise what is—the good and graspable, Prefer the out of sight and in at mind, To village-joy, the well-side violet-patch, The jolly club-feast when our field 's in soak, Roast thrushes, hare-soup, pea-soup, deep washed down With Peparethian; the prompt paying off That black-eyed brown-skinned country-flavored wench We caught among our brushwood foraging: On these look fig-juice, curdle up life's cream, And fall to magnifying misery! Or, if you condescend to happiness, Why, talk, talk, talk about the empty name While thing's self lies neglected 'neath your nose! I need particular discourtesy And private insult from Euripides To render contest with him credible? Say, all of me is outraged! one stretched sense, I represent the whole Republic,—gods, Heroes, priests, legislators, poets,—prone, And pummelled into insignificance, If will in him were matched with power of stroke. For see what he has changed or hoped to change! How few years since, when he began the fight, Did there beat life indeed Athenai through! Plenty and peace, then! Hellas thundersmote The Persian. He himself had birth, you say, That morn salvation broke at Salamis, And heroes still walked earth. Themistokles— Surely his mere back-stretch of hand could still Find, not so lost in dark, Odusseus?—he Holding as surely on to Herakles,— Who touched Zeus, link by link, the unruptured chain! Were poets absent? Aischulos might hail— With Pindaros, Theognis,—whom for sire? Homeros' self, departed yesterday! While Hellas, saved and sung to, then and thus,— Ah, people,—ah, lost antique liberty! We lived, ourselves, undoubted lords of earth: Wherever olives flourish, corn yields crop To constitute our title—ours such land! Outside of oil and breadstuff,—barbarism! What need of
d one ear be stopped of auditor, Should one spectator shut revolted eye,— Why, the Priest's self will first raise outraged voice: 'Back, thou barbarian, thou ineptitude! Does not most license hallow best our day, And least decorum prove its strictest rite? Since Bacchos bids his followers play the fool, And there 's no fooling like a majesty Mocked at,—who mocks the god, obeys the law— Law which, impute but indiscretion to, And ... why, the spirit of Euripides Is evidently active in the world!' Do I stop here? No! feat of flightier force! See Hermes! what commotion raged,—reflect!— When imaged god alone got injury By drunkards' frolic! How Athenai stared Aghast, then fell to frenzy, fit on fit,— Ever the last, the longest! At this hour, The craze abates a little: so, my Play Shall have up Hermes: and a Karion, slave, (Since there 's no getting lower) calls our friend The profitable god, we honor so, Whatever contumely fouls the mouth— Bids him go earn more honest livelihood By washing tripe in well-trough—wash he does, Duly obedient! Have I dared my best? Asklepios, answer!—deity in vogue, Who visits Sophokles familiarly, If you believe the old man,—at his age, Living is dreaming, and strange guests haunt door Of house, belike, peep through and tap at times When a friend yawns there, waiting to be fetched,— At any rate, to memorize the fact, He has spent money, set an altar up In the god's temple, now in much repute. That temple-service trust me to describe— Cheaters and choused, the god, his brace of girls, Their snake, and how they manage to snap gifts 'And consecrate the same into a bag,' For whimsies done away with in the dark! As if, a stone's throw from that theatre Whereon I thus unmask their dupery, The thing were not religious and august! "Of Sophokles himself—nor word nor sign Beyond a harmless parody or so! He founds no anti-school, upsets no faith, But, living, lets live, the good easy soul Who,—if he saves his cash, unpoetlike, Loves wine and—never mind what other sport, Boasts for his father just a swordblade-smith, Proves but queer captain when the people claim, For one who conquered with 'Antigone,' The right to undertake a squadron's charge,— And needs the son's help now to finish plays, Seeing his dotage calls for governance And Iophon to share his property,— Why, of all this, reported true, I breathe Not one word—true or false, I like the man! Sophokles lives and lets live: long live he! Otherwise,—sharp the scourge and hard the blow! "And what 's my teaching but—accept the old, Contest the strange! acknowledge work that 's done, Misdoubt men who have still their work to do! Religions, laws and customs, poetries, Are old? So much achieved victorious truth! Each work was product of a lifetime, wrung From each man by an adverse world: for why? He worked, destroying other older work Which the world loved and so was loth to lose. Whom the world beat in battle—dust and ash! Who beat the world, left work in evidence, And wears its crown till new men live new lives, And fight new fights, and triumph in their turn. I mean to show you on the stage! you 'll see My Just Judge only venture to decide Between two suitors, which is god, which man, By thrashing both of them as flesh can bear. You shall agree,—whichever bellows first, He 's human; who holds longest out, divine: That is the only equitable test! Cruelty? Pray, who pricked them on to court My thong's award? Must they needs dominate? Then I—rebel! Their instinct grasps the new? Mine bids retain the old: a fight must be, And which is stronger the event will show. Oh, but the pain! Your proved divinity Still smarts all reddened? And the rightlier served! Was not some man's-flesh in him, after all? Do let us lack no frank acknowledgment There 's nature common to both gods and men! All of them—spirit? What so winced was clay! Away pretence to some exclusive sphere Cloud-nourishing a sole selected few Fume-fed with self-superiority! I stand up for the common coarse-as-clay Existence,—stamp and ramp with heel and hoof On solid vulgar life, you fools disown! Make haste from your unreal eminence, And measure lengths with me upon that ground Whence this mud-pellet sings and summons you! I know the soul, too, how the spark ascends And how it drops apace and dies away. I am your poet-peer, man thrice your match! I too can lead an airy life when dead, Fly like Kinesias when I 'm cloud-ward bound; But here, no death shall mix with life it mars! "So, my old enemy who caused the fight, Own I have beaten you, Euripides! Or,—if your advocate would contravene,— Help him, Balaustion! Use the rosy strength! I have not done my utmost,—treated you As I might Aristullos, mint-perfumed,— Still, let the whole rage burst in brave attack! Don't pay the poor ambiguous compliment Of fearing any pearl-white knuckled fist Will damage this broad buttress of a brow! Fancy yourself my Aristonumos, Ameipsias or Sannurion: punch and pound! Three cuckoos who cry 'cuckoo'! much I care! They boil a stone! Neblaretai! Rattei!" Cannot your task have end here, Euthukles? Day by day glides our galley on its path: Still sunrise and still sunset, Rhodes half-reached, And still, my patient scribe! no sunset's peace Descends more punctual than that brow's incline O'er tablets which your serviceable hand Prepares to trace. Why treasure up, forsooth,
v> Ragged and hungry to what hole 's his home; Ay, slinks through byways where no passenger Flings him a bone to pick. You formerly Adored the Muses' darling: dotard now, Why, he may starve! O mob most mutable!' So you harangued in person; while,—to point Precisely out, these were but lies you launched,— Prompt, a play followed primed with satyr-frisks, No spice spared of the stomach-turning stew, Full-fraught with torch-display, and barley-throw, And Kleon, dead enough, bedaubed afresh; While daft Kratinos—home to hole trudged he, Wrung dry his wit to the last vinous dregs, Decanted them to 'Bottle,'—beat, next year,— 'Bottle' and dregs—your best of 'Clouds' and dew! Where, Comic King, may keenest eye detect Improvement on your predecessors' work Except in lying more audaciously? "Why—genius! That's the grandeur, that 's the gold— That 's you—superlatively true to touch— Gold, leaf or lump—gold, anyhow the mass Takes manufacture and proves Pallas' casque Or, at your choice, simply a cask to keep Corruption from decay. Your rivals' hoard May ooze forth, lacking such preservative: Yours cannot—gold plays guardian far too well! Genius, I call you: dross, your rivals share; Ay, share and share alike, too! says the world, However you pretend supremacy In aught beside that gold, your very own. Satire? 'Kratinos for our satirist!' The world cries. Elegance? 'Who elegant As Eupolis?' resounds as noisily. Artistic fancy? Choros-creatures quaint? Magnes invented 'Birds' and 'Frogs' enough, Archippos punned, Hegemon parodied, To heart's content, before you stepped on stage. Moral invective? Eupolis exposed 'That prating beggar, he who stole the cup,' Before your 'Clouds' rained grime on Sokrates; Nay, what beat 'Clouds' but 'Konnos,' muck for mud? Courage? How long before, well-masked, you poured Abuse on Eukrates and Lusikles, Did Telekleides and Hermippos pelt Their Perikles and Kumon? standing forth, Bareheaded, not safe crouched behind a name,— Philonides or else Kallistratos, Put forth, when danger threatened,—mask for face, To bear the brunt,—if blame fell, take the blame,— If praise ... why, frank laughed Aristophanes 'They write such rare stuff? No, I promise you!' Rather, I see all true improvements, made Or making, go against you—tooth and nail Contended with; 't is still Moruchides, 'T is Euthumenes, Surakosios, nay, Argurrhios and Kinesias,—common sense And public shame, these only cleanse your sty! Coerced, prohibited,—you grin and bear, And, soon as may be, hug to heart again The banished nastiness too dear to drop! Krates could teach and practise festive song Yet scorn scurrility; as gay and good, Pherekrates could follow. Who loosed hold, Must let fall rose-wreath, stoop to muck once more? Did your particular self advance in aught, Task the sad genius—steady slave the while— To further—say, the patriotic aim? No, there 's deterioration manifest Year by year, play by play! survey them all, From that boy's-triumph when 'Acharnes' dawned, To 'Thesmophoriazousai,'—this man's-shame! There, truly, patriot zeal so prominent Allowed friends' plea perhaps: the baser stuff Was but the nobler spirit's vehicle. Who would imprison, unvolatilize A violet's perfume, blends with fatty oils Essence too fugitive in flower alone; So, calling unguent—violet, call the play— Obscenity impregnated with 'Peace'! But here 's the boy grown bald, and here 's the play With twenty years' experience: where 's one spice Of odor in the hogs'-lard? what pretends To aught except a grease-pot's quality? Friend, sophist-hating! know,—worst sophistry Is when man's own soul plays its own self false, Reasons a vice into a virtue, pleads 'I detail sin to shame its author'—not 'I shame Ariphrades for sin's display!' 'I show Opora to commend Sweet Home'— Not 'I show Bacchis for the striplings' sake!' "Yet all the same—O genius and O gold— Had genius ne'er diverted gold from use Worthy the temple, to do copper's work And coat a swine's trough—which abundantly Might furnish Phoibos' tripod, Pallas' throne! Had you, I dream, discarding all the base, The brutish, spurned alone convention's watch And ward against invading decency Disguised as license, law in lawlessness, And so, re-ordinating outworn rule, Made Comedy and Tragedy combine, Prove some new Both-yet-neither, all one bard, Euripides with Aristophanes Co-operant! this, reproducing Now As that gave Then existence: Life to-day, This, as that other—Life dead long ago! The mob decrees such feat no crown, perchance, But—why call crowning the reward of quest? Tell him, my other poet,—where thou walk'st Some rarer world than e'er Ilissos washed! "But dream goes idly in the air. To earth! Earth's question just amounts to—which succeeds, Which fails of two life-long antagonists? Suppose my charges all mistake! assume Your end, despite ambiguous means, the best— The only! you and he, a patriot-pair, Have striven alike for one result—say, Peace! You spoke your best straight to the arbiters— Our people: have you made them end this war By dint of laughter and abuse and lies And postures of Opora? Sadly—No! This war, despite your twenty-five years' work, May yet endure until Athenai falls, And freedom falls with her. So much for you! Now, the antagonist Euripides— Has he succeeded better? Who shall say? He spoke quite o'er the heads of Kleon's crowd To a dim future, and if there he f
next, to the melodious maids he came, Inside the Hesperian court-yard: hand must aim At plucking gold fruit from the appled leaves, Now he had killed the dragon, backed like flame, Who guards the unapproachable he weaves Himself all round, one spire about the same. And into those sea-troughs of ocean dived The hero, and for mortals calm contrived, Whatever oars should follow in his wake. And under heaven's mid-seat his hands thrust he, At home with Atlas: and, for valor's sake, Held the gods up their star-faced mansionry. Also, the rider-host of Amazons About Maiotis many-streamed, he went To conquer through the billowy Euxin once, Having collected what an armament Of friends from Hellas, all on conquest bent Of that gold-garnished cloak, dread girdle-chase! So Hellas gained the girl's barbarian grace And at Mukenai saves the trophy still— Go wonder there, who will! And the ten-thousand-headed hound Of many a murder, the Lernaian snake He burned out, head by head, and cast around His darts a poison thence,—darts soon to slake Their rage in that three-bodied herdsman's gore Of Erutheia. Many a running more He made for triumph and felicity, And, last of toils, to Haides, never dry Of tears, he sailed: and there he, luckless, ends His life completely, nor returns again. The house and home are desolate of friends, And where the children's life-path leads them, plain I see,—no step retraceable, no god Availing, and no law to help the lost! The oar of Charon marks their period, Waits to end all. Thy hands, these roofs accost!— To thee, though absent, look their uttermost! But if in youth and strength I flourished still, Still shook the spear in fight, did power match will In these Kadmeian co-mates of my age, They would,—and I,—when warfare was to wage, Stand by these children; but I am bereft Of youth now, lone of that good genius left! But hist, desist! for here come these,— Draped as the dead go, under and over,— Children long since—now hard to discover— Of the once so potent Herakles! And the loved wife dragging, in one tether About her feet, the boys together; And the hero's aged sire comes last! Unhappy that I am! Of tears which rise,— How am I all unable to hold fast, Longer, the aged fountains of these eyes! Meg. Be it so! Who is priest, who butcher here Of these ill-fated ones, or stops the breath Of me, the miserable? Ready, see, The sacrifice—to lead where Haides lives! O children, we are led—no lovely team Of corpses—age, youth, motherhood, all mixed! O sad fate of myself and these my sons Whom with these eyes I look at, this last time! I, indeed, bore you: but for enemies I brought you up to be a laughing-stock, Matter for merriment, destruction-stuff! Woe's me! Strangely indeed my hopes have struck me down From what I used to hope about you once— The expectation from your father's talk! For thee, now, thy dead sire dealt Argos to: Thou wast to have Eurustheus' house one day, And rule Pelasgia where the fine fruits grow; And, for a stole of state, he wrapped about Thy head with that the lion-monster bore, That which himself went wearing armor-wise. And thou wast King of Thebes—such chariots there! Those plains I had for portion—all for thee, As thou hadst coaxed them out of who gave birth To thee, his boy: and into thy right hand He thrust the guardian-club of Daidalos,— Poor guardian proves the gift that plays thee false! And upon thee he promised to bestow Oichalia—what, with those far-shooting shafts, He ravaged once; and so, since three you were, With threefold kingdoms did he build you up To very towers, your father,—proud enough, Prognosticating, from your manliness In boyhood, what the manhood's self would be. For my part, I was picking out for you Brides, suiting each with his alliance—this From Athens, this from SpartÉ, this from Thebes— Whence, suited—as stern-cables steady ship— You might have hold on life gods bless. All gone! Fortune turns round and gives us—you, the Fates Instead of brides—me, tears for nuptial baths, Unhappy in my hoping! And the sire Of your sire—he prepares the marriage-feast Befitting Haides who plays father now— Bitter relationship! Oh me! which first— Which last of you shall I to bosom fold? To whom shall I fit close, his mouth to mine? Of whom shall I lay hold and ne'er let go? How would I gather, like the brown-winged bee, The groans from all, and, gathered into one, Give them you back again, a crowded tear! Dearest, if any voice be heard of men Dungeoned in Haides, thee—to thee I speak! Here is thy father dying, and thy boys! And I too perish, famed as fortunate By mortals once, through thee! Assist them! Come! But come! though just a shade, appear to me! For, coming, thy ghost-grandeur would suffice, Such cowards are they in thy presence, these Who kill thy children now thy back is turned! Amph. Ay, daughter, bid the powers below assist! But I will rather, raising hand to heaven, Call thee to help, O Zeus, if thy intent Be, to these children, helpful anyway, Since soon thou wilt be valueless enough! And yet thou hast been called and called; in vain I labor: for we needs must die, it seems. Well, aged brothers—life's a little thing! Such as it is, then, pass life pleasantly From day to night, nor once grieve all the while! Since Time concerns him not about our hopes,— To save them,—but his own work done, flies off. Witness myself, looked up to amo
ng them Eurustheus' boys He means to slay. They, horrified with fear, Rushed here and there,—this child, into the robes O' the wretched mother,—this, beneath the shade O' the column,—and this other, like a bird, Cowered at the altar-foot. The mother shrieks, "Parent—what dost thou?—kill thy children?" So Shriek the old sire and crowd of servitors. But he, outwinding him, as round about The column ran the boy,—a horrid whirl O' the lathe his foot described!—stands opposite, Strikes through the liver! and supine the boy Bedews the stone shafts, breathing out his life. But "Victory" he shouted! boasted thus: "Well, this one nestling of Eurustheus—dead— Falls by me, pays back the paternal hate!" Then bends bow on another who was crouched At base of altar—overlooked, he thought— And now prevents him, falls at father's knee, Throwing up hand to beard and cheek above. "O dearest!" cries he, "father, kill me not! Yours, I am—your boy: not Eurustheus' boy You kill now!" But he, rolling the wild eye Of Gorgon,—as the boy stood all too close For deadly bowshot,—mimicry of smith Who batters red-hot iron,—hand o'er head Heaving his club, on the boy's yellow hair Hurls it and breaks the bone. This second caught,— He goes, would slay the third, one sacrifice He and the couple; but, beforehand here, The miserable mother catches up, Carries him inside house and bars the gate. Then he, as he were at those Kuklops' work, Digs at, heaves doors up, wrenches doorposts out, Lays wife and child low with the selfsame shaft. And this done, at the old man's death he drives; But there came, as it seemed to us who saw, A statue—Pallas with the crested head, Swinging her spear—and threw a stone which smote Herakles' breast and stayed his slaughter-rage, And sent him safe to sleep. He falls to ground— Striking against the column with his back— Column which, with the falling of the roof, Broken in two, lay by the altar-base. And we, foot-free now from our several flights, Along with the old man, we fastened bonds Of rope-noose to the column, so that he, Ceasing from sleep, might not go adding deeds To deeds done. And he sleeps a sleep, poor wretch, No gift of any god! since he has slain Children and wife. For me, I do not know What mortal has more misery to bear. Cho. A murder there was which Argolis Holds in remembrance, Hellas through, As, at that time, best and famousest: Of those, the daughters of Danaos slew. A murder indeed was that! but this Outstrips it, straight to the goal has pressed. I am able to speak of a murder done To the hapless Zeus-born offspring, too— ProknÈ's son, who had but one— Or a sacrifice to the Muses, say Rather, who Itus sing alway, Her single child! But thou, the sire Of children three—O thou consuming fire!— In one outrageous fate hast made them all expire! And this outrageous fate— What groan, or wail, or deadmen's dirge, Or choric dance of Haides shall I urge The Muse to celebrate? Woe! woe! behold! The portalled palace lies unrolled, This way and that way, each prodigious fold! Alas for me! these children, see, Stretched, hapless group, before their father—he The all-unhappy, who lies sleeping out The murder of his sons, a dreadful sleep! And bonds, see, all about,— Rope-tangle, ties and tether,—these Tightenings around the body of Herakles To the stone columns of the house made fast! But—like a bird that grieves For callow nestlings some rude hand bereaves— See, here, a bitter journey overpast, The old man—all too late—is here at last! Amph. Silently, silently, aged Kadmeians! Will ye not suffer my son, diffused Yonder, to slide from his sorrows in sleep? Cho. And thee, old man, do I, groaning, weep, And the children too, and the head there—used Of old to the wreaths and paians! Amph. Farther away! Nor beat the breast, Nor wail aloud, nor rouse from rest The slumberer—asleep, so best! Cho. Ah me—what a slaughter! Amph. Refrain—refrain! Ye will prove my perdition! Cho. Unlike water, Bloodshed rises from earth again! Amph. Do I bid you bate your breath, in vain— Ye elders? Lament in a softer strain! Lest he rouse himself, burst every chain, And bury the city in ravage—bray Father and house to dust away! Cho. I cannot forbear—I cannot forbear! Amph. Hush! I will learn his breathings: there! I will lay my ears close. Cho. What, he sleeps? Amph. Ay,—sleeps! A horror of slumber keeps The man who has piled On wife and child Death and death, as he shot them down With clang o'the bow. Cho. Wail— Amph. Even so! Cho. —The fate of the children— Amph. Triple woe! Cho. —Old man, the fate of thy son! 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
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