  INCLUDING A TRANSCRIPT FROM EURIPIDES "Our Euripides, the Human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres." TO THE COUNTESS COWPER If I mention the simple truth, that this poem absolutely owes its existence to you,—who not only suggested, but imposed on me as a task, what has proved the most delightful of May-month amusements,—I shall seem honest, indeed, but hardly prudent; for, how good and beautiful ought such a poem to be! Euripides might fear little; but I, also, have an interest in the performance; and what wonder if I beg you to suffer that it make, in another and far easier sense, its nearest possible approach to those Greek qualities of goodness and beauty, by laying itself gratefully at your feet? R. B. London, July 23, 1871. After the publication of the fourth volume of The Ring and the Book in February, 1869, Browning published nothing until March, 1871, when he printed HervÉ Riel in the Cornhill Magazine, afterward including it in his first new volume of collected poems. In August of the same year appeared the first of his larger ventures in the field of Greek life. This poem was followed four years later by Aristophanes' Apology, and it is so intimately connected with Balaustion's Adventure that in this edition it is made to follow it, though the chronological sequence was broken, as will be seen, by the composition and publication of other considerable works. The motto at the head of the poem is from Mrs. Browning, and in the last lines of the poem Browning couples her with his friend Sir Frederick Leighton. ve ground, not beneath?""He gave his wife instead of him, thy prey." "And prey, this time at least, I bear below!" "Go take her!—for I doubt persuading thee ..." "To kill the doomed one? What my function else?" "No! Rather, to dispatch the true mature." "Truly I take thy meaning, see thy drift!" "Is there a way then she may reach old age?" "No way! I glad me in my honors too!" "But, young or old, thou tak'st one life, no more!" "Younger, they die, greater my praise redounds!" "If she die old,—the sumptuous funeral!" "Thou layest down a law the rich would like." "How so? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense?" "Who could buy substitutes would die old men." "It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace?" "This grace I will not grant: thou know'st my ways." "Ways harsh to men, hateful to Gods, at least!" "All things thou canst not have: my rights for me!" And then Apollon prophesied,—I think, More to himself than to impatient Death, Who did not hear or would not heed the while,— For he went on to say, "Yet even so, Cruel above the measure, thou shalt clutch No life here! Such a man do I perceive Advancing to the house of Pheres now, Sent by Eurustheus to bring out of Thrace, The winter world, a chariot with its steeds! He indeed, when Admetos proves the host, And he the guest, at the house here,—he it is Shall bring to bear such force, and from thy hands Rescue this woman! Grace no whit to me Will that prove, since thou dost thy deed the same, And earnest too my hate, and all for naught!" But how should Death or stay or understand? Doubtless, he only felt the hour was come, And the sword free; for he but flung some taunt— "Having talked much, thou wilt not gain the more! This woman, then, descends to Hades' hall Now that I rush on her, begin the rites O' the sword; for sacred, to us Gods below, That head whose hair this sword shall sanctify!" And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword, The uprush and the outburst, the onslaught Of Death's portentous passage through the door, Apollon stood a pitying moment-space: I caught one last gold gaze upon the night Nearing the world now: and the God was gone, And mortals left to deal with misery, As in came stealing slow, now this, now that Old sojourner throughout the country-side, Servants grown friends to those unhappy here: And, cloudlike in their increase, all these griefs Broke and began the over-brimming wail, Out of a common impulse, word by word. "What now may mean the silence at the door? Why is Admetos' mansion stricken dumb? Not one friend near, to say if we should mourn Our mistress dead, or if Alkestis lives And sees the light still, Pelias' child—to me, To all, conspicuously the best of wives That ever was toward husband in this world! Hears any one or wail beneath the roof, Or hands that strike each other, or the groan Announcing all is done and naught to dread? Still not a servant stationed at the gates! O Paian, that thou wouldst dispart the wave O' the woe, be present! Yet, had woe o'erwhelmed The housemates, they were hardly silent thus: It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone. Whence comes thy gleam of hope? I dare not hope: What is the circumstance that heartens thee? How could Admetos have dismissed a wife So worthy, unescorted to the grave? Before the gates I see no hallowed vase Of fountain-water, such as suits death's door; Nor any clipt locks strew the vestibule, Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead, Nor hand sounds smitten against youthful hand, The women's way. And yet—the appointed time— How speak the word?—this day is even the day Ordained her for departing from its light. O touch calamitous to heart and soul! Needs must one, when the good are tortured so, Sorrow,—one reckoned faithful from the first." Then their souls rose together, and one sigh Went up in cadence from the common mouth: How "Vainly—anywhither in the world Directing or land-labor or sea-search— To Lukia or the sand-waste, Ammon's seat— Might you set free their hapless lady's soul From the abrupt Fate's footstep instant now. Not a sheep-sacrificer at the hearths Of Gods had they to go to: one there was Who, if his eyes saw light still,—Phoibos' son,— Had wrought so, she might leave the shadowy place And Hades' portal: for he propped up Death's Subdued ones, till the Zeus-flung thunder-flame Struck him; and now what hope of life were hailed With open arms? For, all the king could do Is done already,—not one God whereof The altar fails to reek with sacrifice: And for assuagement of these evils—naught!" But here they broke off, for a matron moved Forth from the house: and, as her tears flowed fast, They gathered round. "What fortune shall we hear? For mourning thus, if aught affect thy lord, We pardon thee: but lives the lady yet Or has she perished?—that we fain would know!" "Call her dead, call her living, each style serves," The matron said: "though grave-ward bowed, she breathed; Nor knew her husband what the misery meant Before he felt it: hope of life was none: The appointed day pressed hard; the funeral pomp He had prepared too." When the friends broke out, "Let her in dying know herself at least Sole wife, of all the wives 'neath th
ass="verse">And the garb sable; else no outward sign Of sorrow as he came and faced his friend. Was truth fast terrifying tears away? "Hail, child of Zeus, and sprung from Perseus too!" The salutation ran without a fault. "And thou, Admetos, King of Thessaly!" "Would, as thou wishest me, the grace might fall! But my good-wisher, that thou art, I know." "What 's here? these shorn locks, this sad show of thee?" "I must inter a certain corpse to-day." "Now, from thy children God avert mischance!" "They live, my children; all are in the house!" "Thy father—if 't is he departs indeed, His age was ripe at least." "My father lives, And she who bore me lives too, Herakles." "It cannot be thy wife Alkestis gone?" "Twofold the tale is, I can tell of her." "Dead dost thou speak of her, or living yet?" "She is—and is not: hence the pain to me!" "I learn no whit the more, so dark thy speech!" "Know'st thou not on what fate she needs must fall?" "I know she is resigned to die for thee." "How lives she still, then, if submitting so?" "Eh, weep her not beforehand! wait till then!" "Who is to die is dead; doing is done." "To be and not to be are thought diverse." "Thou judgest this—I, that way, Herakles!" "Well, but declare what causes thy complaint! Who is the man has died from out thy friends?" "No man: I had a woman in my mind." "Alien, or some one born akin to thee?" "Alien: but still related to my house." "How did it happen then that here she died?" "Her father dying left his orphan here." "Alas, Admetos—would we found thee gay, Not grieving!" "What as if about to do Subjoinest thou that comment?" "I shall seek Another hearth, proceed to other hosts." "Never, O king, shall that be! No such ill Betide me!" "Nay, to mourners should there come A guest, he proves importunate!" "The dead— Dead are they: but go thou within my house!" "'T is base carousing beside friends who mourn." "The guest-rooms, whither we shall lead thee, lie Apart from ours." "Nay, let me go my way! Ten-thousandfold the favor I shall thank!" "It may not be thou goest to the hearth Of any man but me!" so made an end Admetos, softly and decisively, Of the altercation. Herakles forbore: And the king bade a servant lead the way, Open the guest-rooms ranged remote from view O' the main hall, tell the functionaries, next, They had to furnish forth a plenteous feast: And then shut close the doors o' the hall, midway, "Because it is not proper friends who feast Should hear a groaning or be grieved," quoth he. Whereat the hero, who was truth itself, Let out the smile again, repressed awhile Like fountain-brilliance one forbids to play. He did too many grandnesses, to note Much in the meaner things about his path: And stepping there, with face towards the sun, Stopped seldom, to pluck weeds or ask their names. Therefore he took Admetos at the word: This trouble must not hinder any more A true heart from good will and pleasant ways. And so, the great arm, which had slain the snake, Strained his friend's head a moment in embrace On that broad breast beneath the lion's hide, Till the king's cheek winced at the thick rough gold; And then strode off, with who had care of him, To the remote guest-chamber: glad to give Poor flesh and blood their respite and relief In the interval 'twixt fight and fight again— All for the world's sake. Our eyes followed him, Be sure, till those mid-doors shut us outside. The king, too, watched great Herakles go off All faith, love, and obedience to a friend. And when they questioned him, the simple ones, "What dost thou? Such calamity to face, Lies full before thee—and thou art so bold As play the host, Admetos? Hast thy wits?" He replied calmly to each chiding tongue: "But if from house and home I forced away A coming guest, wouldst thou have praised me more? No, truly! since calamity were mine, Nowise diminished: while I showed myself Unhappy and inhospitable too: So adding to my ills this other ill, That mine were styled a stranger-hating house. Myself have ever found this man the best Of entertainers when I went his way To parched and thirsty Argos." "If so be— Why didst thou hide what destiny was here, When one came that was kindly, as thou say'st?" "He never would have willed to cross my door Had he known aught of my calamities. And probably to some of you I seem Unwise enough in doing what I do; Such will scarce praise me: but these halls of mine Know not to drive off and dishonor guests." And so, the duty done, he turned once more To go and busy him about his dead. As for the sympathizers left to muse, There was a change, a new light thrown on things, Contagion from the magnanimity O' the man whose life lay on his hand so light, As up he stepped, pursuing duty still "Higher and harder," as he laughed and said. Somehow they found no folly now in the act They blamed erewhile: Admeto
honors with a mind urbane. While thou, contrariwise, beholding here Arrive thy master's comrade, hast for him A churlish visage, all one beetle-brow— Having regard to grief that's out-of-door! Come hither, and so get to grow more wise! Things mortal—know'st the nature that they have? No, I imagine! whence could knowledge spring? Give ear to me, then! For all flesh to die, Is Nature's due; nor is there any one Of mortals with assurance he shall last The coming morrow: for, what 's born of chance Invisibly proceeds the way it will, Not to be learned, no fortune-teller's prize. This, therefore, having heard and known through me, Gladden thyself! Drink! Count the day-by-day Existence thine, and all the other—chance! Ay, and pay homage also to by far The sweetest of divinities for man, Kupris! Benignant Goddess will she prove! But as for aught else, leave and let things be! And trust my counsel, if I seem to speak To purpose—as I do, apparently. Wilt not thou, then,—discarding overmuch Mournfulness, do away with this shut door, Come drink along with me, be-garlanded This fashion? Do so, and—I well know what— From this stern mood, this shrunk-up state of mind, The pit-pat fall o' the flagon-juice down throat, Soon will dislodge thee from bad harborage! Men being mortal should think mortal-like: Since to your solemn, brow-contracting sort, All of them,—so I lay down law at least,— Life is not truly life but misery." Whereto the man with softened surliness: "We know as much: but deal with matters, now, Hardly befitting mirth and revelry." "No intimate, this woman that is dead: Mourn not too much! For, those o' the house itself, Thy masters live, remember!" "Live indeed? Ah, thou know'st naught o' the woe within these walls!" "I do—unless thy master spoke me false Somehow!" "Ay, ay, too much he loves a guest, Too much, that master mine!" so muttered he. "Was it improper he should treat me well, Because an alien corpse was in the way?" "No alien, but most intimate indeed!" "Can it be, some woe was, he told me not?" "Farewell and go thy way! Thy cares for thee— To us, our master's sorrow is a care." "This word begins no tale of alien woe!" "Had it been other woe than intimate, I could have seen thee feast, nor felt amiss." "What! have I suffered strangely from my host?" "Thou cam'st not at a fit reception-time: With sorrow here beforehand: and thou seest Shorn hair, black robes." "But who is it that 's dead? Some child gone? or the aged sire perhaps?" "Admetos' wife, then! she has perished, guest!" "How sayest? And did ye house me, all the same?" "Ay: for he had thee in that reverence He dared not turn thee from his door away!" "O hapless, and bereft of what a mate!" "All of us now are dead, not she alone!" "But I divined it! seeing, as I did, His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair, His countenance! Though he persuaded me, Saying it was a stranger's funeral He went with to the grave: against my wish, He forced on me that I should enter doors, Drink in the hall o' the hospitable man Circumstanced so! And do I revel yet With wreath on head? But—thou to hold thy peace, Nor me what a woe oppressed my friend! Where is he gone to bury her? Where am I To go and find her?" "By the road that leads Straight to Larissa, thou wilt see the tomb, Out of the suburb, a carved sepulchre." So said he, and therewith dismissed himself Inside to his lamenting: somewhat soothed, However, that he had adroitly spoilt The mirth of the great creature: oh, he marked The movement of the mouth, how lip pressed lip, And either eye forgot to shine, as, fast, He plucked the chaplet from his forehead, dashed The myrtle-sprays down, trod them underfoot! And all the joy and wonder of the wine Withered away, like fire from off a brand The wind blows over—beacon though it be, Whose merry ardor only meant to make Somebody all the better for its blaze, And save lost people in the dark: quenched now! Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried off The brand's edge, suddenly renews its bite, Tasting some richness caked i' the core o' the tree,— Pine, with a blood that 's oil,—and triumphs up Pillar-wise to the sky and saves the world: So, in a spasm and splendor of resolve, All at once did the God surmount the man. "O much-enduring heart and hand of mine! Now show what sort of son she bore to Zeus, That daughter of Elektruon, Tiruns' child, AlkmenÉ! for that son must needs save now The just-dead lady: ay, establish here I' the house again Alkestis, bring about Comfort and succor to Admetos so! I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoled King of the corpses! I shall find him, sure, Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice: And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap Out of my lair, and seize—encircle him Till one hand join the other round about— There lives not who shall pull him out from me, Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go! But even say I miss the booty,—say, Death comes not to the boltered blood,—why then, Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place Of KorÉ and the king there,—make demand, Confident I shall bring Alkestis back, So as to put her in the ha
za"> When God Apollon took, for punishment, A mortal form and sold himself a slave To King Admetos till a term should end,— Not only did he make, in servitude, Such music, while he fed the flocks and herds, As saved the pasturage from wrong or fright, Curing rough creatures of ungentleness: Much more did that melodious wisdom work Within the heart o' the master: there, ran wild Many a lust and greed that grow to strength By preying on the native pity and care, Would else, all undisturbed, possess the land. And these the God so tamed, with golden tongue, That, in the plenitude of youth and power, Admetos vowed himself to rule thenceforth In Pherai solely for his people's sake, Subduing to such end each lust and greed That dominates the natural charity. And so the struggle ended. Right ruled might: And soft yet brave, and good yet wise, the man Stood up to be a monarch; having learned The worth of life, life's worth would he bestow On all whose lot was cast, to live or die, As he determined for the multitude. So stands a statue: pedestalled sublime, Only that it may wave the thunder off, And ward, from winds that vex, a world below. And then,—as if a whisper found its way E'en to the sense o' the marble,—"Vain thy vow! The royalty of its resolve, that head Shall hide within the dust ere day be done: That arm, its outstretch of beneficence, Shall have a speedy ending on the earth: Lie patient, prone, while light some cricket leaps And takes possession of the masterpiece, To sit, sing louder as more near the sun. For why? A flaw was in the pedestal; Who knows? A worm's work! Sapped, the certain fate O' the statue is to fall, and thine to die!" Whereat the monarch, calm, addressed himself To die, but bitterly the soul outbroke— "O prodigality of life, blind waste I' the world, of power profuse without the will To make life do its work, deserve its day! My ancestors pursued their pleasure, poured The blood o' the people out in idle war, Or took occasion of some weary peace To hid men dig down deep or build up high, Spend bone and marrow that the king might feast Entrenched and buttressed from the vulgar gaze. Yet they all lived, nay, lingered to old age: As though Zeus loved that they should laugh to scorn The vanity of seeking other ends In rule, than just the ruler's pastime. They Lived; I must die." And, as some long last moan Of a minor suddenly is propped beneath By note which, new-struck, turns the wail that was Into a wonder and a triumph, so Began Alkestis: "Nay, thou art to live! The glory that, in the disguise of flesh, Was helpful to our house,—he prophesied The coming fate: whereon, I pleaded sore That he,—I guessed a God, who to his couch Amid the clouds must go and come again, While we were darkling,—since he loved us both, He should permit thee, at whatever price, To live and carry out to heart's content Soul's purpose, turn each thought to very deed, Nor let Zeus lose the monarch meant in thee. "To which Apollon, with a sunset smile, Sadly—'and so should mortals arbitrate! It were unseemly if they aped us Gods, And, mindful of our chain of consequence, Lost care of the immediate earthly link: Forwent the comfort of life's little hour, In prospect of some cold abysmal blank Alien eternity,—unlike the time They know, and understand to practise with,— No,—our eternity—no heart's blood, bright And warm outpoured in its behoof, would tinge Never so palely, warm a whit the more: Whereas retained and treasured—left to beat Joyously on, a life's length, in the breast O' the loved and loving—it would throb itself Through, and suffuse the earthly tenement, Transform it, even as your mansion here Is love-transformed into a temple-home Where I, a God, forget the Olumpian glow, I' the feel of human richness like the rose: Your hopes and fears, so blind and yet so sweet With death about them. Therefore, well in thee To look, not on eternity, but time: To apprehend that, should Admetos die, All, we Gods purposed in him, dies as sure: That, life's link snapping, all our chain is lost. And yet a mortal glance might pierce, methinks, Deeper into the seeming dark of things, And learn, no fruit, man's life can bear, will fade: Learn, if Admetos die now, so much more Will pity for the frailness found in flesh, Will terror at the earthly chance and change Frustrating wisest scheme of noblest soul, Will these go wake the seeds of good asleep Throughout the world: as oft a rough wind sheds The unripe promise of some field-flower,—true! But loosens too the level, and lets breathe A thousand captives for the year to come. Nevertheless, obtain thy prayer, stay fate! Admetos lives—if thou wilt die for him!' "So was the pact concluded that I die, And thou live on, live for thyself, for me, For all the world. Embrace and bid me hail, Husband, because I have the victory— Am, heart, soul, head to foot, one happiness!" Whereto Admetos, in a passionate cry: "Never, by that true word Apollon spoke! All the unwise wish is unwished, O wife! Let purposes of Zeus fulfil themselves, If not through me, then through some other man! Still, in myself he had a purpose too, Inalienably mine, to end with me: This purpose—that, throughout my earthly life, Mine should be mingled and made up with thine,— And we two prove one force and play one part And do one thing. Since death divides the pair, 'T is well that I depart and thou remain Who wast to me as spirit is
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