HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. THE PARTING.
(Homer’s Iliad vi. 369-503.) Thus, having done his duty to his gods
And to his country, Hector sought his home,
Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness.
Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found.
But her whom his soul loved he found not there,
Her of the snowy arms, Andromache:
For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse,
Unto a tower that faced the Grecian camp
Had gone to watch and weep. So Hector paused
Upon the threshold, as he left the house,
And made enquiry of the household maids:
“Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth,
Whither white-armed Andromache has gone,
To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives,
Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears?”
A trusty servant quickly made response:
“Hector, my lord, right willingly my lips
Shall answer truthfully thy eager quest,—
Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives,
Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears,
Has gone Andromache; but she has gone
Unto a lofty tower of Ilion
To watch the contest, for bad tidings came
Of Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain;
And at this moment, like a frenzied one,
She rushes to the rampart, while, behind,
Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”
She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushed
Forth from the house, along the very way
That he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets;
Nor paused he till he reached the ScÆan gate,
(Through which he meant to hie him to the plain).
But here Andromache of queenly dower,
His wife, the daughter of EËtion,
Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height,
In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men,
Came running till she met him in the way.
With her, the nurse, who to her bosom held
An innocent-hearted babe, their only son,
His father’s joy, in beauty like a star,
Scamandrius named by Hector, but the host
Called him Astyanax, the City’s King,
Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy.
And now he looked on him, and smiled a smile
That spake his heart more than a thousand words,
And called the tears into his mother’s eyes.
She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand,
And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words:
“Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane,
And, seeking glory, thou forgettest him
And me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone!
Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy,
Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life.
And, when I miss thee, it were better far
That I were laid beneath the ground: for I
Shall then have none to comfort me, not one,
But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector!
No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,—
Him, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew,
And razed his fair-built city to the ground.
High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not,
Although he slew him, but, with reverence,
Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre,
And raised a mound in honour of his name,
Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms,
The daughters of the Ægis-bearing Zeus.
And my seven brothers, in one fatal day,
Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns,
Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire,
As, in their native fields, they watched the herds
Of kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep.
Nor did my queenly mother long survive,
For, led a captive to the Grecian camp,
With other spoils, the victor sent her home,
For goodly ransom, only to be slain
By the sure shaft of huntress Artemis.
But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse,
My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me!
Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,—
Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to make
Thy child an orphan and a widow me!
But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill,
Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies,
And where the wall is weakest. At that point
Already have the bravest of our foes—
Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede,
And the two sons of Atreus—made assault,
Whether incited thither by some voice
Prophetic, or high hope of victory.
So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”
Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm,
Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said,
My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth,
But—could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefs
And stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like,
I skulked from battle in my country’s need?
Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight,
For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first,
To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence,
To struggle for the honour of my sire
And for my own. Although too well I know
The day shall come when sacred Troy must fall,
And Priam and his war-like hosts, who well
Can wield in fight the ashen-handled spear!
But not the woes of my brave countrymen,
Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s,
Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust
’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine,
When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall end
Thy days of freedom, leading thee away
In tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thou
May’st tend another’s loom or water draw
From Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,—
A slavish duty forced on thee by fate.
And some one, looking on thy tears, may say:
‘She was the wife of Hector, who excelled
In fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’
And thy poor heart will ache with vain regret
For him whose strong right arm would keep thee free.
Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyes
From looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”
So spake the noble Hector, and his arms
Extended to receive his son; but he
Shrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast,
Fearing the war-like presence of his sire,
His brazen armour and the horse-hair crest
Above his helmet nodding fearfully.
And Hector took the helmet off his head
And laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground;
And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayed
To Zeus and all the gods on his behalf:
“O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grant
That this, my son, may, as his sire, excel,
And may he truly be the City’s King!
And may men say of him, as he returns
From war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’
May he from war-like men take gory spoils,
And may his mother glory in his might!”
Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the arms
Of his dear wife he placed the little child.
She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast,
Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soul
Was touched with pity, and he nursed her hand,
And called her by her name: “Andromache,
My love, fret not thyself too much for me!
No man descends to Hades ere his time,
And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate,
Whether his heart be cowardly or brave.
But, love, returning home, apply thyself
To household duties, and thy handmaidens
Despatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom.
For war must be the business of men,
And of all men that have been born in Troy,
This war has need of none so much as me.”
Thus having spoken, noble Hector placed
The waving helmet on his head again.
And, silently, Andromache returned
(Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears)
To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.
And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept;
And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead,
While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they said
They knew that he would never more return,
Exulting in his prowess, from the war.
THE LAMENT OF ANDROMACHE FOR HECTOR.
(Homer’s Iliad xxii. 437-515.)
THE BEACON LIGHT ANNOUNCING THE FALL OF TROY AT ARGOS.
(From the Agamemnon of Æschylus, v. 255.) Chorus and Clytemnestra. Cl.—Word of joy this morning brings
From the bosom of the night,
Higher joy than Hope’s gay wings
Circled in her farthest flight!
Troy is taken, Troy is fallen
By the victor Argive’s might!
Ch.—Troy has fallen dost thou tell me?
Have I heard thy words aright?
Cl.—Hearken! I repeat the words,—
Troy is held by Grecian lords.
Ch.—Ah! what gladness fills my heart,
And my tears with rapture start!
Cl.—Yes, thine eyes thy feeling shew.
Ch.—This by what proof dost thou know?
Cl.—The gods, that never would deceive,
Brought these tidings.
Ch.—Dost believe
In the fickle shapes of dreams?
Cl.—Nay; the dozings of the mind
Leave in me no trace behind.
Ch.—Some wild rumour, then, meseems?
Cl.—Dost thou think me but a child,
Thus and thus to be beguiled?
Ch.—How long, then, is it since proud Ilion fell?
Cl.—Since but the night that bore this morning’s light.
Ch.—And who this message hither brought so well?
Cl.—HephÆstus, sending forth his beacon bright
From Ida’s summit; then, from height to height
With blaze successive, beacon kindling beacon,
Bore us the tidings. Ida glanced it forth
To Lemnos, even to th’ HermÆan rock;
And next steep Athos, dear to Zeus, received
From Lemnos the bright flame, which, in its strength
Joyous, pursued its onward course, and flew
O’er the broad shoulders of Oceanus,
Giving its gleams all-golden, like the sun,
To those that on Makistos kept high watch.
Nor dallying he, nor won by ill-timed sleep,
Assumed his part of messenger; and far
Over Euripus speeds the signal flame,
Telling their tasks to the Messapian guards,
Who answered with a blaze that straightway lit
The heather on old Graia’s mountain-tops.
Then in full-gleaming strength, like a fair moon,
The beacon-light shot o’er Asopus plain,
And lit with answering fire CithÆron’s cliff,
Whose emulous watch made brighter still the blaze.
Thence darted on the fiery messenger
Over Gorgopis lake and up the sides
Of Ægiplanctus, whence (the waiting wards
Heaping no niggard pile), a beard-like flame
Streamed onward till it touched the cliff that spies
The billows of the blue Saronic sea;
But paused not in its course, until it reached
The heights of ArachnÆum, over there.
And thence it strikes upon these palace-roofs,—
Far offspring of the light of fallen Troy.
PRIAM AND HELEN.
(Iliad iii. 161.) Priam, the King, to the tower where he sat called the beautiful Helen:
“Hither, my daughter, approach and sit by me here on this tower,
Whence thou mayest see the spouse of thy youth, thy friends and thy kindred.
Thou knowest I never blamed thee; I blame the gods of Olympus,
Who excited this war of sorrows and tears without number.
Come, Helen, sit by my side, and tell me the name of yon hero,
Mighty and stately in mien. Though others around him are taller,
One of such beauty as his and of so majestic a bearing
I have never beheld. If he is not a king he is kingly.”
Then Helen, fairest of women, answered the King: “O my father,
Father of Paris, by me thou art loved and revered and respected!
Would that an evil death had been my lot when I followed
Hither thy son, Alexander, leaving my husband behind me,
Kinsmen, too, and sweet daughter, and friends that I knew since my childhood!
’Twas not allowed me to die—so I pine away slowly with weeping.
But thou awaitest reply: thou seest the great Agamemnon,
Wide-ruling king, as thou saidst, and a warrior valiant and skilful;
Once he was a brother to me—oh, shame!—in the days that have vanished!”
Then, as a hero a hero, the old man admired Agamemnon:
“Happy art thou, Atrides, in birth, and in name, and in fortune;
Many are under thy sway—the flower of the sons of AchÆa.
Once into vine-bearing Phrygia I entered, and saw many Phrygians
Riding swift steeds, the forces of Otreus and Mygdon, the godlike,
Who, with me for an ally, encamped by the banks of the Sangar,
Waiting the march of their foes, the Amazons, warrior-women:
But few in number were they to those quick-eyed sons of AchÆa.”
Next, perceiving Ulysses, the old man said, “My dear Helen,
Tell me who this is also—in stature less than Atrides,
Less by a head, it may be, but broader in chest and in shoulders.
Rest on the ground his arms; but he through the ranks of the army
Ranges about like a ram; to a thick-fleeced ram I compare him,
Wandering hither and thither through snow-white sheep in the pasture?”
Him then answered Helen—Helen of Jove descended:
“That is Ulysses, my father, the wily son of Laertes,
Nourished in Ithaca’s isle—Ithaca rocky and barren;
Skilled to contrive and complete wise plans and politic counsels.”
Her then the sage Antenor addressed, when she spake of Ulysses:
“Lady, in truth thou hast uttered these words; for once, I remember,
Hither the noble Ulysses came with the brave Menelaus,
(Thou wast the cause of his coming) and I was their host in my palace,
And of both the heroes I learned the genius and wisdom.
When they met in the Council, with Trojan heroes assembled,
Standing, Ulysses was less by a head than the brave Menelaus—
Sitting, more honour was due to the thoughtful brow of Ulysses.
And when they wove, for the general ear, their thoughts into language,
Menelaus harangued very freely and briefly, and clearly,
Never missing his words, nor misapplying their meaning,
Though, as to years, not yet was he reckoned among the elders.
But when Ulysses arose, with his head full of wariest measures,
Standing, he fixed his eyes on the ground, and kept looking downwards,
Moving his sceptre nor backwards nor forwards, but holding it firmly,
Looking like one not wise; and those who beheld him might fancy
That he was deeply enraged, and thus bereft of his reason.
But when, as I have seen, he sent his great voice from his bosom,
Words that came thick and fast, like the flakes of the snow in the winter,
Then he that listened would say, no man might compete with Ulysse;
Then we forgot how he looked as the words of Ulysses enchained us.”
Thirdly, on seeing Ajax, the old King of Helen demanded:
“Who, so stately and tall, is this other chief of the Grecians,
Rising as high o’er the rest as the height of his head and broad shoulders?”
And thus the comely-robed Helen, the fairest of women, responded:
“He thou beholdest is Ajax, gigantic—to Grecians a bulwark!
And over there, like a god, Idomeneus stands ’mong the Cretans,
While around him the chiefs of the Cretan army are gathered.
Many a time has the brave Menelaus bidden him welcome,
When to our Spartan home he came from the land of the Cretans.
But while I see all around, the rest of the dark-eyed AchÆeans,
Whom I well know, and whose names I could tell, two captains I see not—
Castor, tamer of steeds, and Pollux, skilful in boxing—
Both own brothers of mine: we three were nursed by one mother.
Either they have not come with the forces from far LacedÆmon,
Or having come, it may be, to this place, in sea-traversing vessels,
Do not desire, after all to enter the battle of heroes,
Fearing the shame and reproach the crime of their sister would cause them.”
So she spake; but them the life-giving earth was embracing
In the dear land of their fathers over the sea, LacedÆmon!
SONG OF THE TROJAN CAPTIVE.
(Euripidis Hecuba, 905.) I. O my Ilion, once we named thee
City of unconquered men;
But the Grecian spear has tamed thee,
Thou canst never rise again.
Grecian clouds thy causeways darken;—
Ah! they cannot hide thy glory!
Ages hence shall heroes hearken
To the wonders of thy story.
II. O my Ilion, they have shorn thee
Of thy lofty crown of towers!
Thy poor daughter can but mourn thee
In her lonely, captive hours.
They have robbed thee of thy beauty,
Made thee foul with smoke and gore;
Tears are now my only duty,
I shall tread thy streets no more.
III. O my Ilion, I remember—
’Twas the hour of sweet repose,
And my husband in our chamber
Slept, nor dreamt of Grecian foes.
For the song and feast were over,
And the spear was hung to rest—
Never more, my hero-lover,
Aimed by thee at foeman’s breast.
IV. O my Ilion, at the mirror
I was binding up my hair,
When my face grew pale with terror
At the cry that rent the air.
Hark! amid the din, the Grecian
Shout of triumph “Troy is taken;
Ten years’ work have now completion—
Ilion’s haughty towers are shaken!”
V. O my Ilion, forth I hied me
From his happy home and mine;
Hapless, soon the Greeks descried me,
As I knelt at Phoebe’s shrine.
Then, my husband slain before me,
To the shore they hurried me,
And from all I loved they tore me
Fainting o’er the cruel sea.
BELLEROPHON.
(Iliad vi. 152-195.) In a far nook of steed-famed Argos, stand
The city Ephyra. Here Sisyphus,
The wily son of Æolus, was king.
His son was Glaucus, and to him was born
Bellerophon of honour without stain,
Gifted with every grace the gods bestow,
And manly spirit that won all men’s love.
Him Proetus, who by Jove’s supreme consent
Held a harsh sceptre over Argolis,
Hated and doomed to exile or to death.
For fair Antea loved Bellerophon
With a mad passion, and, her royal spouse
Deceiving, told her longing to his guest.
But brave Bellerophon, as good as brave,
Set a pure heart against her evil words.
Then with false tongue she stood before the king:
“O Proetus, die or slay Bellerophon,
Who sought her love, who only loveth thee.”
And anger seized the king at what he heard,
Yet was he loath to kill him, for the laws
That make the stranger sacred he revered.
But unto Lycia, bearing fatal signs,
And folded in a tablet, words of death,
He sent him, and enjoined him these to give
Unto Antea’s sire—his step-father,
Thinking that he would perish.
So he went,
Blameless, beneath the guidance of the gods,
And reached the eddying Xanthus. There the king
Of wide-extending Lycia honoured him
Nine days with feasting and with sacrifice.
But when the tenth rose-fingered morn had come,
He asked him for his message and the sign
Whate’er he bore from Proetus,—which he gave.
And when he broke the evil-boding seal,
He first enjoined him the ChimÆra dire
To slay,—of race divine and not of men,
In front a lion, dragon in the rear,
And goat between, whose breath was as the strength
Of fiercely blazing fire. And this he slew,
Trusting the portents of the gods. And next
He conquered the wild, far-famed Solymi,—
The hardest battle fought with mortal men.
The man-like Amazons he next subdued;
And as he journed homeward, fearing nought,
An ambuscade of Lycia’s bravest men,
Attacked him, but he slew them one by one,
And they returned no more.
And so the king
Seeing his race divine by noble deeds
Well proven, made the Lycian realm his home,
His beauteous daughter gave him for his wife,
And made him partner in his royal power.
And of the choicest land for corn and wine,
The Lycians gave him to possess and till.
HORACE.
(Book i. Ode xi.) Seek not to know (for ’tis as wrong as vain)
What term of life to thee or me
The god may grant, Leuconoe,
Nor with Chaldean numbers vex thy brain.
But calmly take what comes of joy or pain,
Whether Jove grant us many winters more,
Or this complete our destiny
Which makes the stormy Tuscan sea
Weary its strength with angry shocks
Against the hollow-echoing rocks.
Be gently wise, my friend, and while you pour
The ruddy wine, live long by living well.
While we are speaking, hark! time’s envious knell!
Let us enjoy to-day, nor borrow
Vague grief by thinking of to-morrow.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.
(From Virgil—Georgic IV. 457-527.) The fair, young bride of Orpheus, as she fled
From AristÆus who designed her ill,
With hasty feet, along the river bank
Of Hebrus, found her death. For in her way
There lurked a baleful serpent ’mid the grass.
Full long the choir of Dryads mourned her fate,
And set the mountains wailing with their woe.
PangÆus answered back to Rhodope, and grief
Held all the land of Rhesus, dear to Mars;
And Hebrus, weeping, rolled to distant shores
The story of the dead Eurydice.
But Orpheus in his sorrow touched his harp,
And, sitting by the wild beach all alone,
Sang from the rising till the setting sun
Of his own sweet, lost wife Eurydice.
Till, drawing solace to his wounded love,
Through the fierce jaws of TÆnarus he passed,
The gates of Hades, and the gloomy grove,
All thick with darkest horror, and, at last,
Entered the drear abodes where Pluto reigns
Among the dead—inexorable king.
And then he put his fingers to the strings
And sang of her he loved, Eurydice;
And made such sweet, enchanting melody
That all the ghosts of Erebus were charmed,
And hied from all recesses at the sound;
Gathering around him, many as the birds
That hide themselves by thousands ’mid the leaves
Of some sweet-smelling grove, when eventide
Or wintry shower calls them from the hills.
The shades of mothers, sires and mighty men,
Of maids for whom the torch was never lit,
And boys whose pyres their parents’ eyes had seen,
Listened, enchained, and for a while forgot
The slimy weeds that grew upon the banks,
Of black Cocytus, and the hateful Styx,
Whose nine slow streams shut out the happy world.
And even Tartarus, Death’s deepest home,
Was stricken with amazement; and the rage
Of snake-tressed Furies ceased; and Cerberus
Restrained his triple roar, and hellish blasts
Forbore a while to turn Ixion’s wheel.
And now, all danger past, to upper air
He turned his eager feet, Eurydice
Restored, near-following (for Proserpine
Had so enjoined), when Orpheus, mad with joy
And longing to behold her face once more,
Paused and looked back, unmindful. Fatal look,
That robbed him of his treasure on the verge
Of full fruition in the world’s broad light!
No hope of mercy; Hell no mercy knows
For broken law. This Orpheus learned too late,
When triple thunder bellowed through the deeps
Of dark Avernus.
Then Eurydice:
“What frenzy, Orpheus, has possessed thy soul
To ruin thee and me, ah! wretched me,
Whom now the Fates call back to Hades’ gloom!
Alas! the sleep of death is on my eyes.
Farewell, my Orpheus! darkness hems me round—
Farewell! in vain I stretch weak hands to thee—
Thine, thine no more! Farewell! Farewell!”
She said,
And vanished from his sight away, as smoke
Fades into viewless air, nor saw she more
Her Orpheus.
He in vain the fleeting shade
Sought to restrain with outspread hands; in vain
Essayed to speak, dumb-stricken with surprise;
In vain, to cross the gloomy Stygian wave.
Alas! what could he do, or whither go,
Since she was gone, the sum of all his joy?
Or, with what tears, what plaintive, moving words,
Seek respite from the gods that rule below
For her who, shivering, crossed the darksome stream?
So passed she from him; and, for seven long months
Beneath a rock by Strymon’s lonely flood
He wailed her fate and his, till all the caves
Re-echoed mournfully, and savage beasts,
Assuaged, knew milder breasts, and strength of oaks
Was captive led by magic of his song.
Even as, in woods, beneath a poplar’s shade
Lone Philomel laments her callow brood,
Robbed from the nest by cruel, churlish hands;
And she, poor childless mother, all night long,
Perched on a branch, renews the doleful strain,
And with her plaints makes all the grove resound;
So Orpheus mourned Eurydice, nor dreamed
Of other love, nor other nuptial tie.
Alone, ’mid Boreal ice, and by the banks
Of snow-girt Tanais, and through the plains
That feel the chill breath of NiphÆan hills,
He sang the loss of sweet Eurydice
And Pluto’s bootless gift. And even when
The Thracian maidens maddened at the slight
Of their own beauty in such lasting grief
And wild from Bacchic orgies, slew the bard,
Strewing the broad fields with his severed limbs;
Then, even then, when Hebrus bore away
The tuneful head torn from the marble neck,
The cold lips, faithful still to their lost love,
Murmured, “Eurydice! Eurydice!”
And the sad banks replied “Eurydice!”
ADRIAN’S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL.
(From Catullus.) Animula! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
QuÆ nunc abibis in loca,
Pallidula rigida, nudula
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?
The same rendered into English: VERSION I. Darling, gentle, wandering soul,
Long this body’s friend and guest,
Tell what region is thy goal,
Pale and cold and all undrest,
Lost thy wonted play and jest?
VERSION II. Spirit! sweet, gentle thing,
Thou seemest taking wing
For some new place of rest;
So long this body’s guest
And friend, dost thou forsake it,
And pallid, cold, and naked,
Thou wanderest,
Bereft of joy and jest,
Whither, ethereal thing?
VERSION III. Dear, pretty, fluttering, vital thing,
So long this body’s guest and friend,
Ah! tell me, whither dost thou wend
Thy lonely way,
Pallid and nude and shivering,
Nor, as thy wont is, gently gay?
PYRAMUS AND THISBE.
(From Ovid’s “Metamorphoses.”) Fairest of many youths was Pyramus,
And Thisbe beauteous among Eastern maids.
These dwelt in neighbour houses, where, of old,
Semiramis girt Babylon with walls.
And, being neighbours, these two fell in love,
And love with time grew stronger. They had wed,
But that their parents willed it not, and so
Forbade all intercourse. With mutual breasts,
Each sighed for other. Parted thus, they spoke
By signs, and, being hindered, loved the more.
There was an opening in the common wall
That made their houses two, long unobserved,
But (what does not love see?) by them discerned.
Of this they made a passage for the voice,
And, safe from notice, murmured loving words.
As oftentimes they stood, the wall between,
Whispering and catching soft replies in turn,
“O envious wall, that standest in our way,
Who love each other!” they would, vexed, exclaim,
“If thou would’st let us meet full face to face,
Or e’en enough to touch each other’s lips!
And yet we are not thankless; ’tis to thee
We owe this pleasure of exchanging words.”
Thus oft conversing, at approach of night,
They said “farewell,” and kissed with longing lips,
That never met, the wall that stood between;
And when Aurora quenched the fires of night,
And Phoebus dried the dew upon the grass,
They came again unto the trysting place.
Once, having come and many plaints exchanged
Of their sad lot, they each with each agreed
To leave their homes, and in the silent night
Baffling their guardians, through the quiet streets,
Pass to the fields, and meet at Ninus’ tomb.
There stood a tree with snow-white fruit adorned—
A lofty mulberry—a cool fount close by;
This was to be their trysting-place.
That day
Was slow to vanish in the western sea.
Then in the darkness Thisbe issued forth,
With stealthy footsteps, and with close-veiled face.
She reached the tomb, and ’neath the trysting-tree
Sat down (love made her confident); when, lo!
A lioness, her mouth all froth and blood,
From recent slaughter, came to quench her thirst
At the near fountain.
Thisbe saw her come,
(For the moon shone) and fled with frightened feet
Into a cave, and, running, dropt her veil;
Which, having quenched her thirst, the lioness,
Returning, found, and tore with bloody mouth.
Just then, came Pyramus with later feet,
Who saw the lion’s tracks deep in the soil,
And paled with sudden fear. But when he found
His Thisbe’s garment stained with blood, he cried,
“One fatal night two lovers shall destroy,
Of whom she was the worthier of life!
My soul is guilty, O dear perished love,
Who bade thee come at night to scenes of dread,
And let thee come the first. O lions! rush
From where you have your dens beneath the rock,
And tear these cursed limbs with ruthless teeth!
But—’tis a coward’s part to wish for death.”
Then with the veil he seeks the trysting-tree,
And to its cherished folds gives kisses, tears,
And to his sword, “Drink now my blood,” he cries,
And sinks it in his heart, and draws it forth,
And falling, lies at length with upturned face.
The blood spurts forth, as when a pipe that’s burst
Throws from the hissing gap a slender jet,
Beating the obstant air with watery blows.
The trysting-tree is sprinkled with his blood,
Till its fair fruit is changed to gloomy black.
Then Thisbe, half afraid e’en yet, returns,
Lest Pyramus should miss her. Eagerly,
With eyes and heart, she looks for her beloved,
Burning to tell him of the danger past.
But when she gained the place and saw the tree
Sadly discoloured, she was sore in doubt
Whether or no it was the very spot;
Till, all aghast, she saw the blood-stained ground
And quivering limbs, and started, horror-struck,
Trembling as does the sea beneath a breeze.
And when she recognized her dear one’s face,
She threw her tender arms above her head,
And tore her hair, and the dear form embraced,
Filling the wound with tears, and with her lips
Touched the cold face, and called him by his name;
“Pyramus, answer, thine own Thisbe calls!
Oh! hear me, Pyramus, look up once more!”
Touched by the voice, he oped his dying eyes,
Then closed them on the world for evermore.
She now saw all—her veil—the empty sheath.
“Ah! hapless love,” she said, “hath slain my love,
But love will make me strong like him to die,
Fearing no wounds; for I will follow him,
The wretched cause—his comrade, too, in death:
And death that parted us shall re-unite.
O wretched parents of a wretched pair,
Whom true love bound together to the last,
Hear this, my dying voice, and not refuse
To let our ashes mingle in one urn.
O trysting-tree, whose funeral branches shade
The corse of one, and soon shall wave o’er two,
Henceforth forever be our mark of fate,—
Bear in thy fruit the memory of our death!”
She spake these words, and fell upon the sword,
And the point entered deep within her breast.
His blood, yet warm, was mingled with her own.
Her dying prayer the gods in heaven heard,
Her dying prayer touched the lone parents’ hearts,
And both their ashes mingle in one urn.
THE WITHERED LEAF.
(From the French of A. V. Arnault.)
“De ta tige dÉtachÉe.” AndrÉ ChÉnier, for having dared to write against the excesses of his countrymen, was summoned before the Revolutional Tribunal, condemned and executed, in the year 1794. The first eight stanzas (in the translation) he composed in prison, after his condemnation; the two last he wrote at the foot of the scaffold, while waiting to be dragged to execution. He had just finished the line, “Le sommeil du tombeau pressera ma paupiÈre,” when his turn came, and his words had their fulfillment. In the translation, the spirit, not the letter, has been regarded. When one lone lamb is bleating in the shambles,
And gleams the ruthless knife,
His yester playmates pause not in their gambols,
Their wild, free joy of life,
To think of him; the little ones that played
With him in sunny hours,
In bright green fields, and his fair form arrayed
With ribbons gay and flowers,
Mark not his absence from the fleecy throng;
Unwept he sheds his blood;
And this sad destiny is mine. Ere long
From this grim solitude
I pass to death. But let me bear my fate,
And calmly be forgot;
A thousand others in the self-same state
Await the self-same lot.
And what were friends to me? Oh! one kind voice
Heard through those prison-bars,
Did it not make my drooping heart rejoice,
Though from my murderers
’Twas bought, perhaps? Alas! how soon life ends!
And yet why should my death
Make any one unhappy? Live, my friends.
Nor think my fleeting breath
Calls you to come. Mayhap, in days gone by,
I, too, from sight of sorrow
Turned, careless, with self-wrapt unpitying eye,
Not dreaming of the morrow.
And now misfortune presses on my heart,
Erewhile so strong and free,
’Twere craven to ask you to bear its smart—
Farewell, nor think of me!
*****
As a faint ray or zephyr’s latest breath
Revives the dying day,
Beneath the scaffold, that stern throne of death,
I sing my parting lay.
Before an hour, with wakeful foot and loud,
Has marked its journey’s close
On yon bright disc, the sleep of death shall shroud
Mine eyes from worldly woes!
THE LAKE.
(From Lamartine.) I. For ever drifting towards shores unknown,
In endless night, returnless, borne away,
We never, in Time’s sea our anchor thrown,
Pause for a single day!
II. O Lake, I come alone to sit by thee,
Upon the stone where thou didst see her rest,
Hardly a year ago, it seems, when she
Looked on thy wavy breast!
III. Thus didst thou threaten to those stooping rocks,
Thus on their wave-worn sides thou then didst beat,
Thus did thy foam, aroused by windy shocks,
Play round my darling’s feet!
IV. One evening, as we floated on the calm,
And not a sound was heard afar or near,
Save oary music mingling firm and clear,
With thy soft rippling psalm,—
V. Then, all at once, sweet tones, too sweet for earth,
Awoke the sleeping echoes into bliss,
The waves grew hushed, the voice I loved gave birth
To such a strain as this:
1. “O Time, suspend thy flight, and happy hours,
Linger upon your ways!
Oh! let us know the fleeting joy that’s ours
These brightest of our days!
2. For the unhappy ones who thee implore,
Flow swiftly as thou canst,
With all their cares; but leave us, pass us o’er
In happiness entranced!
3. Alas! in vain I ask some moments more,
For Time escapes and flies!
I ask this night to linger; lo, the power
Of darkness quickly dies!
4. But let us love, and, while we may, be blest,
Before our hour is gone!
Nor time, nor man has any point of rest,
It flows, and we float on!”
VI. O jealous Time! those moments of delight,
When Love pours bliss in streams upon the heart,
Must they fly from us with as swift a flight
As days of ill depart?
VII. Alas! can we not even mark the track?
Forever lost! like all that went before!
And Time that gave them and then took them back
Shall give them back no more!
VIII. O Lake, mute rocks and caves and forest shade,
Whose beauty Time is powerless to blight,
Dear nature, suffer not the thought to fade
Of that sweet, happy night!
IX. Still let it live in all thy scene, fair Lake,
In calm and storm, and make thy smiles more bright,
And every tree and rock new meaning take
From that sweet, happy night.
X. Let it be heard in every passing breeze,
And in the sound of shore to shore replying,
Let it be seen in every star that sees
Its image in thee lying!
XI. And let the moaning wind and sighing reed,
And the light perfume of the balmy air,
All that is heard or seen or felt declare,
“They loved—they loved, indeed!”
THE WANDERING JEW.
(From Beranger.) I. Christian, a pilgrim craves from you
A glass of water at your door!
I am—I am—the Wandering Jew—
Chained to a whirlwind evermore!
Though ever young, weighed down with years,
The end of Time my one glad dream;
Each night I hope the end appears,
Each morning brings its cursed gleam.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
II. For eighteen centuries, alas!
Over the dust of Greece and Rome,
I’ve seen a thousand kingdoms pass,—
And yet the end delays to come.
I’ve seen the good spring up in vain,
I’ve seen the ill wax strong and bold,
And from the bosom of the main
I’ve seen twin worlds succeed the old.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
III. God gives me life to punish me;
I cling to all that hopes for death,
But ere my soul’s desire I see,
I feel the whirlwind’s vengeful breath.
How many a poor, sad man of grief
Has asked from me the means to live!
But none from me has gained relief,—
My hand has never time to give!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
IV. Alone, in shade of downing trees,
Upon the turf, where water flows,
If I enjoy a moment’s ease,
The whirlwind breaks my short repose.
Oh! might not angry heaven allow
One moment stolen from the sun!
Is less than endlessness enow?
Or shall this journey ne’er be done?
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
V. If e’er I see a child’s sweet face,
And in its pretty, joyous pride,
My own lost innocents’ retrace,
The Hoarse Voice grumbles at my side.
Oh! you, who lust for length of days,
Dare not to envy my career!
That sweet child-face on which I gaze
Shall long be dust while I am here!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
VI. I find some trace of those old walls,
Where I was born long, long ago;
I fain would stay, the whirlwind calls—
“Pass on! thy fathers sleep below,
But in their tombs no place is kept
For thee; thou still must wander on,
Nor sleep till all thy race has slept,
And all the pride of man is gone.”
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
VII. I outraged with a laugh of scorn
The God-man in His hour of woe—
But from my feet the way is torn—
I feel the whirlwind—I must go.
You, who feel not another’s pain,
Tremble—and help him while you can;
The crime I dared was foul disdain
Not of God only, but of Man.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
FINIS.
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