But in Patras, the child did not stay long. His early home seems to have
been broken up by the death of his mother, and we find him next in
Missolonghi, another glorious spot in the history of Modern Greece. It
does not pride itself on its antiquity. It developed late in the Middle
Ages from a fishing hamlet colonized by people who were attracted by the
abundance of fish in the lagoon separating the town from the sea. This
lagoon lies across the Corinthian Gulf to the northwest of Patras,
hardly an hour's sail from it. Its shallow waters, which can be
traversed only by small flat-bottomed dories propelled with poles,
extend between the mouths of the Phidaris and the Acheloös, and are
studded with small islets just emerging above the face of the lagoon and
covered with rushes. Two of these islets, Vassiladi and Kleisova,
attained great fame by the heroic resistance of their garrisons against
the forces of Kioutachi and Imbrahim, Pashas in the War of Liberation.
The town itself is a shrine of patriotism for modern Greeks. For from
1822 to 1826, with its humble walls hardly stronger than fences, it
sustained the attacks of very superior forces, and its ground was
hallowed by the blood of many national heroes. Just outside its walls
lies the "Heroes' Garden" or "Heroön," where under the shadows of
eucalyptus and cypress trees, Marcos Bozzaris, Mavromichalis, the
philhellene General Coreman, and Lord Byron's heart are buried. It was
during the second siege that Byron died here in the midst of his noble
efforts for the freedom of Greece. The fall of the city brought about by
famine is the most glorious defeat in the history of the Greek
Revolution. The garrison of three thousand soldiers with six thousand
unarmed persons including women and children, unwilling to surrender,
attempted to break through the Turkish lines. But only one-sixth managed
to escape. The rest were driven back and mercilessly cut down by their
pursuers. Many took refuge in the powder magazines of the city and
waited until the Turks drew up in great numbers; then they set fire to
the powder and blew up friends and foes alike. The second sonnet of
Palamas' "Fatherlands" is devoted to this lagoon city:
Upon the lake, the island-studded, where
The breeze of May, grown strong with sea-brine, stirs
The seashore strewn with seaweed far away,
The Fates cast me a little child thrice orphan.
'Tis there the northwind battles mightily
Upon the southwind; and the high tide on
The low; and far into the main's abyss
The dazzling coral of the sun is sinking.
There stands Varassova, the triple-headed;
And from her heights, a lady from her tower,
The moon bends o'er the waters lying still.
But innocent peace, the peace that is a child's,
Not even there I knew; but only sorrow
And, what is now a fire--the spirit's spark.
Here then, "the spirit's spark" was first kindled, and here, in the city
of his ancestors, the poet was born. The swampy meadows overgrown with
rushes and surrounded with violet mountains, the city with its narrow
crooked streets and low-roofed houses, the lagoon with its still shallow
waters and modest islets, the life of townsmen and peasants with their
humbles occupations, passions, and legends, above all, the picturesque
distinctness of this somewhat isolated place, secluded, as it seems, in
an atmosphere laden with national lore--these were the incentives which
stirred Palamas in his quest of song. They have stamped their image on
all his work, but their most distinct reflection is found in _The
Lagoon's Regrets_, which is filled with memories of the poet's early
life in a world he always remembers with affection:
Imagination flies to hells and stars,
A witch beguiling, an enchantress strange;
But ours the Heart remains and binds both life
And love with the native soil, nor seems to die.
Peaks, depths, I sought Eurydice of old:
"What longing moans within me now, new-born?
Would that I were a fisherman at work,
Waking thy sleeping waters with my oar,
O Missolonghi!"
Humble but natural in feeling is the appeal to a friend of his childhood
days:
The peasant's huts in Midfield
For us, old friend, are waiting:
Come as of old to eat
The fresh-made cheese, and taste
The hard-made loaf of cornbread.
Come, and drink the milk drawn pure;
And filled with dew and gladness,
Stir up the hunger of the youth
Beside you, buxom lasses.
Here, too, he sings of the "crystal salt that is drawn snow-white from
the lake"; of the rain "that always weeps" and of the conquering tides.
Here he listens to the whispers of the waves while they murmur with each
other with restrained pride; and here over Byron's grave he dreams of
the great poet of Greece, who will come to ride on Byron's winged horse.
The poems of this collection are short but exquisitely wrought in verse
and language, full of life and of feeling. They are especially marked
with Palamas' attachment to the little and humble, which he loves to
raise into music and rhythm, and for which he always has sympathy and
even admiration.