You would build a mansion,

I would weave a bower

--Want the heart for enterprise.

Walls admit of no expansion:

Trellis-work may haply flower

Twice the size.

What makes glad Life's Winter?

New buds, old blooms after.

Sad the sighing "How suspect

Beams would ere mid-Autumn splinter,

Rooftree scarce support a rafter,

Walls lie wrecked?"

You are young, my princess!

I am hardly older:

Yet--I steal a glance behind!

Dare I tell you what convinces

Timid me that you, if bolder,

Bold--are blind?

Where we plan our dwelling

Glooms a graveyard surely!

Headstone, footstone moss may drape,--

Name, date, violets hide from spelling,--

But, though corpses rot obscurely,

Ghosts escape.

Ghosts! O breathing Beauty,

Give my frank word pardon!

What if I--somehow, somewhere--

Pledged my soul to endless duty

Many a time and oft? Be hard on

Love--laid there?

Nay, blame grief that 's fickle,

Time that proves a traitor,

Chance, change, all that purpose warps,--

Death who spares to thrust the sickle

Laid Love low, through flowers which later

Shroud the corpse!

And you, my winsome lady,

Whisper with like frankness!

Lies nothing buried long ago?

Are yon--which shimmer 'mid the shady

Where moss and violet run to rankness--

Tombs or no?

Who taxes you with murder?

My hands are clean--or nearly!

Love being mortal needs must pass.

Repentance? Nothing were absurder.

Enough: we felt Love's loss severely;

Though now--alas!

Love's corpse lies quiet therefore,

Only Love's ghost plays truant,

And warns us have in wholesome awe

Durable mansionry; that's wherefore

I weave but trellis-work, pursuant

--Life, to law.

The solid, not the fragile,

Tempts rain and hail and thunder.

If bower stand firm at Autumn's close,

Beyond my hope,--why, boughs were agile;

If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder

Wreathing--rose!

So, truce to the protesting,

So, muffled be the kisses!

For, would we but avow the truth,

Sober is genuine joy. No jesting!

Ask else Penelope, Ulysses--

Old in youth!

For why should ghosts feel angered?

Let all their interference

Be faint march-music in the air!

"Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard!

Up, lovers, dead to all appearance,

Laggard pair!"

The while you clasp me closer,

The while I press you deeper,

As safe we chuckle,--under breath,

Yet all the slyer, the jocoser,--

"So, life can boast its day, like leap-year,

Stolen from death!"

Ah me--the sudden terror!

Hence quick--avaunt, avoid me,

You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised!

Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error!

So, 't was Death's self that clipped and coyed me,

Loved--and lied!

Ay, dead loves are the potent!

Like any cloud they used you,

Mere semblance you, but substance they!

Build we no mansion, weave we no tent!

Mere flesh--their spirit interfused you!

Hence, I say!

All theirs, none yours the glamour!

Theirs each low word that won me,

Soft look that found me Love's, and left

What else but you--the tears and clamor

That 's all your very own! Undone me--

Ghost-bereft!

HERVÉ RIEL

This ballad was printed first in the _Cornhill Magazine_ for March,

1871. In a letter to Mr. George Smith, one of the publishers of the

magazine, Browning stated that he intended to devote the proceeds

of the poem to the aid of the people of Paris suffering from the

Franco-German war. The publisher generously seconded his resolve and

paid one hundred pounds for the poem.

I

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,

Did the English fight the French,--woe to France!

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,

Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,

With the English fleet in view.

II

'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;

First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;

Close on him fled, great and small,

Twenty-two good ships in all;

And they signalled to the place

"Help the winners of a race!

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still,

Here 's the English can and will!"

III

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;

"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed

they:

"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and

scored,

Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns

Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,

Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,

And with flow at full beside?

Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide.

Reach the mooring? Rather say,

While rock stands or water runs,

Not a ship will leave the bay!"

IV

Then was called a council straight.

Brief and bitter the debate:

"Here 's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow

All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,

For a prize to Plymouth Sound?

Better run the ships aground!"

(Ended Damfreville his speech).

"Not a minute more to wait!

Let the Captains all and each

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!

France must undergo her fate.

V

"Give the word!" But no such word

Was ever spoke or heard;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these

--A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third?

No such man of mark, and meet

With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,

A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

VI

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:

"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell

'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?

Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying 's for?

Morn and eve, night and day,

Have I piloted your bay,

Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there 's a

way!

Only let me lead the line,

Have the biggest ship to steer,

Get this 'Formidable' clear,

Make the others follow mine,

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,

Right to Solidor past Grève,

And there lay them safe and sound;

And if one ship misbehave,

--Keel so much as grate the ground,

Why, I 've nothing but my life,--here 's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.

VII

Not a minute more to wait.

"Steer us in, then, small and great!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.

Captains, give the sailor place!

He is Admiral, in brief.

Still the north-wind, by God's grace!

See the noble fellow's face

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock,

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,

Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see, is past,

All are harbored to the last,

And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate,

Up the English come--too late!

VIII

So, the storm subsides to calm:

They see the green trees wave

On the heights o'erlooking Grève.

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

"Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance

As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"

How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!

Out burst all with one accord,

"This is Paradise for Hell!

Let France, let France's King

Thank the man that did the thing!"

What a shout, and all one word,

"Hervé Riel!"

As he stepped in front once more,

Not a symptom of surprise

In the frank blue Breton eyes,

Just the same man as before.

IX

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,

I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard.

Praise is deeper than the lips:

You have saved the King his ships,

You must name your own reward.

'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!

Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content and have! or my name 's not Damfreville."

X

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,

As the honest heart laughed through

Those frank eyes of Breton blue:

"Since I needs must say my say,

Since on board the duty 's done.

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?--

Since 't is ask and have, I may--

Since the others go ashore--

Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"

That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.

XI

Name and deed alike are lost:

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;

Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack,

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.

Go to Paris: rank on rank

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank!

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.

So, for better and for worse,

Hervé Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

A FORGIVENESS

I am indeed the personage you know.

As for my wife,--what happened long ago--

You have a right to question me, as I

Am bound to answer.

("Son, a fit reply!"

The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth,

At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)

Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place

I had as still I have. I ran life's race,

With the whole world to see, as only strains

His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains

Of good appall him: happy to excess,--

Work freely done should balance happiness

Fully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roof

Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof

I went forth every day, and all day long

Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song

Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe

Of laboring flesh and blood--"She loves me so!"

One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve

That work grew play and vanished. "I deserve

Haply my heaven an hour before the time!"

I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime

Surprised me passing through the postern-gate

--Not the main entry where the menials wait

And wonder why the world's affairs allow

The master sudden leisure. That was how

I took the private garden-way for once.

Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce

Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man.

My fancies in the natural order ran:

"A spy,--perhaps a foe in ambuscade,--

A thief,--more like, a sweetheart of some maid

Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps."

"Stand there!" I bid.

Whereat my man but wraps

His face the closelier with uplifted arm

Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm

This and that pedestal as,--stretch and stoop,--

Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group

Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged

Each side the pathway, till the gate's exchanged

For safety: one step thence, the street, you know!

Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,

Near on admiringly, I breathed again,

And--back to that last fancy of the train--

"A danger risked for hope of just a word

With--which of all my nest may be the bird

This poacher covets for her plumage, pray?

Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay

For such adventure, while Juana's grave

--Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave!

He had the eye, could single from my brood

His proper fledgeling!"

As I turned, there stood

In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.

Whether one bound had brought her,--at first sight

Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be

Next moment, of the venturous man and me,--

Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey:

Whether impelled because her death no day

Could come so absolutely opportune

As now at joy's height, like a year in June

Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose;

Or whether hungry for my hate--who knows?--

Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste

Our tingling true relation, hate embraced

By hate one naked moment:--anyhow

There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now

The woman who made heaven within my house.

Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse

As well as love--you are to recollect!

"Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspecked

With crime, that 's spotless hitherto--your own!

Kill me who court the blessing, who alone

Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last!

The man lay helpless in the toils I cast

About him, helpless as the statue there

Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear

Away and tread to dust the parasite,

But do the passive marble no despite!

I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike

At one blow both infinitudes alike

Out of existence--hate and love! Whence love?

That 's safe inside my heart, nor will remove

For any searching of your steel, I think.

Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink

Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,

At every form wherein your love took shape,

At each new provocation of your kiss.

Kill me!"

We went in.

Next day after this,

I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke--

Easily, after all.

"The lifted cloak

Was screen sufficient: I concern myself

Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf--

Whate'er the ignoble kind--may prowl and brave

Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave

Detected by my household's vigilance.

Enough of such! As for my love-romance--

I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes

And wake and wonder how the film could rise

Which changed for me a barbers' basin straight

Into--Mambrino's helm? I hesitate

Nowise to say--God's sacramental cup!

Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,

Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?

To me--a warning I was overbold

In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked

Only to die, if I remember,--staked

His life upon the basin's worth, and lost:

While I confess torpidity at most

In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt,

Still should I work on, still repair my fault

Ere I took rest in death,--no fear at all!

Now, work--no word before the curtain fall!"

The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant:

My "word," permissible in death's event,

Would be--truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise,

Day by day, three years long, there had to rise

And, night by night, to fall upon our stage--

Ours, doomed to public play by heritage--

Another curtain, when the world, perforce

Our critical assembly, in due course

Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame

To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game

If, suffered to set foot behind our scene,

The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,

Gallant and lady, but a minute since

Enarming each the other, would evince

No sign of recognition as they took

His way and her way to whatever nook

Waited them in the darkness either side

Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride

Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit

Of sympathetic rapture--every whit

Earned as the curtain fell on her and me,

--Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see

But calm and concord: where a speech was due

There came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too,

Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,

Where foreign and domestic cares combine,

There 's audience every day and all day long;

But finally the last of the whole throng

Who linger lets one see his back. For her--

Why, liberty and liking: I aver,

Liking and liberty! For me--I breathed,

Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed

Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task

Of personation till next day bade mask,

And quietly betook me from that world

To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled

In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.

Three years I worked, each minute of each hour

Not claimed by acting:--work I may dispense

With talk about, since work in evidence,

Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?

After three years, this way, all unawares,

Our acting ended. She and I, at close

Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows

Of bending male and female loyalty,

Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high

At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare

Herald his passage from our palace, where

Such visiting left glory evermore.

Again the ascent in public, till at door

As we two stood by the saloon--now blank

And disencumbered of its guests--there sank

A whisper in my ear, so low and yet

So unmistakable!

"I half forget

The chamber you repair to, and I want

Occasion for one short word--if you grant

That grace--within a certain room you called

Our 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawled

Some paper full of faces for my sport.

That room I can remember. Just one short

Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake!"

"Follow me thither!" I replied.

We break

The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp

I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp

Blind disused serpentining ways afar

From where the habitable chambers are,--

Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,--

Always in silence,--till I reach the lone

Chamber sepulchred for my very own

Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy,

Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,

Proof-positive of ownership; in youth

I garnered up my gleanings here--uncouth

But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears;

Finally, this became in after-years

My closet of entrenchment to withstand

Invasion of the foe on every hand--The

multifarious herd in bower and hall,

State-room,--rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call

On masters to be mindful that, before

Men, they must look like men and something more.

Here,--when our lord the king's bestowment ceased

To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,

I touched ambition's height,--'t was here, released

From glory (always symbolled by a chain!)

No sooner was I privileged to gain

My secret domicile than glad I flung

That last toy on the table--gazed where hung

On hook my father's gift, the arquebus--

And asked myself, "Shall I envisage thus

The new prize and the old prize, when I reach

Another year's experience?--own that each

Equalled advantage--sportsman's--statesman's tool?

That brought me down an eagle, this--a fool!"

Into which room on entry, I set down

The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown

Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace.

Each of us looked the other in the face.

She spoke. "Since I could die now "...

(To explain

Why that first struck me, know--not once again

Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge

Three years before, which sundered like a wedge

Her soul from mine,--though daily, smile to smile,

We stood before the public,--all the while

Not once had I distinguished, in that face

I paid observance to, the faintest trace

Of feature more than requisite for eyes

To do their duty by and recognize:

So did I force mine to obey my will

And pry no further. There exists such skill,--

Those know who need it. What physician shrinks

From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks

No plague so long as thirst for knowledge--not

An idler impulse--prompts inquiry. What,

And will you disbelieve in power to bid

Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid

A child from scrutiny that's just and right

In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight,

Reported daily she it was--not how

Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)

"Since I could die now of the truth concealed,

Yet dare not, must not die,--so seems revealed

The Virgin's mind to me,--for death means peace

Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease

Of life and punishment the truth avowed

May haply lengthen,--let me push the shroud

Away, that steals to muffle ere is just

My penance-fire in snow! I dare--I must

Live, by avowal of the truth--this truth--

I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth

That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite

Than all preceding torture, proves me right!

I loved you yet I lost you! May I go

Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?"

I think there never was such--how express?--

Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,

As in those arms of Eastern workmanship--

Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip,

Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,

Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays

Love still at work with the artificer

Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,

Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe

And bicker like a flame?--now play the scythe

As if some broad neck tempted,--now contract

And needle off into a fineness lacked

For just that puncture which the heart demands?

Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands

Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold

Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold!

Fancy my favorite--which I seem to grasp

While I describe the luxury. No asp

Is diapered more delicate round throat

Than this below the handle! These denote

--These mazy lines meandering, to end

Only in flesh they open--what intend

They else but water-purlings--pale contrast

With the life-crimson where they blend at last?

And mark the handle's dim pellucid green,

Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,

Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks

A grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specks

Pure from the mine: seen this way,--glassy blank,

But turn them,--lo, the inmost fire, that shrank

From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim!

Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game

Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men

War-wearied get amusement from that pen

And paper we grow sick of--statesfolk tired

Of merely (when such measures are required)

Dealing out doom to people by three words,

A signature and seal: we play with swords

Suggestive of quick process. That is how

I came to like the toys described you now,

Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed

The table, even, while my wife pursued

Her purpose to its ending. "Now you know

This shame, my three years' torture, let me go,

Burn to the very ashes! You--I lost,

Yet you--I loved!"

The thing I pity most

In men is--action prompted by surprise

Of anger: men? nay, bulls--whose onset lies

At instance of the firework and the goad!

Once the foe prostrate,--trampling once bestowed,--

Prompt follows placability, regret,

Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet

Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse

Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse

My veins at this occasion for resolve.

Had that devolved which did not then devolve

Upon me, I had done--what now to do

Was quietly apparent.

"Tell me who

The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!"

"No, never! All was folly in his case,

All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied."

"And yet you loved me?"

"Loved you. Double-dyed

In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave

Your heart and soul away from me to slave

At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,

I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,

What you rejected could be prized beyond

Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond

Look on, a fatal word to."

"And you still

Love me? Do I conjecture well or ill?"

"Conjecture--well or ill! I had three years

To spend in learning you."

"We both are peers

In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent

Ere thus much of yourself _I_ learn--who went

Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind

To bear upon your action, uncombined

Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived

Of every purer particle, survived

At last in native simple hideousness,

Utter contemptibility, nor less

Nor more. Contemptibility--exempt

How could I, from its proper due--contempt?

I have too much despised you to divert

My life from its set course by help or hurt

Of your all-despicable life--perturb

The calm I work in, by--men's mouths to curb,

Which at such news were clamorous enough--

Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff

With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall

Blank where a scutcheon hung,--by, worse than all,

Each day's procession, my paraded life

Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife

--Now that my life (which means--my work) was grown

Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone

Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby

Of good and praise would--how rewardingly!--

Fall at your feet,--a crown I hoped to cast

Before your love, my love should crown at last.

No love remaining to cast crown before,

My love stopped work now: but contempt the more

Impelled me task as ever head and hand,

Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand

Rather than taste pure hell in idleness.

Therefore I kept my memory down by stress

Of daily work I had no mind to stay

For the world's wonder at the wife away.

Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,

For I despised you! But your words retrieve

Importantly the past. No hate assumed

The mask of love at any time! There gloomed

A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged

By causes you declare; but love's self purged

Away a fancied wrong I did both loves

--Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves,

Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise

High by how many a grade! I did despise--

I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment

Replace contempt's! First step to which ascent--

Write down your own words I re-utter you!

'_I loved my husband and I hated--who_

_He was, I took up as my first chance, mere_

_Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with!_' Here

Lies paper!"

"Would my blood for ink suffice!"

"It may: this minion from a land of spice,

Silk, feather--every bird of jewelled breast--

This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest

Above your heart there"...

"Thus?"

"It flows, I see.

Dip there the point and write!"

"Dictate to me!

Nay, I remember."

And she wrote the words,

I read them. Then--"Since love, in you, affords

License for hate, in me, to quench (I say)

Contempt--why, hate itself has passed away

In vengeance--foreign to contempt. Depart

Peacefully to that death which Eastern art

Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true!

Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you--

Dead in our chamber!"

True as truth the tale.

She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale

Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,

And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,

Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst

Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!

Immersed

In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?

For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps

--Still plain I seem to see!--about his head

The idle cloak,--about his heart (instead

Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude

My vengeance in the cloister's solitude?

Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow

The cloak then, Father--as your grate helps me now!

CENCIAJA

Ogni cencio vuol entrare in bucato.--_Italian Proverb._

Mr. Buxton Forman, the editor of Shelley, upon asking Browning the

precise value attached to the terminal _aja_ in the title of his poem,

received the following answer:--

"19 WARWICK CRESCENT, W., _July 27, '76_.

"DEAR MR. BUXTON FORMAN: There can be no objection to

such a simple statement as you have inserted, if it seems worth

inserting. 'Fact,' it is. Next: 'aia' is generally an accumulative yet

depreciative termination: 'Cenciaja'--a bundle of rags--a trifle. The

proverb means 'every poor creature will be pressing into the company

of his betters,' and I used it to deprecate the notion that I intended

anything of the kind. Is it any contribution to 'all connected with

Shelley,' if I mention that my 'Book' (_The Ring and the Book_) [rather

the 'old square yellow book' from which the details were taken] has

a reference to the reason given by Farinacci, the advocate of the

Cenci, of his failure in the defence of Beatrice? 'Fuisse punitam

Beatricem (he declares) poenâ ultimi supplicii, non quia ex intervallo

occidi mandavit insidiantem suo honori, sed quia ejus exceptionem non

probavi tibi. _Prout, et idem firmiter sperabatur de sorore Beatrice

si propositam excusationem probasset, prout non probavit._' That is,

she expected to avow the main outrage, and did not: in conformity with

her words, 'That which I ought to confess, that will I confess; that to

which I ought to assent, to that I assent; and that which I ought to

deny, that will I deny.' Here is another Cenciaja!

"Yours very sincerely, ROBERT BROWNING."

May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass

That when your Beatrice seemed--by lapse

Of many a long month since her sentence fell--

Assured of pardon for the parricide--

By intercession of stanch friends, or, say,

By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope

Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,--

Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew

"Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent,

But said these three words coldly '_She must die;_'

Subjoining '_Pardon? Paolo Santa Croce_

_Murdered his mother also yestereve._

_And he is fled: she shall not flee at least!_'"

--So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled?

Shelley, may I condense verbosity

That lies before me, into some few words

Of English, and illustrate your superb

Achievement by a rescued anecdote,

No great things, only new and true beside?

As if some mere familiar of a house

Should venture to accost the group at gaze

Before its Titian, famed the wide world through,

And supplement such pictured masterpiece

By whisper, "Searching in the archives here,

I found the reason of the Lady's fate,

And how by accident it came to pass

She wears the halo and displays the palm:

Who, haply, else had never suffered--no,

Nor graced our gallery, by consequence."

Who loved the work would like the little news:

Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me

Relating how the penalty was paid

By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called

Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise,

For his complicity in matricide

With Paolo his own brother,--he whose crime

And flight induced "those three words--She must die."

Thus I unroll you then the manuscript.

"God's justice"--(of the multiplicity

Of such communications extant still,

Recording, each, injustice done by God

In person of his Vicar-upon-earth,

Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)--

"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,

Rests never on the track until it reach

Delinquency. In proof I cite the ease

Of Paolo Santa Croce."

Many times

The youngster,--having been importunate

That Marchesine Costanza, who remained

His widowed mother, should supplant the heir

Her elder son, and substitute himself

In sole possession of her faculty,--

And meeting just as often with rebuff,--

Blinded by so exorbitant a lust

Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits,

Casting about to kill the lady--thus.

He first, to cover his iniquity,

Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then

Authoritative lord, acquainting him

Their mother was contamination--wrought

Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House

By dissoluteness and abandonment

Of soul and body to impure delight.

Moreover, since she suffered from disease,

Those symptoms which her death made manifest

Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin

About to bring confusion and disgrace

Upon the ancient lineage and high fame

O' the family, when published. Duty bound,

He asked his brother--what a son should do?

Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard

By letter, being absent at his land

Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more:

"It must behoove a son,--things haply so,--

To act as honor prompts a cavalier

And son, perform his duty to all three,

Mother and brothers"--here advice broke off.

By which advice informed and fortified

As he professed himself--since bound by birth

To hear God's voice in primogeniture--

Paolo, who kept his mother company

In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared

His whole enormity of enterprise,

And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead;

Whose death demonstrated her innocence,

And happened,--by the way,--since Jesus Christ

Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years.

Costanza was of aspect beautiful

Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age

Sixty about, to far surpass her peers

The coëtaneous dames, in youth and grace.

Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight,

Foiling thereby the justice of the world:

Not God's however,--God, be sure, knows well

The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here!

The present sinner, when he least expects,

Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate,

Stumbles upon his death by violence.

A man of blood assaults a man of blood

And slays him somehow. This was afterward:

Enough, he promptly met with his deserts,

And, ending thus, permits we end with him,

And push forthwith to this important point--

His matricide fell out, of all the days,

Precisely when the law-procedure closed

Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death

Chargeable on his daughter, sons and wife.

"Thus patricide was matched with matricide,"

A poet not inelegantly rhymed:

Nay, fratricide--those Princes Massimi!--

Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope

That all the likelihood Rome entertained

Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight,

And she endured the piteous death.

Now see

The sequel--what effect commandment had

For strict inquiry into this last case,

When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great

His efficacy--nephew to the Pope!)

Was bidden crush--ay, though his very hand

Got soil i' the act--crime spawning everywhere!

Because, when all endeavor had been used

To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain--

"Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence,

"Throughout his now deserted domicile!

Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to find

If haply any scrap of writing, hid

In nook or corner, may convict--who knows?--

Brother Onofrio of intelligence

With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood

Is but too likely: crime spawns everywhere."

And, every cranny searched accordingly,

There comes to light--O lynx-eyed Cardinal!--

Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap,

The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer,

The word of counsel that--things proving so,

Paolo should act the proper knightly part,

And do as was incumbent on a son,

A brother--and a man of birth, be sure!

Whereat immediately the officers

Proceeded to arrest Onofrio--found

At football, child's play, unaware of harm,

Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat

Monte Giordano; as he left the house

He came upon the watch in wait for him

Set by the Barigel,--was caught and caged.

News of which capture being, that same hour,

Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence

Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge,

To have the process in especial care,

Be, first to last, not only president

In person, but inquisitor as well,

Nor trust the by-work to a substitute:

Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub

The floor of Justice, so to speak,--go try

His best in prison with the criminal:

Promising, as reward for by-work done

Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained

And crime avowed, or such connivency

With crime as should procure a decent death--

Himself will humbly beg--which means, procure--

The Hat and Purple from his relative

The Pope, and so repay a diligence

Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case,

Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat.

Whereupon did my lord the Governor

So masterfully exercise the task

Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week

By week, and month by month, from first to last

Toiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place,

Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post,

Inquisitor--pressed cushion and scoured plank.

Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill,

Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends!

So that observers laughed as, many a day,

He left home, in July when day is flame,

Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged

Into a vault where daylong night is ice,

There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content,

Examining Onofrio: all the stress

Of all examination steadily

Converging into one pin-point,--he pushed

Tentative now of head and now of heart.

As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut

This side and that side till the kernel sound,--

So did he press the sole and single point

--What was the very meaning of the phrase

"_Do as beseems an honored cavalier_"?

Which one persistent question-torture,--plied

Day by day, week by week, and month by month,

Morn, noon and night,--fatigued away a mind

Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude,

And one vivacious memory gnawing there

As when a corpse is coffined with a snake:

--Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem

Admission that perchance his judgment groped

So blindly, feeling for an issue--aught

With semblance of an issue from the toils

Cast of a sudden round feet late so free,

He possibly might have envisaged, scarce

Recoiled from--even were the issue death

--Even her death whose life was death and worse!

Always provided that the charge of crime,

Each jot and tittle of the charge were true.

In such a sense, belike, he might advise

His brother to expurgate crime with ... well,

With Wood, if blood must follow on "_the course_

_Taken as might beseem a cavalier_."

Whereupon process ended, and report

Was made without a minute of delay

To Clement, who, because of those two crimes

O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late,

Must needs impatiently desire result.

Result obtained, he bade the Governor

Summon the Congregation and despatch.

Summons made, sentence passed accordingly

--Death by beheading. When his death-decree

Was intimated to Onofrio, all

Man could do--that did he to save himself.

'Twas much, the having gained for his defence

The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help

Of many noble friendly persons fain

To disengage a man of family,

So young too, from his grim entanglement:

But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled

There must be no diversion of the law.

Justice is justice, and the magistrate

Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die.

So, the Marchese had his head cut off,

With Rome to see, a concourse infinite,

In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge:

Where, demonstrating magnanimity

Adequate to his birth and breed,--poor boy!--

He made the people the accustomed speech,

Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works,

And special good behavior as regards

A parent of no matter what the sex,

Bidding each son take warning from himself.

Truly, it was considered in the boy

Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap

So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore

By such an angler as the Cardinal!

Why make confession of his privity

To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips--

Or, better, saying "When I counselled him

'_To do as might beseem a cavalier_,'

What could I mean but '_Hide our parent's shame_

_As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church!_

_Bury it in a convent--ay, beneath_

_Enough dotation to prevent its ghost_

_From troubling earth!_'" Mere saying thus,--'t is plain,

Hot only were his life the recompense.

But he had manifestly proved himself

True Christian, and in lieu of punishment

Got praise of all men!--so the populace.

Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good

(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear)

And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much,

A Cardinal's equipment, some such word

As this from mouth to ear went saucily:

"Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew

From Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world.

I add: Onofrio left one child behind,

A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace

Abundantly of soul and body, doomed

To life the shorter for her father's fate.

By death of her, the Marquisate returned

To that Orsini House from whence it came:

Oriolo having passed as donative

To Santa Croce from their ancestors.

And no word more? By all means! Would you know

The authoritative answer, when folk urged

"What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch,

Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?"

The answer was--"Hatred implacable,

By reason they were rivals in their love."

The Cardinal's desire was to a dame

Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride,

The simpleton must ostentatiously

Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift,

Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage;

Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand

To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal

Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young;

Whereon a fury entered him--the fire

He quenched with what could quench fire only--blood.

Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot,

The unwise boy, a certain festal eve,

Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be

That pressed too closely on him with a crowd.

He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then,

To put a face upon the incident,

Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court

I' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend,

Ye youth, by this example how may greed

Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!"

So ends the chronicler, beginning with

"God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance,

Rests never till it reach delinquency."

Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass

That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome?

FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL

A REMINISCENCE OF A. D. 1676

"No, boy, we must not"--so began

My Uncle (he's with God long since),

A-petting me, the good old man!

"We must not"--and he seemed to wince,

And lost that laugh whereto had grown

His chuckle at my piece of news,

How cleverly I aimed my stone--

"I fear we must not pelt the Jews!

"When I was young indeed,--ah, faith

Was young and strong in Florence too!

We Christians never dreamed of scathe

Because we cursed or kicked the crew.

But now--well, well! The olive-crops

Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks

Would always spare religious shops

Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"I 'll tell you"--and his eye regained

Its twinkle--"tell you something choice

Something may help you keep unstained

Your honest zeal to stop the voice

Of unbelief with stone-throw--spite

Of laws, which modern fools enact,

That we must suffer Jews in sight

Go wholly unmolested! Fact!

"There was, then, in my youth, and yet

Is, by our San Frediano, just

Below the Blessed Olivet,

A wayside ground wherein they thrust

Their dead,--these Jews,--the more our shame!

Except that, so they will but die,

Christians perchance incur no blame

In giving hogs a hoist to sty.

"There, anyhow, Jews stow away

Their dead; and--such their insolence--

Slink at odd times to sing and pray

As Christians do--all make-pretence!--

Which wickedness they perpetrate

Because they think no Christians see.

They reckoned here, at any rate,

Without their host: ha, ha! he, he!

"For, what should join their plot of ground

But a good Farmer's Christian field?

The Jews had hedged their corner round

With bramble-bush to keep concealed

Their doings: for the public road

Ran betwixt this their ground and that

The Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed,

Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat.

"So, properly to guard his store

And gall the unbelievers too,

He builds a shrine and, what is more,

Procures a painter whom I knew,

One Buti (he 's with God), to paint

A holy picture there--no less

Than Virgin Mary free from taint

Borne to the sky by angels: yes!

"Which shrine he fixed,--who says him nay?--

A-facing with its picture-side

Not, as you 'd think, the public way,

But just where sought these hounds to hide

Their carrion from that very truth

Of Mary's triumph: not a hound

Could act his mummeries uncouth

But Mary shamed the pack all round!

"Now, if it was amusing, judge!

--To see the company arrive,

Each Jew intent to end his trudge

And take his pleasure (though alive)

With all his Jewish kith and kin

Below ground, have his venom out,

Sharpen his wits for next day's sin,

Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!

"Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds

Mary, I warrant, soaring brave!

And in a trice, beneath the folds

Of filthy garb which gowns each knave,

Down drops it--there to hide grimace,

Contortion of the mouth and nose

At finding Mary in the place

They 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!

"At last, they will not brook--not they!--

Longer such outrage on their tribe:

So, in some hole and corner, lay

Their heads together--how to bribe

The meritorious Farmer's self

To straight undo his work, restore

Their chance to meet and muse on pelf--

Pretending sorrow, as before!

"Forthwith, a posse, if you please,

Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That

Almost go down upon their knees

To get him lay the picture flat.

The spokesman, eighty years of age,

Gray as a badger, with a goat's

Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage

War with our Mary. Thus he dotes:--

"'_Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toil_

_Through life in Florence--why relate_

_To those who lay the burden, spoil_

_Our paths of peace? We bear our fate._

_But when with life the long toil ends,_

_Why must you--the expression craves_

_Pardon, but truth compels me, friends!--_

_Why must you plague us in our graves?_

"'_Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe!_

_For how can you--the lords of ease_

_By nurture, birthright--e'en conceive_

_Our luxury to lie with trees_

_And turf,--the cricket and the bird_

_Left for our last companionship:_

_No harsh deed, no unkindly word,_

_No frowning brow nor scornful lip!_

"'_Death's luxury, we now rehearse_

_While, living, through your streets we fare_

_And take your hatred: nothing worse_

_Have we, once dead and safe, to bear!_

_So we refresh our souls, fulfil_

_Our works, our daily tasks; and thus_

_Gather you grain--earth's harvest--still_

_The wheat for you, the straw for us._

"'What flouting in a face, what harm,

In just a lady borne from bier

By boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?'

_You question. Friends, the harm is here--_

_That just when our last sigh is heaved,_

_And we would fain thank God and you_

_For labor done and peace achieved,_

_Back comes the Past in full review!_

"'_At sight of just that simple flag,_

_Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like_

_From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag--_

_Though fangless--forth what needs must strike_

_When stricken sore, though stroke be vain_

_Against the mailed oppressor! Give_

_Play to our fancy that we gain_

_Life's rights when once we cease to live!_

"'_Thus much to courtesy, to kind,_

_To conscience! Now to Florence folk!_

_There 's core beneath this apple-rind,_

_Beneath this white-of-egg there 's yolk!_

_Beneath this prayer to courtesy,_

_Kind, conscience--there 's a sum to pouch!_

_How many ducats down will buy_

_Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch!_

"'_Removal, not destruction, sirs!_

_Just turn your picture! Let it front_

_The public path! Or memory errs,_

_Or that same public path is wont_

_To witness many a chance befall_

_Of lust, theft, bloodshed--sins enough,_

_Wherein our Hebrew part is small._

_Convert yourselves!_'--he cut up rough.

"Look you, how soon a service paid

Religion yields the servant fruit!

A prompt reply our Farmer made

So following: '_Sirs, to grant your suit_

_Involves much danger! How? Transpose_

_Our Lady? Stop the chastisement,_

_All for your good, herself bestows?_

_What wonder if I grudge consent?_

"'--_Yet grant it: since, what cash I take_

_Is so much saved from wicked use._

_We know you! And, for Mary's sake,_

_A hundred ducats shall induce_

_Concession to your prayer. One day_

_Suffices: Master Buti's brush_

_Turns Mary round the other way,_

_And deluges your side with slush._

"'_Down with the ducats therefore!_' Dump,

Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece,

Hard gold. Then out of door they stump,

These dogs, each brisk as with new lease

Of life, I warrant,--glad he 'll die

Henceforward just as he may choose,

Be buried and in clover lie!

Well said Esaias--'_stiff-necked Jews!_'

"Off posts without a minute's loss

Our Farmer, once the cash in poke,

And summons Buti--ere its gloss

Have time to fade from off the joke--

To chop and change his work, undo

The done side, make the side, now blank,

Recipient of our Lady--who,

Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!

"Now, boy, you 're hardly to instruct

In technicalities of Art!

My nephew's childhood sure has sucked

Along with mother's-milk some part

Of painter's-practice--learned, at least,

How expeditiously is plied

A work in fresco--never ceased

When once begun--a day, each side.

"So, Buti--(he 's with God)--begins:

First covers up the shrine all round

With hoarding; then, as like as twins,

Paints, t' other side the burial-ground,

New Mary, every point the same;

Next, sluices over, as agreed,

The old; and last--but, spoil the game

By telling you? Not I, indeed!

"Well, ere the week was half at end,

Out came the object of this zeal,

This fine alacrity to spend

Hard money for mere dead men's weal!

How think you? That old spokesman Jew

Was High Priest, and he had a wife

As old, and she was dying too,

And wished to end in peace her life!

"And he must humor dying whims,

And soothe her with the idle hope

They 'd say their prayers and sing their hymns

As if her husband were the Pope!

And she did die--believing just

--This privilege was purchased! Dead

In comfort through her foolish trust!

'_Stiff-necked ones_,' well Esaias said!

"So, Sabbath morning, out of gate

And on to way, what sees our arch

Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight--

The corpse--on shoulder, and so, march!

'_Now for it, Buti!_' In the nick

Of time 't is pully-hauly, hence

With hoarding! O'er the wayside quick

There 's Mary plain in evidence!

"And here 's the convoy halting: right!

Oh, they are bent on howling psalms

And growling prayers, when opposite!

And yet they glance, for all their qualms,

Approve that promptitude of his,

The Farmer's--duly at his post

To take due thanks from every phiz,

Sour smirk--nay, surly smile almost!

"Then earthward drops each brow again;

The solemn task 's resumed; they reach

Their holy field--the unholy train:

Enter its precinct, all and each,

Wrapt somehow in their godless rites;

Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo,

They lift their faces! What delights

The mourners as they turn to go?

"Ha, ha! he, he! On just the side

They drew their purse-strings to make quit

Of Mary,--Christ the Crucified

Fronted them now--these biters bit!

Never was such a hiss and snort,

Such screwing nose and shooting lip!

Their purchase--honey in report--

Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!

"Out they break, on they bustle, where,

A-top of wall, the Farmer waits

With Buti: never fun so rare!

The Farmer has the best: he rates

The rascal, as the old High Priest

Takes on himself to sermonize--

Nay, sneer, '_We Jews supposed, at least,_

_Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!_'

"'_Theft?_' cries the Farmer. '_Eat your words!_

_Show me what constitutes a breach_

_Of faith in aught was said or heard!_

_I promised you in plainest speech_

_I 'd take the thing you count disgrace_

_And put it here--and here 't is put!_

_Did you suppose I 'd leave the place_

_Blank therefore, just your rage to glut?_

"'_I guess you dared not stipulate_

_For such a damned impertinence!_

_So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate_

_And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!_

_As long as I have house and land,_

_To spite you irreligious chaps,_

_Here shall the Crucifixion stand--_

_Unless you down with cash, perhaps!_'

"So snickered he and Buti both.

The Jews said nothing, interchanged

A glance or two, renewed their oath

To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged

From grace, for all our Church can do;

Then off they scuttle: sullen jog

Homewards, against our Church to brew

Fresh mischief in their synagogue.

"But next day--see what happened, boy!

See why I bid you have a care

How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ

Such methods of revenge, forbear

No outrage on our faith, when free

To wreak their malice! Here they took

So base a method--plague o' me

If I record it in my Book!

"For, next day, while the Farmer sat

Laughing with Buti, in his shop,

At their successful joke,--rat-tat,--

Door opens, and they 're like to drop

Down to the floor as in there stalks

A six-feet-high herculean-built

Young he-Jew with a beard that balks

Description. '_Help ere blood be spilt!_'

--"Screamed Buti: for he recognized

Whom but the son, no less no more,

Of that High Priest his work surprised

So pleasantly the day before!

Son of the mother, then, whereof

The bier he lent a shoulder to,

And made the moans about, dared scoff

At sober Christian grief--the Jew!

"'_Sirs, I salute you! Never rise!_

_No apprehension!_' (Buti, white

And trembling like a tub of size,

Had tried to smuggle out of sight

The picture's self--the thing in oils,

You know, from which a fresco 's dashed

Which courage speeds while caution spoils)

'_Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!_

"'_Praised,--ay, and paid too: for I come_

_To buy that very work of yours._

_My poor abode, which boasts--well, some_

_Few specimens of Art, secures,_

_Haply, a masterpiece indeed_

_If I should find my humble means_

_Suffice the outlay. So, proceed!_

_Propose--ere prudence intervenes!_'

"On Buti, cowering like a child,

These words descended from aloft,

In tone so ominously mild,

With smile terrifically soft

To that degree--could Buti dare

(Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice?

He asked, thus taken unaware,

No more than just the proper price!

"'_Done!_' cries the monster. '_I disburse_

_Forthwith your moderate demand._

_Count on my custom--if no worse_

_Your future work be, understand,_

_Than this I carry off! No aid!_

_My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:_

_The burden 's easy, and we 're made,_

_Easy or hard, to bear--we Jews!_'

"Crossing himself at such escape,

Buti by turns the money eyes

And, timidly, the stalwart shape

Now moving doorwards; but, more wise,

The Farmer--who, though dumb, this while

Had watched advantage--straight conceived

A reason for that tone and smile

So mild and soft! The Jew--believed!

"Mary in triumph borne to deck

A Hebrew household! Pictured where

No one was used to bend the neck

In praise or bow the knee in prayer!

Borne to that domicile by whom?

The son of the High Priest! Through what?

An insult done his mother's tomb!

Saul changed to Paul--the case came pat!

"'_Stay, dog-Jew ... gentle sir, that is!_

_Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,--_

_Mary, by miracle,--oh bliss!--_

_My present to your burial-ground?_

_Certain, a ray of light has burst_

_Your vale of darkness! Had you else,_

_Only for Mary's sake, unpursed_

_So much hard money? Tell--oh, tell's!_'

"Round--like a serpent that we took

For worm and trod on--turns his bulk

About the Jew. First dreadful look

Sends Buti in a trice to skulk

Out of sight somewhere, safe--alack!

But our good Farmer faith made bold:

And firm (with Florence at his back)

He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled--

"'_Ay, sir, a miracle was worked,_

_By quite another power, I trow._

_Than ever yet in canvas lurked,_

_Or you would scarcely face me now!_

_A certain impulse did suggest_

_A certain grasp with this right-hand,_

_Which probably had put to rest_

_Our quarrel,--thus your throat once spanned!_

"'_But I remembered me, subdued_

_That impulse, and you face me still!_

_And soon a philosophic mood_

_Succeeding (hear it, if you will!)_

_Has altogether changed my views_

_Concerning Art. Blind prejudice!_

_Well may you Christians tax us Jews_

_With scrupulosity too nice!_

"'_For, don't I see,--let 's issue join!--_

_Whenever I 'm allowed pollute_

_(I--and my little bag of coin)_

_Some Christian palace of repute,--_

_Don't I see stuck up everywhere_

_Abundant proof that cultured taste_

_Has Beauty for its only care,_

_And upon Truth no thought to waste?_

"''Jew, since it must be, take in pledge

Of payment'--_so a Cardinal_

_Has sighed to me as if a wedge_

_Entered his heart_--'this best of all

My treasures!' _Leda, Ganymede_

_Or Antiope: swan, eagle, ape,_

_(Or what 's the beast of what 's the breed,)_

_And Jupiter in every shape!_

"'_Whereat if I presume to ask_

'But, Eminence, though Titian's whisk

Of brush have well performed its task,

How comes it these false godships frisk

In presence of--what yonder frame

Pretends to image? Surely, odd

It seems, you let confront The Name

Each beast the heathen called his god!'

"'_Benignant smiles me pity straight_

_The Cardinal._' 'Tis Truth, we prize!

Art 's the sole question in debate!

These subjects are so many lies.

We treat them with a proper scorn

When we turn lies--called gods forsooth--

To lies' fit use, now Christ is born.

Drawing and coloring are Truth.

"''Think you I honor lies so much

As scruple to parade the charms

Of Leda--Titian, every touch--

Because the thing within her arms

Means Jupiter who had the praise

And prayer of a benighted world?

He would have mine too, if, in days

Of light, I kept the canvas furled!'

"'_So ending, with some easy gibe._

_What power has logic! I, at once,_

_Acknowledged error in our tribe_

_So squeamish that, when friends ensconce_

_A pretty picture in its niche_

_To do us honor, deck our graves,_

_We fret and fume and have an itch_

_To strangle folk--ungrateful knaves!_

"'_No, sir! Be sure that--what 's its style,_

_Your picture?--shall possess ungrudged_

_A place among my rank and file_

_Of Ledas and what not--be judged_

_Just as a picture! and (because_

_I fear me much I scarce have bought_

_A Titian) Master Buti's flaws_

_Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!_'

"So, with a scowl, it darkens door--

This bulk--no longer! Buti makes

Prompt glad re-entry; there 's a score

Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes

From what must needs have been a trance,

Or he had struck (he swears) to ground

The bold bad mouth that dared advance

Such doctrine the reverse of sound!

"Was magic here? Most like! For, since,

Somehow our city's faith grows still

More and more lukewarm, and our Prince

Or loses heart or wants the will

To check increase of cold. 'T is '_Live_

_And let live! Languidly repress_

_The Dissident! In short,--contrive_

_Christians must bear with Jews: no less!_'

"The end seems, any Israelite

Wants any picture,--pishes, poohs,

Purchases, hangs it full in sight

In any chamber he may choose!

In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue!

In Mary's bosom, one more sword!

No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew!

O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?"

EPILOGUE

μεστοι ...

οἱ δ' ἀμφορῆς οἴνου μέλανος ἀνθοσμίου

"The poets pour us wine--"

Said the dearest poet I ever knew,

Dearest and greatest and best to me.

You clamor athirst for poetry--

We pour. "But when shall a vintage be"--

You cry--"strong grape, squeezed gold from screw.

Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine?

That were indeed the wine!"

One pours your cup--stark strength,

Meat for a man; and you eye the pulp

Strained, turbid still, from the viscous blood

Of the snaky bough: and you grumble "Good!

For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood;

Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!"

So, down, with a wry face, goes at length

The liquor: stuff for strength.

One pours your cup--sheer sweet,

The fragrant fumes of a year condensed:

Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe,

From the bud on branch to the grass in swathe.

"We suck mere milk of the seasons," saith

A curl of each nostril--"dew, dispensed

Nowise for nerving man to feat:

Boys sip such honeyed sweet!"

And thus who wants wine strong,

Waves each sweet smell of the year away;

Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuse

His train with a mixture of beams and dews

Turned syrupy drink--rough strength eschews:

"What though in our veins your wine-stock stay?

The lack of the bloom does our palate wrong.

Give us wine sweet, not strong!"

Yet wine is--some affirm--

Prime wine is found in the world somewhere,

Of portable strength with sweet to match.

You double your heart its dose, yet catch--

As the draught descends--a violet-smatch,

Softness--however it came there,

Through drops expressed by the fire and worm:

Strong sweet wine--some affirm.

Body and bouquet both?

'T is easy to ticket a bottle so;

But what was the case in the cask, my friends?

Cask? Nay, the vat--where the maker mends

His strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blends

His rough with his smooth, till none can know

How it comes you may tipple, nothing loth,

Body and bouquet both.

"You" being just--the world.

No poets--who turn, themselves, the winch

Of the press; no critics--I 'll even say,

(Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,)

Who for love of the work have learned the way

Till themselves produce home-made, at a pinch:

No! You are the world, and wine ne'er purled

Except to please the world!

"For, oh the common heart!

And, ah the irremissible sin

Of poets who please themselves, not us!

Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thus,

How please still--Pindar and Æschylus!--

Drink--dipt into by the bearded chin

Alike and the bloomy lip--no part

Denied the common heart!

"And might we get such grace,

And did you moderns but stock our vault

With the true half-brandy half-attar-gul,

How would seniors indulge at a hearty pull

While juniors tossed off their thimbleful!

Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your fault,

So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker race

That wants the ancient grace!"

If I paid myself with words

(As the French say well) I were dupe indeed!

I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsed

At your Shakespeare the whole day long, caroused

In your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsed

A moment of night--toped on, took heed

Of nothing like modern cream-and-curds.

Pay me with deeds, not words!

For--see your cellarage!

There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand.

Some five or six are abroach: the rest

Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test

What yourselves call best of the very best!

How comes it that still untouched they stand?

Why don't you try tap, advance a stage

With the rest in cellerage?

For--see your cellarage!

There are four big butts of Milton's brew.

How comes it you make old drips and drops

Do duty, and there devotion stops?

Leave such an abyss of malt and hops

Embellied in butts which bungs still glue?

You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!

Free him from cellarage!

'T is said I brew stiff drink,

But the deuce a flavor of grape is there.

Hardly a May-go-down, 't is just

A sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must--

No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust

Commingles the racy with Springtide's rare!

"What wonder," say you, "that we cough, and blink

At Autumn's heady drink?"

Is it a fancy, friends?

Mighty and mellow are never mixed,

Though mighty and mellow be born at once.

Sweet for the future,--strong for the nonce!

Stuff you should stow away, ensconce

In the deep and dark, to be found fast-fixed

At the century's close: such time strength spends

A-sweetening for my friends!

And then--why, what you quaff

With a smack of lip and a cluck of tongue,

Is leakage and leavings--just what haps

From the tun some learned taster taps

With a promise "Prepare your watery chaps!

Here 's properest wine for old and young!

Dispute its perfection--you make us laugh!

Have faith, give thanks, but--quaff!"

Leakage, I say, or--worse--

Leavings suffice pot-valiant souls.

Somebody, brimful, long ago,

Frothed flagon he drained to the dregs; and, lo,

Down whisker and beard what an overflow!

Lick spilth that has trickled from classic jowls,

Sup the single scene, sip the only verse--

Old wine, not new and worse!

I grant you: worse by much!

Renounce that new where you never gained

One glow at heart, one gleam at head,

And stick to the warrant of age instead!

No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed!

_You_ fatten, with oceans of drink undrained?

_You_ feed--who would choke did a cobweb smutch

The Age you love so much?

A mine's beneath a moor:

Acres of moor roof fathoms of mine

Which diamonds dot where you please to dig;

Yet who plies spade for the bright and big?

Your product is--truffles, you hunt with a pig!

Since bright-and-big, when a man would dine,

Suits badly: and therefore the Koh-i-noor

May sleep in mine 'neath moor!

Wine, pulse in might from me!

It may never emerge in must from vat,

Never fill cask nor furnish can,

Never end sweet, which strong began--

God's gift to gladden the heart of man;

But spirit 's at proof, I promise that!

No sparing of juice spoils what should be

Fit brewage--mine for me.

Man's thoughts and loves and hates!

Earth is my vineyard, these grew there:

From grape of the ground, I made or marred

My vintage; easy the task or hard,

Who set it--his praise be my reward!

Earth's yield! Who yearn for the Dark Blue Sea's,

Let them "lay, pray, bray"--the addle-pates!

Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, hates!

But some one says, "Good Sir!"

('T is a worthy versed in what concerns

The making such labor turn out well,)

"You don't suppose that the nosegay-smell

Needs always come from the grape? Each bell

At your foot, each bud that your culture spurns,

The very cowslip would act like myrrh

On the stiffest brew--good Sir!

"Cowslips, abundant birth

O'er meadow and hillside, vineyard too,

--Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and out

Distasteful lesson-book--all about

Greece and Rome, victory and rout--

Love-verses instead of such vain ado!

So, fancies frolic it o'er the earth

Where thoughts have rightlier birth.

"Nay, thoughtlings they themselves:

Loves, hates--in little and less and least!

Thoughts? '_What is a man beside a mount!_'

Loves? '_Absent--poor lovers the minutes count!_'

Hates? '_Fie--Pope's letters to Martha Blount!_'

These furnish a wine for a children's-feast:

Insipid to man, they suit the elves

Like thoughts, loves, hates themselves."

And, friends, beyond dispute

I too have the cowslips dewy and dear.

Punctual as Springtide forth peep they:

I leave them to make my meadow gay.

But I ought to pluck and impound them, eh?

Not let them alone, but deftly shear

And shred and reduce to--what may suit

Children, beyond dispute?

And, here 's May-month, all bloom,

All bounty: what if I sacrifice?

If I out with shears and shear, nor stop

Shearing till prostrate, lo, the crop?

And will you prefer it to ginger-pop

When I 've made you wine of the memories

Which leave as bare as a churchyard tomb

My meadow, late all bloom?

Nay, what ingratitude

Should I hesitate to amuse the wits

That have pulled so long at my flask, nor grudged

The headache that paid their pains, nor budged

From bunghole before they sighed and judged

"Too rough for our taste, to-day, befits

The racy and right when the years conclude!"

Out on ingratitude!

Grateful or ingrate--none,

No cowslip of all my fairy crew

Shall help to concoct what makes you wink,

And goes to your head till you think you think!

I like them alive: the printer's ink

Would sensibly tell on the perfume too.

I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done;

But of cowslips--friends get none!

Don't nettles make a broth

Wholesome for blood grown lazy and thick?

Maws out of sorts make mouths out of taste.

My Thirty-four Port--no need to waste

On a tongue that 's fur and a palate--paste!

A magnum for friends who are sound! the sick--

I 'll posset and cosset them, nothing loth,

Henceforward with nettle-broth!

THE AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS

May I be permitted to chat a little, by way of recreation, at the end

of a somewhat toilsome and perhaps fruitless adventure?

If, because of the immense fame of the following Tragedy, I wished

to acquaint myself with it, and could only do so by the help of a

translator, I should require him to be literal at every cost save that

of absolute violence to our language. The use of certain allowable

constructions which, happening to be out of daily favor, are all the

more appropriate to archaic workmanship, is no violence: but I would be

tolerant for once--in the case of so immensely famous an original--of

even a clumsy attempt to furnish me with the very turn of each phrase

in as Greek a fashion as English will bear: while, with respect to

amplifications and embellishments,--anything rather than, with the

good farmer, experience that most signal of mortifications, "to gape

for Æschylus and get Theognis." I should especially decline--what may

appear to brighten up a passage--the employment of a new word for some

old one,--πόνος, or μέγας, or τέλοσ, with its congeners,

recurring four times in three lines: for though such substitution may

be in itself perfectly justifiable, yet this exercise of ingenuity

ought to be within the competence of the unaided English reader if

he likes to show himself ingenious. Learning Greek teaches Greek,

and nothing else: certainly not common sense, if that have failed

to precede the teaching. Further,--if I obtained a mere strict bald

version of thing by thing, or at least word pregnant with thing, I

should hardly look for an impossible transmission of the reputed

magniloquence and sonority of the Greek; and this with the less regret,

inasmuch as there is abundant musicality elsewhere, but nowhere else

than in his poem the ideas of the poet. And lastly, when presented with

these ideas, I should expect the result to prove very hard reading

indeed if it were meant to resemble Æschylus, ξυμβαλεῖν

οὐ ῥᾴδιος, "not easy to understand," in the opinion of his

stoutest advocate among the ancients; while, I suppose, even modern

scholarship sympathizes with that early declaration of the redoubtable

Salmasius, when, looking about for an example of the truly obscure

for the benefit of those who found obscurity in the sacred books, he

protested that this particular play leaves them all behind in this

respect, with their "Hebraisms, Syriasms, Hellenisms, and the whole of

such bag and baggage."[6] For, over and above the proposed ambiguity

of the Chorus, the text is sadly corrupt, probably interpolated, and

certainly mutilated; and no unlearned person enjoys the scholar's

privilege of trying his fancy upon each obstacle whenever he comes to a

stoppage, and effectually clearing the way by suppressing what seems to

lie in it.

All I can say for the present performance is, that I have done as

I would be done by, if need were. Should anybody, without need,

honor my translation by a comparison with the original, I beg him to

observe that, following no editor exclusively, I keep to the earlier

readings so long as sense can be made out of them, but disregard,

I hope, little of importance in recent criticism so far as I have

fallen in with it. Fortunately, the poorest translation, provided

only it be faithful,--though it reproduce all the artistic confusion

of tenses, moods, and persons, with which the original teems,--will

not only suffice to display what an eloquent friend maintains to be

the all-in-all of poetry--"the action of the piece"--but may help

to illustrate his assurance that "the Greeks are the highest models

of expression, the unapproached masters of the grand style: their

expression is so excellent because it is so admirably kept in its right

degree of prominence, because it is so simple and so well subordinated,

because it draws its force directly from the pregnancy of the matter

which it conveys ... not a word wasted, not a sentiment capriciously

thrown in, stroke on stroke"[7] So may all happen!

Just a word more on the subject of my spelling--in a transcript from

the Greek and there exclusively--Greek names and places precisely as

does the Greek author. I began this practice, with great innocency

of intention, some six-and-thirty years ago. Leigh Hunt, I remember,

was accustomed to speak of his gratitude, when ignorant of Greek, to

those writers (like Goldsmith) who had obliged him by using English

characters, so that he might relish, for instance, the smooth quality

of such a phrase as "hapalunetai galené;" he said also that Shelley

was indignant at "Firenze" having displaced the Dantesque "Fiorenza,"

and would contemptuously English the intruder "Firence." I supposed I

was doing a simple thing enough: but there has been till lately much

astonishment at _os_ and _us_, _ai_ and _oi_, representing the same

letters in Greek. Of a sudden, however, whether in translation or out

of it, everybody seems committing the offence, although the adoption

of _u_ for υ still presents such difficulty that it is a wonder

how we have hitherto escaped "Eyripides." But there existed a sturdy

Briton who, Ben Jonson informs us, wrote "The Life of the Emperor

Anthony Pie"--whom we now acquiesce in as Antoninus Pius: for "with

time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes satin." Yet there is on

all sides much profession of respect for what Keats called "vowelled

Greek"--"consonanted," one would expect; and, in a criticism upon a

late admirable translation of something of my own, it was deplored

that, in a certain verse corresponding in measure to the fourteenth of

the sixth Pythian Ode, "neither Professor Jebb in his Greek, nor Mr.

Browning in his English, could emulate that matchlessly musical γόνον

ἰδὼν κάλλιστον ἀνδρῶν." Now, undoubtedly, "Seeing

her son the fairest of men" has more sense than sound to boast of:

but then, would not an Italian roll us out "Rimirando il figliuolo

bellissimo degli uomini?" whereat Pindar, no less than Professor Jebb

and Mr. Browning, τριακτῆρος οἴχεται τυχών.

It is recorded in the Annals of Art[8] that there was once upon

a time, practising so far north as Stockholm, a painter and

picture-cleaner--sire of a less unhappy son--Old Muytens: and

the annalist, Baron de Tessé, has not concealed his profound

dissatisfaction at Old Muytens' conceit "to have himself had something

to do with the work of whatever master of eminence might pass through

his hands." Whence it was--the Baron goes on to deplore--that much

detriment was done to that excellent piece "The Recognition of

Achilles," by Rubens, through the perversity of Old Muytens, "who

must needs take on him to beautify every nymph of the twenty by the

bestowment of a widened eye and an enlarged mouth." I, at least, have

left eyes and mouths everywhere as I found them, and this conservatism

is all that claims praise for--what is, after all ἀκέλευστος

ἄμισθος ἀοιδά. No, neither "uncommanded" nor "unrewarded:"

since it was commanded of me by my venerated friend Thomas Carlyle, and

rewarded will it indeed become, if I am permitted to dignify it by the

prefatory insertion of his dear and noble name.

R. B.

LONDON, _October 1, 1877_.

AGAMEMNON

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

WARDER.

CHOROS OF OLD MEN.

KLUTAIMNESTRA.

TALTHUBIOS, _Herald_.

AGAMEMNON.

AIGISTHOS.

KASSANDRA.

_Warder._ The gods I ask deliverance from these labors,

Watch of a year's length whereby, slumbering through it

On the Atreidai's roofs on elbow,--dog-like--

I know of nightly star-groups the assemblage,

And those that bring to men winter and summer,

Bright dynasts, as they pride them in the æther

--Stars, when they wither, and the uprisings of them.

And now on ward I wait the torch's token,

The glow of fire, shall bring from Troia message

And word of capture: so prevails audacious

The man's-way-planning hoping heart of woman.

But when I, driven from night-rest, dew-drenched, hold to

This couch of mine--not looked upon by visions,

Since fear instead of sleep still stands beside me,

So as that fast I fix in sleep no eyelids--

And when to sing or chirp a tune I fancy,

For slumber such song-remedy infusing,

I wail then, for this House's fortune groaning,

Not, as of old, after the best ways governed.

Now, lucky be deliverance from these labors,

At good news--the appearing dusky fire!

O hail, thou lamp of night, a day-long lightness

Revealing, and of dances the ordainment!

Halloo, halloo!

To Agamemnon's wife I show, by shouting,

That, from bed starting up at once, i' the household

Joyous acclaim, good-omened to this torch-blaze,

She send aloft if haply Ilion's city

Be taken, as the beacon boasts announcing.

Ay, and, for me, myself will dance a prelude,

For, that my masters' dice drop right, I 'll reckon:

Since thrice-six has it thrown to me, this signal.

Well, may it hap that, as he comes, the love hand

O' the household's lord I may sustain with this hand!

As for the rest, I 'm mute: on tongue a big ox

Has trodden. Yet this House, if voice it take should,

Most plain would speak. So, willing I myself speak

To those who know: to who know not--I 'm blankness.

_Choros._ The tenth year this, since Priamos' great match,

King Menelaos, Agamemnon King,

--The strenuous yoke-pair of the Atreidai's honor

Two-throned, two-sceptred, whereof Zeus was donor--

Did from this land the aid, the armament dispatch,

The thousand-sailored force of Argives clamoring

"Ares" from out the indignant breast, as fling

Passion forth vultures which, because of grief

Away,--as are their young ones,--with the thief,

Lofty above their brood-nests wheel in ring,

Row round and round with oar of either wing,

Lament the bedded chicks, lost labor that was love:

Which hearing, one above

--Whether Apollon, Pan or Zeus--that wail,

Sharp-piercing bird-shriek of the guests who fare

Housemates with gods in air--

Such-an-one sends, against who these assail,

What, late-sent, shall not fail

Of punishing--Erinus. Here as there,

The Guardian of the Guest Zeus, the excelling one,

Sends against Alexandros either son

Of Atreus: for that wife, the many-husbanded,

Appointing many a tug that tries the limb,

While the knee plays the prop in dust, while, shred

To morsels, lies the spear-shaft; in those grim

Marriage-prolusions when their Fury wed

Danaoi and Troes, both alike. All 's said:

Things are where things are, and, as fate has willed,

So shall they be fulfilled.

Not gently-grieving, not just doling out

The drops of expiation--no, nor tears distilled--

Shall he we know of bring the hard about

To soft--that intense ire

At those mock rites unsanctified by fire.

But we pay naught here: through our flesh, age-weighed,

Left out from who gave aid

In that day,--we remain,

Staying on staves a strength

The equal of a child's at length.

For when young marrow in the breast doth reign,

That 's the old man's match,--Ares out of place

In either: but in oldest age's case,

Foliage a-fading, why, he wends his way

On three feet, and, no stronger than a child,

Wanders about gone wild,

A dream in day.

But thou, Tundareus' daughter, Klutaimnestra queen,

What need? What new? What having heard or seen,

By what announcement's tidings, everywhere

Settest thou, round about, the sacrifice aflare?

For, of all gods the city-swaying,

Those supernal, those infernal,

Those of the fields', those of the mart's obeying,--

The altars blaze with gifts;

And here and there, heaven-high the torch uplifts

Flame--medicated with persuasions mild,

With foul admixture unbeguiled--

Of holy unguent, from the clotted chrism

Brought from the palace, safe in its abysm.

Of these things, speaking what may be indeed

Both possible and lawful to concede,

Healer do thou become!--of this solicitude

Which, now, stands plainly forth of evil mood,

And, then ... but from oblations, hope, to-day

Gracious appearing, wards away

From soul the insatiate care,

The sorrow at my breast, devouring there!

Empowered am I to sing

The omens, what their force which, journeying,

Rejoiced the potentates:

(For still, from God, inflates

My breast, song-suasion: age,

Born to the business, still such war can wage)

--How the fierce bird against the Teukris land

Dispatched, with spear and executing hand,

The Achaian's two-throned empery--o'er Hellas' youth

Two rulers with one mind:

The birds' king to these kings of ships, on high,

--The black sort, and the sort that's white behind,--

Appearing by the palace, on the spear-throw side,

In right sky-regions, visible far and wide,--

Devouring a hare-creature, great with young,

Balked of more racings they, as she from whom they sprung!

Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail!

But may the good prevail!

The prudent army-prophet seeing two

The Atreidai, two their tempers, knew

Those feasting on the hare

The armament-conductors were;

And thus he spoke, explaining signs in view.

"In time, this outset takes the town of Priamos:

But all before its towers,--the people's wealth that was,

Of flocks and herds,--as sure, shall booty-sharing thence

Drain to the dregs away, by battle violence.

Only, have care lest grudge of any god disturb

With cloud the unsullied shine of that great force, the curb

Of Troia, struck with damp

Beforehand in the camp!

For envyingly is

The virgin Artemis

Toward--her father's flying hounds--this House--

The sacrificers of the piteous

And cowering beast,

Brood and all, ere the birth: she hates the eagles' feast.

Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail!

But may the good prevail!

"Thus ready is the beauteous one with help

To those small dewdrop things fierce lions whelp,

And udder-loving litter of each brute

That roams the mead; and therefore makes she suit,

The fair one, for fulfilment to the end

Of things these signs portend--

Which partly smile, indeed, but partly scowl--

The phantasms of the fowl.

I call Ieïos Paian to avert

She work the Danaoi hurt

By any thwarting waftures, long and fast

Holdings from sail of ships:

And sacrifice, another than the last,

She for herself precipitate--

Something unlawful, feast for no man's lips,

Builder of quarrels, with the House cognate--

Having in awe no husband: for remains

A frightful, backward-darting in the path,

Wily house-keeping chronicler of wrath,

That has to punish that old children's fate!"

Such things did Kalchas,--with abundant gains

As well,--vociferate,

Predictions from the birds, in journeying,

Above the abode of either king.

With these, symphonious, sing--

Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail!

But may the good prevail!

Zeus, whosoe'er he be,--if that express

Aught dear to him on whom I call--

So do I him address.

I cannot liken out, by all

Admeasurement of powers,

Any but Zeus for refuge at such hours,

If veritably needs I must

From off my soul its vague care-burden thrust.

Not--whosoever was the great of yore,

Bursting to bloom with bravery all round--

Is in our mouths: he was, but is no more.

And who it was that after came to be,

Met the thrice-throwing wrestler,--he

Is also gone to ground.

But "Zeus"--if any, heart and soul, that name--

Shouting the triumph-praise--proclaim,

Complete in judgment shall that man be found.

Zeus, who leads onward mortals to be wise,

Appoints that suffering masterfully teach,

in sleep, before the heart of each,

A woe-remembering travail sheds in dew

Discretion,--ay, and melts the unwilling too

By what, perchance, may be a graciousness

Of gods, enforced no less,--

As they, commanders of the crew,

Assume the awful seat.

And then the old leader of the Achaian fleet,

Disparaging no seer--

With bated breath to suit misfortune's inrush here

--(What time it labored, that Achaian host,

By stay from sailing,--every pulse at length

Emptied of vital strength,--

Hard over Kalchis shore-bound, current-crost

In Aulis station,--while the winds which post

From Strumon, ill-delayers, famine-fraught,

Tempters of man to sail where harborage is naught,

Spendthrifts of ships and cables, turning time

To twice the length,--these carded, by delay,

To less and less away

The Argeians' flowery prime:

And when a remedy more grave and grand

Than aught before--yea, for the storm and dearth--

The prophet to the foremost in command

Shrieked forth, as cause of this

Adducing Artemis,

So that the Atreidai striking staves on earth

Could not withhold the tear)--

Then did the king, the elder, speak this clear.

"Heavy the fate, indeed--to disobey!

Yet heavy if my child I slay,

The adornment of my household: with the tide

Of virgin-slaughter, at the altar-side,

A father's hands defiling: which the way

Without its evils, say?

How shall I turn fleet-fugitive,

Failing of duty to allies?

Since for a wind-abating sacrifice

And virgin blood,--'t is right they strive,

Nay, madden with desire.

Well may it work them--this that they require!"

But when he underwent necessity's

Yoke-trace,--from soul blowing unhallowed change

Unclean, abominable,--thence--another man--

The audacious mind of him began

Its wildest range.

For this it is gives mortals hardihood--

Some vice-devising miserable mood

Of madness, and first woe of all the brood.

The sacrificer of his daughter--strange!--

He dared become, to expedite

Woman-avenging warfare,--anchors weighed

With such prelusive rite!

Prayings and callings "Father"--naught they made

Of these, and of the virgin-age,--

Captains heart-set on war to wage!

His ministrants, vows done, the father bade--

Kid-like, above the altar, swathed in pall,

Take her--lift high, and have no fear at all,

Head-downward, and the fair mouth's guard

And frontage hold,--press hard

From utterance a curse against the House

By dint of bit--violence bridling speech.

And as to ground her saffron-vest she shed,

She smote the sacrificers all and each

With arrow sweet and piteous,

From the eye only sped,--

Significant of will to use a word,

Just as in pictures: since, full many a time,

In her sire's guest-hall, by the well-heaped board

Had she made music,--lovingly with chime

Of her chaste voice, that unpolluted thing,

Honored the third libation,--paian that should bring

Good fortune to the sire she loved so well.

What followed--those things I nor saw nor tell.

But Kalchas' arts--whate'er they indicate--

Miss of fulfilment never: it is fate.

True, justice makes, in sufferers, a desire

To know the future woe preponderate.

But--hear before is need!

To that, farewell and welcome! 't is the same, indeed,

As grief beforehand: clearly, part for part,

Conformably to Kalchas' art,

Shall come the event.

But be they as they may, things subsequent,--

What is to do, prosperity betide

E'en as we wish it!--we, the next allied,

Sole guarding barrier of the Apian land.

I am come, reverencing power in thee,

O Klutaimnestra! For 't is just we bow

To the ruler's wife,--the male-seat man-bereaved.

But if thou, having heard good news,--or none,--

For good news' hope dost sacrifice thus wide,

I would hear gladly: art thou mute,--no grudge!

_Klutaimnestra._ Good-news-announcer, may--as is the by-word--

Morn become, truly,--news from Night his mother!

But thou shalt learn joy past all hope of hearing.

Priamos' city have the Argeioi taken.

_Cho._ How sayest? The word, from want of faith, escaped me.

_Klu._ Troia the Achaioi hold: do I speak plainly?

_Cho._ Joy overcreeps me, calling forth the tear-drop.

_Klu._ Right! for, that glad thou art, thine eye convicts thee.

_Cho._ For--what to thee, of all this, trusty token?

_Klu._ What 's here! how else? unless the god have cheated.

_Cho._ Haply thou flattering shows of dreams respectest?

_Klu._ No fancy would I take of soul sleep-burdened.

_Cho._ But has there puffed thee up some un-winged omen?

_Klu._ As a young maid's my mind thou mockest grossly.

_Cho._ Well, at what time was--even sacked, the city?

_Klu._ Of this same mother Night--the dawn, I tell thee.

_Cho._ And who of messengers could reach this swiftness?

_Klu._ Hephaistos--sending a bright blaze from Idé.

Beacon did beacon send, from fire the poster,

Hitherward: Idé to the rock Hermaian

Of Lemnos: and a third great torch o' the island

Zeus' seat received in turn, the Athoan summit.

And,--so upsoaring as to stride sea over,

The strong lamp-voyager, and all for joyance--

Did the gold-glorious splendor, any sun like,

Pass on--the pine-tree--to Makistos' watch-place;

Who did not,--tardy,--caught, no wits about him,

By sleep,--decline his portion of the missive.

And far the beacon's light, on stream Euripos

Arriving, made aware Messapios' warders.

And up they lit in turn, played herald onwards,

Kindling with flame a heap of gray old heather.

And, strengthening still, the lamp, decaying nowise,

Springing o'er Plain Asopos,--fullmoon-fashion

Effulgent,--toward the crag of Mount Kithairon,

Roused a new rendering-up of fire the escort--

And light, far escort, lacked no recognition

O' the guard--as burning more than burnings told you.

And over Lake Gorgopis light went leaping,

And, at Mount Aigiplanktos safe arriving,

Enforced the law--"to never stint the fire-stuff."

And they send, lighting up with ungrudged vigor,

Of flame a huge beard, ay, the very foreland

So as to strike above, in burning onward,

The look-out which commands the Strait Saronic,

Then did it dart until it reached the outpost

Mount Arachnaios here, the city's neighbor;

And then darts to this roof of the Atreidai

This light of Idé's fire not unforefathered!

Such are the rules prescribed the flambeau-bearers:

He beats that 's first and also last in running.

Such is the proof and token I declare thee,

My husband having sent me news from Troia.

_Cho._ The gods, indeed, anon will I pray, woman!

But now, these words to hear, and sate my wonder

Thoroughly, I am fain--if twice thou tell them.

_Klu._ Troia do the Achaioi hold, this same day.

I think a noise--no mixture--reigns i' the city.

Sour wine and unguent pour thou in one vessel--

Standers-apart, not lovers, would'st thou style them:

And so, of captives and of conquerors, partwise

The voices are to hear, of fortune diverse.

For those, indeed, upon the bodies prostrate

Of husbands, brothers, children upon parents

--The old men, from a throat that 's free no longer,

Shriekingly wail the death-doom of their dearest:

While these--the after-battle hungry labor,

Which prompts night-faring, marshals them to breakfast

On the town's store, according to no billet

Of sharing, but as each drew lot of fortune.

In the spear-captured Troic habitations

House they already: from the frosts upæthral

And dews delivered, will they, luckless creatures,

Without a watch to keep, slumber all night through.

And if they fear the gods, the city-guarders,

And if the gods' structures of the conquered country,

They may not--capturers--soon in turn be captive.

But see no prior lust befall the army

To sack things sacred--by gain-cravings vanquished!

For there needs homeward the return's salvation,

To round the new limb back o' the double race-course.

And guilty to the gods if came the army,

Awakened up the sorrow of those slaughtered

Might be--should no outbursting evils happen.

But may good beat--no turn to see i' the balance!

For, many benefits I want the gain of.

_Cho._ Woman, like prudent man thou kindly speakest.

And I, thus having heard thy trusty tokens,

The gods to rightly hail forthwith prepare me;

For, grace that must be paid has crowned our labors.

O Zeus the king, and friendly Night

Of these brave boons bestower--

Thou who didst fling on Troia's every tower

The o'er-roofing snare, that neither great thing might,

Nor any of the young ones, overpass

Captivity's great sweep-net--one and all

Of Até held in thrall!

Ay, Zeus I fear--the guest's friend great--who was

The doer of this, and long since bent

The bow on Alexandros with intent

That neither wide o' the white

Nor o'er the stars the foolish dart should light.

The stroke of Zeus--they have it, as men say!

This, at least, from the source track forth we may!

As he ordained, so has he done.

"No"--said some one--

"The gods think fit to care

Nowise for mortals, such

As those by whom the good and fair

Of things denied their touch

Is trampled!" but he was profane.

That they do care, has been made plain

To offspring of the over-bold,

Outbreathing "Ares" greater than is just--

Houses that spill with more than they can hold.

More than is best for man. Be man's what must

Keep harm off, so that in himself he find

Sufficiency--the well-endowed of mind!

For there 's no bulwark in man's wealth to him

Who, through a surfeit, kicks--into the dim

And disappearing--Right's great altar.

Yes--

It urges him, the sad persuasiveness,

Até's insufferable child that schemes

Treason beforehand: and all cure is vain.

It is not hidden: out it glares again,

A light dread-lamping-mischief, just as gleams

The badness of the bronze;

Through rubbing, puttings to the touch,

Black-clotted is he, judged at once.

He seeks--the boy--a flying bird to clutch,

The insufferable brand

Setting upon the city of his land

Whereof not any god hears prayer;

While him who brought about such evils there,

That unjust man, the god in grapple throws.

Such an one, Paris goes

Within the Atreidai's house--

Shamed the guest's board by robbery of the spouse.

And, leaving to her townsmen throngs a-spread

With shields, and spear-thrusts of sea-armament,

And bringing Ilion, in a dowry's stead,

Destruction--swiftly through the gates she went,

Daring the undareable. But many a groan outbroke

From prophets of the House as thus they spoke.

"Woe, woe the House, the House and Rulers,--woe

The marriage-bed and dints

A husband's love imprints!

There she stands silent! meets no honor--no

Shame--sweetest still to see of things gone long ago!

And, through desire of one across the main,

A ghost will seem within the house to reign:

And hateful to the husband is the grace

Of well-shaped statues: from--in place of eyes,

Those blanks--all Aphrodité dies.

"But dream-appearing mournful fantasies--

There they stand, bringing grace that's vain.

For vain 't is, when brave things one seems to view:

The fantasy has floated off, hands through;

Gone, that appearance,--nowise left to creep,--

On wings, the servants in the paths of sleep!"

Woes, then, in household and on hearth, are such

As these--and woes surpassing these by much.

But not these only: everywhere--

For those who from the land

Of Hellas issued in a band,

Sorrow, the heart must bear,

Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there.

Many a circumstance, at least,

Touches the very breast.

For those

Whom any sent away,--he knows:

And in the live man's stead,

Armor and ashes reach

The house of each.

For Ares, gold-exchanger for the dead,

And balance-holder in the fight o' the spear,

Due-weight from Ilion sends--

What moves the tear on tear--

A charred scrap to the friends:

Filling with well-packed ashes every urn,

For man--that was--the sole return.

And they groan--praising much, the while,

Now this man as experienced in the strife,

Now that, fallen nobly on a slaughtered pile,

Because of--not his own--another's wife.

But things there be, one barks,

When no man harks:

A surreptitious grief that 's grudge

Against the Atreidai who first sought the judge.

But some there, round the rampart, have

In Ilian earth, each one his grave:

All fair-formed as at birth,

It hid them--what they have and hold--the hostile earth.

And big with anger goes the city's word,

And pays a debt by public curse incurred.

And ever with me--as about to hear

A something night-involved--remains my fear:

Since of the many-slayers--not

Unwatching are the gods.

The black Erinues, at due periods--

Whoever gains the lot

Of fortune with no right--

Him, by life's strain and stress

Back-again-beaten from success,

They strike blind: and among the out-of-sight

For who has got to be, avails no might.

The being praised outrageously

Is grave, for at the eyes of such an one

Is launched, from Zeus, the thunder-stone.

Therefore do I decide

For so much and no more prosperity

Than of his envy passes unespied.

Neither a city-sacker would I be,

Nor life, myself by others captive, see.

A swift report has gone our city through,

From fire, the good-news messenger: if true,

Who knows? Or is it not a god-sent lie?

Who is so childish and deprived of sense

That, having, at announcements of the flame

Thus novel, felt his own heart fired thereby,

He then shall, at a change of evidence,

Be worsted just the same?

It is conspicuous in a woman's nature,

Before its view to take a grace for granted:

Too trustful,--on her boundary, usurpature

Is swiftly made;

But swiftly, too, decayed,

The glory perishes by woman vaunted.

_Klu._ Soon shall we know--of these light-bearing torches,

And beacons and exchanges, fire with fire--

If they are true, indeed, or if, dream-fashion,

This gladsome light came and deceived our judgment.

Yon herald from the shore I see, o'ershadowed

With boughs of olive: dust, mud's thirsty brother,

Close neighbors on his garb, thus testify me

That neither voiceless, nor yet kindling for thee

Mountain-wood-flame, shall he explain by fire-smoke:

But either tell out more the joyance, speaking ...

Word contrary to which, I ought but love it!

For may good be--to good that 's known--appendage!

_Cho._ Whoever prays for aught else to this city

--May he himself reap fruit of his mind's error!

_Herald._ Ha, my forefathers' soil of earth Argeian!

Thee, in this year's tenth light, am I returned to--

Of many broken hopes, on one hope chancing;

For never prayed I, in this earth Argeian

Dying, to share my part in tomb the dearest.

Now, hail thou earth, and hail thou also, sunlight,

And Zeus, the country's lord, and king the Puthian

From bow no longer urging at us arrows!

Enough, beside Skamandros, cam'st thou adverse:

Now, contrary, be saviour thou and healer,

O king Apollon! And gods conquest-granting,

All--I invoke too, and my tutelary

Hermes, dear herald, heralds' veneration,--

And Heroes our forthsenders,--friendly, once more

The army to receive, the war-spear's leavings!

Ha, mansions of my monarchs, roofs beloved,

And awful seats, and deities sun-fronting--

Receive with pomp your monarch, long time absent!

For he comes bringing light in night-time to you,

In common with all these--king Agamemnon.

But kindly greet him--for clear shows your duty--

Who has dug under Troia with the mattock

Of Zeus the Avenger, whereby plains are out-ploughed,

Altars unrecognizable, and god's shrines,

And the whole land's seed thoroughly has perished.

And such a yoke-strap having cast round Troia,

The elder king Atreides, happy man--he

Comes to be honored, worthiest of what mortals

Now are. Nor Paris nor the accomplice-city

Outvaunts their deed as more than they are done-by:

For, in a suit for rape and theft found guilty,

He missed of plunder and, in one destruction,

Fatherland, house and home has mowed to atoms:

Debts the Priamidai have paid twice over.

_Cho._ Hail, herald from the army of Achaians!

_Her._ I hail:--to die, will gainsay gods no longer!

_Cho._ Love of this fatherland did exercise thee?

_Her._ So that I weep, at least, with joy, my eyes full.

_Cho._ What, of this gracious sickness were ye gainers?

_Her._ How now? instructed, I this speech shall master.

_Cho._ For those who loved you back, with longing stricken.

_Her._ This land yearned for the yearning army, say'st thou?

_Cho._ So as to set me oft, from dark mind, groaning.

_Her._ Whence came this ill mind--hatred to the army?

_Cho._ Of old, I use, for mischief's physic, silence.

_Her._ And how, the chiefs away, did you fear any?

_Cho._ So that now--late thy word--much joy were--dying!

_Her._ For well have things been worked out: these,--in much time,

Some of them, one might say, had luck in falling,

While some were faulty: since who, gods excepted,

Goes, through the whole time of his life, ungrieving?

For labors should I tell of, and bad lodgments,

Narrow deckways ill-strewn, too,--what the day's woe

We did not groan at getting for our portion?

As for land-things, again, on went more hatred!

Since beds were ours hard by the foemen's ramparts,

And, out of heaven and from the earth, the meadow

Dews kept a-sprinkle, an abiding damage

Of vestures, making hair a wild-beast matting.

Winter, too, if one told of it--bird-slaying--

Such as, unbearable, Idaian snow brought--

Or heat, when waveless, on its noontide couches

Without a wind, the sea would slumber falling

--Why must one mourn these? O'er and gone is labor:

O'er and gone is it, even to those dead ones,

So that no more again they mind uprising.

Why must we tell in numbers those deprived ones,

And the live man be vexed with fate's fresh outbreak?

Rather, I bid full farewell to misfortunes!

For us, the left from out the Argeian army,

The gain beats, nor does sorrow counterbalance.

So that 't is fitly boasted of, this sunlight,

By us, o'er sea and land the aery flyers,

"Troia at last taking, the band of Argives

Hang up such trophies to the gods of Hellas

Within their domes--new glory to grow ancient!"

Such things men having heard must praise the city

And army-leaders: and the grace which wrought them--

Of Zeus, shall honored be. Thou hast my whole word.

_Cho._ O'ercome by words, their sense I do not gainsay.

For, aye this breeds youth in the old--"to learn well."

But these things most the house and Klutaimnestra

Concern, 't is likely: while they make me rich, too.

_Klu._ I shouted long ago, indeed, for joyance,

When came that first night-messenger of fire

Proclaiming Ilion's capture and dispersion.

And some one, girding me, said, "Through fire-bearers

Persuaded--Troia to be sacked now, thinkest?

Truly, the woman's way,--high to lift heart up!"

By such words I was made seem wit-bewildered:

Yet still I sacrificed; and,--female-song with,--

A shout one man and other, through the city,

Set up, congratulating in the gods' seats,

Soothing the incense-eating flame right fragrant.

And now, what 's more, indeed, why need'st thou tell me?

I of the king himself shall learn the whole word:

And,--as may best be,--I my revered husband

Shall hasten, as he comes back, to receive: for--

What 's to a wife sweeter to see than this light

(Her husband, by the god saved, back from warfare)

So as to open gates? This tell my husband--

To come at soonest to his loving city.

A faithful wife at home may he find, coming!

Such an one as he left--the dog o' the household--

Trusty to him, adverse to the ill-minded,

And, in all else, the same: no signet-impress

Having done harm to, in that time's duration.

I know nor pleasure, nor blameworthy converse

With any other man more than--bronze-dippings!

_Her._ Such boast as this--brimful of the veracious--

Is for a high-born dame not bad to send forth!

_Cho._ Ay, she spoke thus to thee--that hast a knowledge

From clear interpreters--a speech most seemly!

But speak, thou, herald! Menelaos I ask of:

If he, returning, back in safety also

Will come with you--this land's beloved chieftain?

_Her._ There's no way I might say things false and pleasant

For friends to reap the fruits of through a long time.

_Cho._ How then, if, speaking good, things true thou chance on?

_Her._ For not well-hidden things become they, sundered.

The man has vanished from the Achaic army,

He and his ship too. I announce no falsehood.

_Cho._ Whether forth-putting openly from Ilion,

Or did storm--wide woe--snatch him from the army?

_Her._ Like topping bowman, thou hast touched the target,

And a long sorrow hast succinctly spoken.

_Cho._ Whether, then, of him, as a live or dead man

Was the report by other sailors bruited?

_Her._ Nobody knows so as to tell out clearly

Excepting Helios who sustains earth's nature.

_Cho._ How say'st thou then, did storm the naval army

Attack and end, by the celestials' anger?

_Her._ It suits not to defile a day auspicious

With ill-announcing speech: distinct each god's due:

And when a messenger with gloomy visage

To a city bears a fall'n host's woes--God ward off!--

One popular wound that happens to the city,

And many sacrificed from many households--

Men, scourged by that two-thonged whip Ares loves so,

Double spear-headed curse, bloody yoke-couple,--

Of woes like these, doubtless, whoe'er comes weighted,

Him does it suit to sing the Erinues' paian.

But who, of matters saved a glad-news-bringer,

Comes to a city in good estate rejoicing....

How shall I mix good things with evil, telling

Of storm against the Achaioi, urged by gods' wrath?

For they swore league, being arch-foes before that,

Fire and the sea: and plighted troth approved they,

Destroying the unhappy Argeian army,

At night began the bad-wave-outbreak evils;

For, ships against each other Threkian breezes

Shattered: and these, butted at in a fury

By storm and typhoon, with surge rain-resounding,--

Oft they went, vanished, through a bad herd's whirling.

And, when returned the brilliant light of Helios,

We view the Aigaian sea on flower with corpses

Of men Achaian and with naval ravage.

But us indeed, and ship, unhurt i' the hull too,

Either some one outstole us or outprayed us--

Some god--no man it was the tiller touching.

And Fortune, savior, willing on our ship sat.

So as it neither had in harbor wave-surge

Nor ran aground against a shore all rocky.

And then, the water-Haides having fled from

In the white day, not trusting to our fortune,

We chewed the cud in thoughts--this novel sorrow

O' the army laboring and badly pounded.

And now--if any one of them is breathing--

They talk of us as having-perished: why not?

And we--that they the same fate have, imagine.

May it be for the best! Meneleos, then,

Foremost and specially to come, expect thou!

If (that is) any ray o' the sun reports him

Living and seeing too--by Zeus' contrivings,

Not yet disposed to quite destroy the lineage--

Some hope is he shall come again to household.

Having heard such things, know, thou truth art hearing!

_Cho._ Who may he have been that named thus wholly with

exactitude--

(Was he some one whom we see not, by forecastings of the future

Guiding tongue in happy mood?)

--Her with battle for a bridegroom, on all sides contention-wooed,

Helena? Since--mark the suture!--

Ship's-Hell, Man's-Hell, City's-Hell,

From the delicately--pompous curtains that pavilion well,

Forth, by favor of the gale

Of earth-born Zephuros did she sail.

Many shield-bearers, leaders of the pack,

Sailed too upon their track,

Theirs who had directed oar,

Then visible no more,

To Simois' leaf-luxuriant shore--

For sake of strife all gore!

To Ilion Wrath, fulfilling her intent,

This marriage-care--the rightly named so--sent:

In after-time, for the tables' abuse

And that of the hearth-partaker Zeus,

Bringing to punishment

Those who honored with noisy throat

The honor of the bride, the hymenæal note

Which did the kinsfolk then to singing urge.

But, learning a new hymn for that which was,

The ancient city of Priamos

Groans probably a great and general dirge,

Denominating Paris

"The man that miserably marries:"--

She who, all the while before,

A life, that was a general dirge

For citizens' unhappy slaughter, bore,

And thus a man, by no milk's help,

Within his household reared a lion's whelp

That loved the teat

In life's first festal stage:

Gentle as yet,

A true child-lover, and, to men of age,

A thing whereat pride warms;

And oft he had it in his arms

Like any new-born babe, bright-faced, to hand

Wagging its tail, at belly's strict command.

But in due time upgrown,

The custom of progenitors was shown:

For--thanks for sustenance repaying

With ravage of sheep slaughtered--

It made unbidden feast;

With blood the house was watered,

To household came a woe there was no staying:

Great mischief many-slaying!

From God it was--some priest

Of Até, in the house, by nurture thus increased.

At first, then, to the city of Ilion went

A soul, as I might say, of windless calm--

Wealth's quiet ornament,

An eyes'-dart bearing balm,

Love's spirit-biting flower.

But--from the true course bending--

She brought about, of marriage, bitter ending:

Ill-resident, ill-mate, in power

Passing to the Priamidai--by sending

Of Hospitable Zeus--

Erinus for a bride,--to make brides mourn, her dower.

Spoken long ago

Was the ancient saying

Still among mortals staying:

"Man's great prosperity at height of rise

Engenders offspring nor unchilded dies;

And, from good fortune, to such families,

Buds forth insatiate woe."

Whereas, distinct from any,

Of my own mind I am:

For 't is the unholy deed begets the many,

Resembling each its dam.

Of households that correctly estimate,

Ever a beauteous child is born of Fate.

But ancient Arrogance delights to generate

Arrogance, young and strong 'mid mortals' sorrow,

Or now, or then, when comes the appointed morrow.

And she bears young Satiety;

And, fiend with whom nor fight nor war can be,

Unholy Daring--twin black Curses

Within the household, children like their nurses.

But Justice shines in smoke-grimed habitations,

And honors the well-omened life;

While,--gold-besprinkled stations

Where the hands' filth is rife,

With backward-turning eyes

Leaving,--to holy seats she hies,

Not worshipping the power of wealth

Stamped with applause by stealth:

And to its end directs each thing begun.

Approach then, my monarch, of Troia the sacker, of Atreus the son!

How ought I address thee, how ought I revere thee,--nor yet

overhitting

Nor yet underbending the grace that is fitting?

Many of mortals hasten to honor the seeming-to-be--

Passing by justice: and, with the ill-faring, to groan as he groans

all are free.

But no bite of the sorrow their liver has reached to:

They say with the joyful,--one outside on each, too,

As they force to a smile smileless faces.

But whoever is good at distinguishing races

In sheep of his flock--it is not for the eyes

Of a man to escape such a shepherd's surprise,

As they seem, from a well-wishing mind,

In watery friendship to fawn and be kind.

Thou to me, then, indeed, sending an army for Helena's sake,

(I will not conceal it,) wast--oh, by no help of the

Muses!--depicted

Not well of thy midriff the rudder directing,--convicted

Of bringing a boldness they did not desire to the men with existence

at stake.

But now--from no outside of mind, nor unlovingly--gracious thou art

To those who have ended the labor, fulfilling their part;

And in time shalt thou know, by inquiry instructed,

Who of citizens justly, and who not to purpose, the city conducted.

_Agamemnon._ First, indeed, Argos, and the gods, the local,

'T is right addressing--those with me the partners

In this return and right things done the city

Of Priamos: gods who, from no tongue hearing

The rights o' the cause, for Ilion's fate man-slaught'rous

Into the bloody vase, not oscillating,

Put the vote-pebbles, while, o' the rival vessel,

Hope rose up to the lip-edge: filled it was not.

By smoke the captured city is still conspicuous:

Até's burnt-offerings live: and, dying with them,

The ash sends forth the fulsome blasts of riches.

Of these things, to the gods grace many-mindful

'T is right I render, since both nets outrageous

We built them round with, and, for sake of woman,

It did the city to dust--the Argeian monster,

The horse's nestling, the shield-bearing people

That made a leap, at setting of the Pleiads,

And, vaulting o'er the tower, the raw-flesh-feeding

Lion licked up his fill of blood tyrannic.

I to the gods indeed prolonged this preface;

But--as for _thy_ thought, I remember hearing--

I say the same, and thou co-pleader hast me.

Since few of men this faculty is born with

To honor, without grudge, their friend successful.

For moody, on the heart, a poison seated

Its burden doubles to who gained the sickness:

By his own griefs he is himself made heavy,

And out-of-door prosperity seeing groans at.

Knowing, I 'd call (for well have I experienced)

"Fellowship's mirror," "phantom of a shadow,"

Those seeming to be mighty gracious to me:

While just Odusseus--he who sailed not willing--

When joined on, was to me the ready trace-horse.

This of him, whether dead or whether living,

I say. For other city-and-gods' concernment--

Appointing common courts, in full assemblage

We will consult. And as for what holds seemly

How it may lasting stay well, must be counselled:

While what has need of medicines Paionian

We, either burning or else cutting kindly,

Will make endeavor to turn pain from sickness.

And now into the domes and homes by altar

Going, I to the gods first raise the right-hand--

They who, far sending, back again have brought me.

And Victory, since she followed, fixed remain she!