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diff --git a/75533-0.txt b/75533-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..53eee43 --- /dev/null +++ b/75533-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2980 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75533 *** + + + + + + Greek Wayfarers + + and + + Other Poems + + By + + Edwina Stanton Babcock + + G. P. Putnam’s Sons + New York and London + The Knickerbocker Press + 1916 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1916 + BY + EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK + + + The Knickerbocker Press, New York + + + + + To + + MARIÁNTHE + + +The author believes that Greece today--largely because of her people’s +opportunity in America--knows conscious renewal of her endless spirit +while she still keeps wonder and glory for all who approach her. + +Whatever her destiny, her natural beauties have not betrayed her, +and through her glorious wildness and barrens her people are looking +outward and forward. Therefore, if these verse-pictures of ancient and +modern Greek life bring to those familiar with Greece any refreshing +memory and to those who do not know this beautiful country an awakened +interest, they will justify their existence. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + +THE AMAZONS AT EPÍDAUROS 3 + +THE BLACK SAIL 5 + +WIDOWED ANDROMACHE 6 + +THE SACRED SHIP FROM DELOS 7 + +THE LITTLE SHADE 9 + +THE CONTRAST--VOLO 10 + +“SHE HAD REVERENCE”--VOLO 11 + +THE GLORY--GOOD-FRIDAY NIGHT, ATHENS, 1914 12 + +SUNSET ON THE ACROPOLIS 15 + +THE STREET OF SHOES (ATHENS) 16 + +ON THE ELEUSINIAN WAY--SPRING 18 + +IN THE ROOM OF THE FUNERAL STELÆ (ATHENS MUSEUM) 20 + +“THE SEVEN-STRINGED MOUNTAIN LUTE” 22 + +GREEK WAYFARERS 23 + +THE THRESHING-FLOOR 30 + +BY THE WALLACHIAN TENTS--THESSALY 32 + +THE VALE OF TEMPÉ 35 + +THE ENCOUNTER 37 + +EASTER DANCE AT MEGARA--FIRST PICTURE 40 + +EASTER DANCE AT MEGARA--SECOND PICTURE 41 + +PEACE, 1914 44 + +DELPHI 46 + +THE DESCENT FROM DELPHI 49 + +TWILIGHT ON ACRO-CORINTH 51 + +ROMANCE 53 + +NIGHT IN OLD CORINTH 55 + +AQUAMARINE 57 + +THE SHEPHERDESS 60 + +MAY-DAY IN KALAMATA 63 + +FROM THE ARCADIAN GATE 66 + +THE ABBESS 68 + +GREEK FARMERS 70 + +SONG 73 + +TO THE OLYMPIAN HERMES 75 + +GREECE--1915-1916 78 + +THE SINGING STONES 80 + +THE OLD QUEST 83 + +THE GODS ARE NOT GONE, BUT MAN IS BLIND 86 + +THE SEA OF TIME 87 + +ON THE THOROUGHFARE 89 + +AT PÆSTUM 90 + +PHIDIAS--A DRAMATIC EPISODE 95 + +EPILOGUE 118 + + + + + GREEK WAYFARERS + + + + +TO THE AMAZONS AT EPÍDAUROS + + + Ride, Amazons, ride! + Militant women, careless of tunic and limb; + Sinuous torsos, naked legs boy-like and pressed + Close to the warm horse’s flank, while the wild battle-hymn + Fixes the eyes with the far-reaching look of the quest; + Caring no more for the places of mother and bride; + Ride, Amazons, ride! + + Ride, Amazons, ride! + Arrow-swift warriors galloping over the plain, + Feverish, urged ever onward with furious rage; + War-fretted golden-hair tangled with wind-fretted mane; + One-breasted heroines, vigorous, quick to engage, + Hot with the vigor of pulsating, vehement pride-- + Ride, Amazons, ride! + + Ride, Amazons, ride! + Penthesilèa falls by Achilles’ drawn bow. + Fell she, the Queen, by the white tents of bold Priam’s side? + Leaderless women, on to the battle ye go-- + Plunging on, speeding on; galloping Vengeance, astride + Horses that feel ye victorious, with gods allied-- + Ride, Amazons, ride! + + Ride, Amazons, ride! + Fearless stone-women, ardent and flushed with the race, + Gleaming like swords, ruthless of body and breast; + Nothing shall utterly quell ye, nor wholly deface, + Ye shall ride onward forever, on ultimate quest. + Spirited! Splendid! Time shall not turn ye aside. + Ride, Amazons, ride! + + + + +THE BLACK SAIL + + + How did it seem, that warm thyme-scented day + When emerald figs hung swelling in the dark + Rose-nippled glooms of laurel and of bay, + And pomegranate flowers burned their spark + Through cypresses, to wait ’neath temple frieze, + Scanning the hermless highways of the seas, + + Watching for one white canvas far away, + And when the morning seemed to grow so late, + Going, amaracus and grapes to lay + With reeds and gums on Nike’s stylobate, + Muttering: “’Tis the Day--he cannot fail!” + Then on a sudden, seeing--the black sail! + + + + +WIDOWED ANDROMACHE + + + “Full in the morning sun I saw him first + And followed him through meadows, flower-massed, + All his steep, toilsome ways, I, too, traversed; + After his battles all his wounds I nursed, + From our tent gazing to the cities passed. + + “Then, to the Trojan walls, where battle burned + And every altar had a bloody rim, + I trod his ardent footsteps, though I yearned + For fields so free; but until back he turned + My only way was onward, after him. + + “The summons came while I was following, true, + Eager, alert, though bruised by thorn and stone. + Had he but paused to tell me, ere he drew + His cloak about him, what I was to do, + I would have kept the path, yea, all alone! + + “But he was silent, answering not my woe. + He muffled him against my prayers and tears. + I raise my arms, hung with the links of years, + Hung with his broken chains, my right to show + But--o’er his Unknown Paths, I may not go!” + + + + +THE SACRED SHIP FROM DELOS + +(The Pilot speaks) + + + “Strange, how I felt the homeward voyage long; + As I looked back to Delos o’er our wake, + And heard the priest’s song, saw our sails out-shake + Under the round sun hanging like a gong + Mid-heaven. All night long I lay on deck + Remembering how he taught us in the Porch; + Yet, the black waters’ phosphorescent torch + Gave me no Sign, no word in white foam-fleck. + + “When we passed Sunion, methought I saw + Red fires burning ’mid the holy white + Of sacred columns; but the Athenian law + I did not know! And then, the reef’s long jaw + Foamed at us. Through the hollow night + We fared, unwitting; putting forth our might; + Speeding with oars our fated way upon, + Till the white Dawn ensilvered Phaleron. + + “At the Piræus, when I saw the throng,-- + Crito and Phædo, there, to meet us,--I + Gave myself no portentous reason why, + But thought: ‘He’s free!’ (Forsooth he did no wrong) + Then I remembered lofty words he said + Of freedom as its dangerous truth he read,-- + Great Zeus! The cowards might as well indict + Sea-circled priest or mountain anchorite! + + “Crito it was who told me, voice all raw + With grief, and on my shoulder his kind hand: + He saw me flinch,--‘Tremblest?’ he said, ‘Nay, stand + Here in the shadow. ’Twas _thy_ ship they saw, + _The Sacred ship from Delos_, ere they gave + The signal for the hemlock--and his grave! + He drank the cup: the while, methought, thy prow + Would have steered Hades-ward, didst thou but know.’ + + “I made no sign. No trite word left my lip. + I turned from Crito, and saw Phædo, grave, + Join him. Alone, I went back to my ship, + Sails furled with garlands riding harbor-wave; + I looked at her, rehearsed the sacred rite, + And purified me; set my torch alight: + ‘Socrates! Master!’ I sobbed once; set then + Aflame the Sacred Ship of Ill-Omen!” + + + + +THE LITTLE SHADE + + + No longer that grey visage fix, + Charon, + Asking me how I come to mix + With this pale boat-load on the Styx, + Charon. + + I am so very small a Shade, + Charon, + Holding the vase my father made + And toys of silver all inlaid, + Charon. + + Ferry me to the golden trees, + Charon, + To isles of childish play and ease + And baths of dove-like Pleiades, + Charon. + + Ferry me to the azure lands, + Charon, + Where some dead mother understands + The lifting of my baby hands, + Charon. + + + + +THE CONTRAST + + “Neither my Magnesian home, nor Demetrias, my happy country mourned + for me, the son of Sotimos; nor did my mother Soso lament me,--for no + weakling did I march against my foes.”--_From a painted stele at Volo, + Thessaly._ + + + ’Tis said, when young Greeks went to die, + Greek mothers would not weep; + And steadfast mien and tearless eye + Controlled themselves to keep. + + Ah!--they were trained to bloody deed; + We--in this time so late + That life seemed gentle, know our breed + More tragically great! + + Had we foreseen, no tear would fall. + Now mothers, too, could smile ... + Only, we proved men brave ... and dead + In such a little while! + + + + +“SHE HAD REVERENCE” + + “O Rhadamanthos, or O Minos, if you have judged any other woman as + of surpassing worth, so also judge this young wife of Aristomachos + and take her to the Islands of the Blessèd. For she had reverence for + the gods and a sense of justice sitting in council with her. Talisos, + a Cretan city, reared her and this same earth enfolds her dead; thy + fate, O Archidíke!”--_From a painted stele in the Museum at Volo._ + + + The dear dead women Browning drew + Lean forth in happy watchfulness; + With them Rossetti’s Starry-tress: + And Tennyson’s royal maidens press + To bring you to their Sacred Few. + Lovely companions wait for you, + Dear _Archidíke_, wife divine, + With asphodels your locks to twine; + Thus crowning with celestial vine + That noble reverence you knew! + + + + +THE GLORY + +Good Friday Night, Athens, 1914. + + + Myriad candles windy flaring + Over faces stilled in prayer; + Silken banners, icon-bearing, + Jewelled vestments, laces rare-- + All the people in a daze, + Walking in a candle-haze, + Of uplifted pure amaze. + All the people in a stream, + Crowding in an Easter dream; + While choragic song + Pours from out the throng-- + “It is the Glory--holy holiday.” + So, smiling, good Athenians say. + + Priests in choir, softly singing, + Carry the Pantokrator, + While the city-bells are ringing + In their wild two-toned uproar; + All the people, in a mass, + With the purple-robed Papas, + Bearing crosses made of brass, + Scarlet cap, and fustanelle, + Turkish fez, and bead, and bell, + While choragic song + Leads the trancèd throng. + “It is the Glory--holy holiday,” + So, smiling, good Athenians say. + + Colored lights, and dripping torches, + Burn on Lykabettos crags; + In the narrow streets and porches + Whole-sheep roasting never flags. + Bonfires all the country light, + Up to dark Hymettus’ height, + Making all the hillsides bright. + Still the surging crowds advance, + Moving, moving in a trance; + While choragic song + Leads the trancèd throng. + “It is the Glory--holy holiday,” + So, smiling, good Athenians say. + + In their wistful majesty, + See them waiting for a sign, + Of religious unity + From the human or divine; + Faithful, yearning, poor, uncouth, + Pagan-born, yet craving truth-- + Old grey-heads and stripling youth. + All the people in a stream, + Holding candles in a dream, + While choragic song + Swells throughout the throng. + “It is the Glory--holy holiday,” + This, smiling, good Athenians say. + + + + +SUNSET ON THE ACROPOLIS + + + If ever I have freed me of all time, + Let me so free me now, that I have brought me + Near to these hill-top temples, which have caught me + Up to their soaring heights and Vision wrought me + Of things serene, and stricken, and sublime. + + Let me, the titled, spurious Christian, face + This solemn wistfulness of Pagan yearning-- + This aspiration of white columns, burning + With golden fires, their pillars deep inurning + The tragic, sunset beauty of the place. + + Let me stand silent, under evening skies, + Watching this radiance grown cold and hoary; + In death-white, black-stained ruins, read the story + The Parthenon tells of ancient Grecian glory, + Reiterating beauty as it dies. + + Let me stand silently and humbly, there, + Seeking that Unknown God Greeks apprehended; + That, as the temples fade, and day is ended, + My own hope with this ancient faith be blended, + And I be part of this eternal prayer! + + + + +THE STREET OF SHOES + +(Athens) + + + Now, while the Bulgars creep in stealthy crews + To Macedonian borders, do they stay + In Athens as they were one April day-- + The busy cobblers in “The Street of Shoes”? + + I wonder: for the faces leaning there, + Had Oriental heat, the hands that sewed + Had look of readiness; some skillful code + The hammers rapped on leather-scented air. + + The old shoemakers, hung about with hide + In cave-like booths, with beads and fringe adrip, + Muttered their restless words beneath the clip + Of shoe-laces, or hammered, sombre-eyed; + + Red-capped, white-bearded, keen for petty strife, + They hammered and they stitched; while, might and main + Down their small, narrow, red-morocco lane, + They cut the scarlet shoes with gleaming knife. + + How would it go, if mad Bulgarian hordes + Invaded here with pillage and abuse? + I like to think that in the Street of Shoes + Those old, gnarled hands would fiercely leap to swords! + + I love to think how fiery faces there + Would light like lurid skies before the storm, + And that Athenian shoemakers would swarm + To guard the city with ferocious care. + + Then, if the foe to trample Athens choose, + I pity them if those Greek cobblers still + Stick to their lasts. These would not wait to spill + A brighter red than red-morocco shoes! + + Bulgars would know how nimble fingers use + Flayed skin to keep the needles very bright; + They would learn much before they took their flight + Forever from the valiant Street of Shoes! + + + + +ON THE ELEUSINIAN WAY--SPRING + + + Hush! Walk slowly; + All this winding road is holy; + Place your votive image in a niche + By Pass of Daphne, where rocks forward pitch. + Now, sit lowly-- + Under dim firs that cool the dust-white way + Curving from Athens to Eleusis Bay. + + Soft! Speak lightly! + See’st this myriad Concourse? all the sprightly + Luminous Mystæ? Naked flower forms + Dancing in close commingled color-swarms + So brightly? + Follow them in their green-hot Mænad flame, + Their sweet mysterious rapture of no name. + + Watch! Far-seeing + Demeter’s yellow torches fitful fleeing. + And seed processions moving towards the shrine + Where motion, moisture, act in soft sunshine; + And being + Earth-taught, flower-figures of desire + Sway toward white Oreads quick with fire. + + Take, unceasing + Joy of powers these Mystæ are releasing + Eternal, they, who seem so lovely-brief. + Soft luminous shapes of petal and of leaf + Increasing, + They sweep across Semele’s ancient fields + Handing the torch the calm Earth-mother yields. + + Yea--the senses + Have their holy truths and recompenses + Sweetly simple may their teachings be + “Wine flashing clusters from a sacred tree”; + Defences + From all our sorry wisdoms have these flowers + Who teach deep truths with Dionysiac powers! + + + + +IN THE ROOM OF THE FUNERAL STELÆ + +(Athens Museum) + + + O’er all the world I wandered with my grief, + My human grief, that would not be forgot, + Finding no face, no word, nor any spot + Where haunted heart and brain could find relief. + + Until the morning I unwitting stept + Into the stelæ-halls and the great peace + Of the Greek sorrow over Life’s surcease + Enveloped me, even in woe inept. + + Here, marble love in simple human sense + To nearest friend gives earthly treasure up, + A matron handing maid a box or cup; + A man from dog and slave turning him hence; + + A soldier springing out into the dark; + A wife slow fading in her husband’s arms; + The inexorable Fact, its vague alarms + And Love grown suddenly aloof and stark! + + Yet no breast-beating here, nor frantic woe, + Nor bitter tears, nor loud outcry of pain. + Only the question: “Will they live again? + Go they forever from us, when they go?” + + Majestic sorrowers the figures stand, + Absorbed in contemplation of One Thing ... + No promises, nor priestly counselling, + Only the longing eyes and clasping hand! + + Down the long halls I wandered; Athens’ Spring + Radiant without, with almonds’ rosy spray, + And violets crowding on the hills. That day + My dead heart stirred to marble comforting! + + For the Greeks _knew_! Death is the only thing + That keeps its dignity. So Death they met + Ready to pay to him a subject’s debt; + Going out awe-struck as to meet a King. + + The Greeks _knew_! nothing any more can heal + The heart Death once despoils of sorrowing. + With proud simplicity they felt the sting, + Then wore the mystery like sacred seal! + + Calm-eyed, controlled, those marble figures gaze + Into the depths no mortal eyes have known, + Then, Grecian head thrown back, the world is shown + Sorrow’s transfigured face, immortal ways! + + + + +“THE SEVEN-STRINGED MOUNTAIN LUTE” + + “Homer, Sappho, Anacreon, Pindar, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, the + very names are a song.”--M. C. M. + + + I knew, no matter how they plucked at me + Like golden fingers--all those cadenced names-- + That never could I answer; for the power + Of their majestic harmonies was perfect flower. + No greater song, nor lovelier verse could be + Unless Greece lived another golden hour. + I tried to echo them. I vainly sought + Timid expression of their rhythmic fire; + My melodies with halting effort caught + Faintly their classic motive and desire. + Yet, while I failed, a miracle was wrought, + Themselves did sing! Thus, humble, I was taught + These names that are the plectrum and the lyre. + + + + +GREEK WAYFARERS + + +I + + Around the Hellenic coast the dark-blue bands + Of circling waters, like a loin-cloth, wind + The stalwart nakedness of seaward lands; + Bronze crag, and beach, and rock and terrace bind + As foreground for the somber swelling tent + Of purple mountain. On the morning sky + Pale azure summits, with their sides snow-rent, + Loom in the distance; slowly, solemnly, + The coasts of Greece define; their misty chains + Backed by soft clouds and silver sky-moraines. + While we sail on, reverent vision-sharers, + To read the romance of the Greek Wayfarers! + + +II + + Those serrate ridges toward the southward brew + Grape-colored mist, snow-frothed; the foamy crest + Of Mount Taÿgetos bursts on the blue + Peloponnesian pinnacles, repressed + Back of fair bays and coasts. Rich lands of corn, + “Slopes that the Spartans loved,” the Headlands Three + Hide from the eye; but nearer shores forlorn + Wounded and Ancient, scarred of rock and tree + Looming beyond the starry-clustered Isles, + Where fire-blue waters surge on circled strand, + Lead to far cliffs, which once were beacon-bearers + In early wars, for early Greek Wayfarers. + + +III + + Each azure-rippled, rock-encrusted beach + Tells of the dusky, strong Phœnician sails + That came from Sidon, passed the stormy reach, + And touched at islands, dark as wave-tossed bales + Left floating in the murex-stainèd sea + Where restless fishers, full of dawning schemes + Cruised in the tunny waters; sailing free, + Drawn by the Tyrian Purple to new dreams. + Adventurers, traders, heard the sailor-boasts + Of civilized beginnings on the coasts, + And in black vessels brought the new Space-Darers + Whose reckless sea-paths made them Greek Wayfarers! + + +IV + + Thus rovers came, and dark-skinned traders planned + New villages by fertile pasture lures + In lonely valleys; by succeeding hands + Minoan vases, Mycenean ewers + Were fashioned; then the tribes fought hill by hill, + And coast by coast, for wealth, till Knossos’ tombs + And Tiryns’ palaces had dawning skill + Of goldsmith and of craftsman in their glooms. + The legends grew, the wooden statues raised + New, mystic Cults. Where rams and young kids grazed + Distaffs sprang up, and primitive sheep-shearers + Brought snowy fleece to clothe the Greek Wayfarers. + + +V + + Delphi, Eleusis, guided human awe + By mystic voices and by legend thrill; + Then, one by one, came templed porch and floor + Gleaming by sea or on some fir-crowned hill. + Far back in forest, or on Islands, rose + Transcendent loveliness of chiselled stone, + And in the secret shrine Artemis chose + To hear, or not to hear, the victim’s moan. + The entrails burned; worshippers at the feet + Of Gold-Apollo knew the saving-sweet + Comfort of God-in-life, evolved from terrors + Of Nature-forces by the Greek Wayfarers. + + +VI + + And then the restless ichor in Greek veins + Created dreams of new posterity, + And mother-cities planning greater gains + Sent emigrants exploring on the sea. + Before Ionians, strange Æolians went. + To Chalcedon came “œkist” altar-fire; + Silver, and iron, and flax, for commerce sent + Dorians roving with renewed desire; + And coins and woolens, pottery and dyes, + Marked with age-seal each eager new emprise; + And shrines and temples followed all the eras + Of settled colonies of Greek Wayfarers. + + +VII + + To vale and coppice, every forest place, + Came note of Syrinx and the sound of flutes; + And golden ball and pomegranate trace + On priestly robes; and ’mid the cool volutes + Were public treasures heaped; the Councils met; + Athens and Corinth grew to haughty names, + And glorious youths and lovely boys were set + To daring deeds at the Olympic Games. + By mountain paths and solitudes they trod, + They set the votive offerings to their god + Invoking glory--happy olive-wearers-- + Consciously beautiful, as Greek Wayfarers. + + +VIII + + Then sculptors wrought and painters ground the crude + Colors, and potters found the yellowish glaze; + And out of Cretan bowls and bottles rude + Came polychrome and monographic vase. + The echoing, marble theatres curved in hills, + Where master-voices, with dramatic art, + Chorused all joys and passions, and all ills-- + And touched with deep emotion every heart, + Till poet-minds flowered to richer truth; + Forsaking earlier thoughts and laws uncouth, + With nobler aim to be the way-preparers + Of philosophic thought for Greek Wayfarers. + + +IX + + While every river mothered daughters fair, + And clouds conceived, and ancient trees enslaved + Satyr and hama-dryad ... then the flare + Of the Greek torch too happy-high was waved-- + The jealous East was plotting, Persians lay + In plundering splendor, with their blazing hosts, + Till Marathon and grim Thermopylæ.... + Then, envious cities, roused at Athens’ boasts + Of glittering power, crushed the Golden Age. + Under the Spartan and Bœotian rage; + “Leagues” and sea-struggles, Macedonian terrors, + Dragged to a desperate pass the Greek Wayfarers. + + +X + + Yet after Byzantine and Ottoman + Settled despotic heel upon the land, + No cruel Venetian yoke nor Turkish ban + Forced the brave Greeks’ unconquerable stand. + Outsiders saw the Cause inviolate, + Byron’s hot poet’s heart and cosmic brain + Urged on the struggle, to once more create + An independent Greece, unchained again. + The whole world watched the piteous battle fought, + And hailed small triumphs, passionately bought + With faith, until, from wild, despairing errors, + The struggling Greeks once more were Greek Wayfarers. + + +XI + + Now on Greek highways, where the wagons roll, + Piled high with wineskins, or with bags of flour, + Past schools and churches and the fountain bowl, + New hope springs in the peasants hour by hour. + Greeks know that through their sordid modern strife + They walk in poetry, believing well + They are the children of enchanted life, + That sends them forward messages to tell + Of Greek restraint and hospitality, + Greek love of beauty, and Greek dignity, + Making them, in their toil, devoted carers + For new and better goals for Greek Wayfarers. + + +XII + + What are the goals to be, and what the gain? + As soldiers camp in valley and on hill + Do Spartan youths leap on the dusty plain? + Does spirit of Leonidas keep still + One death-defying purpose? Will the blood + Leap of a sudden out of the Soros, + And Marathon with bright phalanxes flood? + Do all Greeks bear the title _agathos_? + Ah, Greece! Ah, Greece! dare for the precious Past, + And throw your lot with gallant men that cast + Eternal die, to be the Spirit-Bearers + For all the world and all the Greek Wayfarers. + + + + +THE THRESHING-FLOOR + + “This mess of hard-kneaded barley-bread and a libation mixed in a + little cup.”--_Greek Anthology._ + + + There’s a white stone-paven floor + Set in a jade-green field + Where the spiked acacias yield + A shadow, and the four + Earthen pots on a round well-wheel + Come up drippingly full and spill + Where the white horse runs his circle round + Drawing water for garden ground. + + The white foundation here + Has ne’er held temple-plinth, + But mint and terebinth + Perfume is in the air. + And here, at the harvest-time the wains + Rattle along the sunburnt plains, + And the peasant’s arms are bared to thresh + Food from the golden barley mesh. + + Before the morning’s long + Comes drowsy, sliding snatch + Of primitive threshing-song; + Down in the garden patch + The murmurous sleepy drone of bees + Blends with the stir of the poplar-trees, + And the rustle of bundled grain + Tossed from the wagon train. + + Ah! the _Mavrodaphne_ wine + Is fruity and sweet to taste, + And the oranges are fine + And the blocked Loukoúmi paste. + But I long for a crust of peasant bread + Eaten with honey from Parnes’ head, + And I hunger the more and more + At sight of the threshing-floor! + + + + +BY THE WALLACHIAN TENTS + + +THE BOY + + Over dripping washing-trough + Bends my mother busy drubbing, + Father’s fustanella rubbing + With the dark soap, smeary--rough. + There my goats go, wild careering + From the sound of wagons, nearing. + Oootz--Ella--Whooff--! + Out of there, you silly kid, + By the old soup-kettle hid. + + +THE MOTHER + + That boy, lying in the thyme, + Sheepskinned loafer in the grasses, + He is carelessness sublime, + Sunned in yellow iris masses. + Thinks he of the dead men sleeping + Far away from flocks he’s keeping, + Piled in bloody mountain-passes? + With the brutal guns again + Booming: “Give us men! More men!” + + +THE BOY + + Baby hanging from the tree, + Peeps from out his bright bag-hollows, + While the white dog rolls and wallows + Bitten by an angry bee. + Forth for those sheep he must sally, + Where they by the cold brook dally. + Oootz--Ella--Deee!-- + Now the fools, in silly mass, + Scamper toward the mountain-pass. + + +THE MOTHER + + Far off, on the dusty plain, + Reels my drunk Wallachian, + Coming up from town again. + Drinking in the village khan, + All our Balkan coin he’s spending; + As his stupid way he’s wending + I the future scan. + Ugh! I hear those guns again + Surly--growling: “Men! More men!” + + +THE BOY + + Swift the smooth Peneios flows + Smoky-white to sea’s blue gleaming. + Where the battleships are steaming + Ready for their foes, + I should like to fight and bear me + Fiercely. Nothing there would scare me. + Ella--Ella--Pros! + With this high-swung shepherd-stick + That old bucking ram I’ll hit! + + +THE MOTHER + + St. Spiridion! He beats + That old ram as ’t were his woman! + What a fine, big, brawny human + Have I suckled at these teats! + Ah! I have my mother-reasons + To distrust Rumanian treasons, + When our Council meets. + Bah! those dirty guns again + Booming: “Give us men! More men!” + + When my man comes, o’er and o’er + I will bluster--Not will hunger + Nor your beatings make me monger + Sons to angry war. + That brown boy, in sunshine dreaming, + I’ll not feed him to the teeming + Snorting cannon-maw! + Move we now our tents again, + Far from guns that roar: “More men!” + + + + +THE VALE OF TEMPÉ + + + The river that winds through the Vale of Tempé is white, + Smokily white, like water opaque with a charm, + Olympus knows why. He towers there, frostily bright, + And Ossa forth stretches a slaty, precipice arm,-- + Deepening silvery pools into green-clouded light,-- + So that Tempé is hidden and secret and free from alarm. + + But the green Vale of Tempé leads forth to the stir of the Sea + Where the battleships growl and where Salonica is held + Fast in the grip of the Powers, who fight for the key + Unlocking the Border-doors; if Tempé were shelled, + Then the white Peneios, veiled as for bridal, would be + Scarlet with blood of soldiers, like forests felled. + + Pindar, Spenser, Shelley, Byron,--ye bards-- + Lyric-tongued all! What if the fair Tempé glade, + Where delicate flowers gleam on the virginal swards + And the cuckoo pipes to the shy-footed dryad-maid + And the trees hide Daphne,--What if the horror-mad hordes + Trample this Pastoral, where old Mythology stayed? + + They answer not and the soft Peneios is veiled, + ’Mid the joy of the fauns and flowers and river-born shade. + But an old Belief in the smoky-white water is trailed-- + Who knows but Apollo, fierce for his pagan glade-- + Will hasten, haughtily, in shining sun-armor mailed, + And carry it off to the Greek gods’ ambuscade? + + + + +THE ENCOUNTER + + + ’Twas there in Tempé that he lay + Under a plane-tree, fast asleep, + His pipes far-flung.--Pan! growing gray; + Lines on his mocking face; his gay + Scuffling hoofs forgot to leap. + + The river pleaded, “Wake the God”; + The birds sat by with soft aside; + Up from the delicate spring-sod + I saw the eager flowers nod, + And little leaves my language tried. + + I woke Pan. Bore the deep earth-gaze + On my false being, false to life + By all the dreary modern ways: + “Pan,” I dared whisper--“long the days-- + One needs thy music in the Strife. + + “Full many a spring when poppies fired + This brook-side, did I play for you.” + Pan answered me: “My music tired, + For colder music you desired; + So be it--I am weary too!” + + “Forgive me for my sad unworth, + Oh, patient Pan,” I murmured low. + “I know that I have failed the earth; + Only, perhaps, by spirit-birth, + My children thy wild pipes will know.” + + Pan frowned: “Nay, all the world doth rave; + Against the Pipe; they rant, like you! + Go, people my deserted cave + With theories and books. Zeus save + That I should hinder what you do!” + + Far back in Tempé’s leafy glade + The dappled sunshine filtered through, + And dewdrops opalled every blade. + I was not of the god afraid.-- + And still there was a thing to do. + + “Ah, Pan, dear Pan,” I softly cried, + “Who is it that shall save but thee? + Thy music, god, the whole world wide, + Is listened for on country-side, + And every dreamer bows the knee! + + “By musky grapes in rosy hands, + And all the golden fruits that glow, + A happy lover understands + Thy fluting, hearts in sober lands + Languish till they thy clear pipe know! + + “Ah, Pan--play on! Forgive the souls + Whom knowledge cheats of love; forgive + That life exacts its bitter tolls + And leads to artificial goals. + Oh! Play! that we may surelier live!” + + I bent, I touched the shaggy hoof, + The horns; I looked into the eyes + Clear as rock pools, and yet aloof + Like wild bird’s, then I saw the proof + That Pan is kind beyond surmise. + + Tears! In Pan’s eyes!--I sprang away + (Not even Pan should see me weep)-- + Yet on through Tempé, all that day + I heard wild, happy piping.--Yea, + I wakened Pan!--He’s not asleep! + + + + +EASTER DANCE AT MEGARA + + +FIRST PICTURE + + Green lizards flash along the walls + Curd-white against the fire-blue bay; + The pepper-trees’ fern branches sway + Their delicate, hot, scarlet balls. + + The linkèd maidens wreathe the square, + Blazing with festal coinage, hung + On brown necks; yellow kerchiefs, flung + O’er dusky, long, twin braids of hair. + + The Attic maids, with Attic mirth + Subdued and shy, from hill and plain, + On Easter holiday, at birth + Of spring, weave altar-pacèd chain. + + And sing a song, to shepherd flute, + Its shifting, three-toned lilt is cold, + Only--it is so very old, + The wonder is it is not mute. + + But so, they say, did maidens dance + In dim Eleusis, near the shrine. + And that is why these dark eyes shine + With classic-cultured ignorance. + + And that is why, from near and far, + Greek peasants come with stately pride, + They know that Past from which they glide + Into the dance at Megara! + + +SECOND PICTURE + + In his long smock, and farmer’s cotton cap, + Demetri dances. + The old crones smile, the little children clap, + The young girls’ glances + Follow him, tall and grave, and deep of eye, + Marvelling at him, yet aloof and shy; + His fellow-dancers jostle roughly by + With rude askances. + + The piper plays his reediest, shrillest tune, + And at his leisure + Demetri, as though pacing in a rune, + Treads out a measure. + The elders laugh: “Dance there, fantastic fellow! + Tread down the grapes, while harvest moon is mellow, + Give thy feet wings, fly o’er the sunset billow + At thy good pleasure!” + + The little glasses of brown resin-wine + Are quaffed; beads slipping + Through the Greek fingers, slender, brown, and fine, + Accent his skipping. + They nudge, to see his hand curve on his shoulder, + They marvel as his dark eyes burn and smoulder, + And note his step less vague, his bearing bolder, + And go on sipping. + + Around him dance the peasants, pacing slow + With rhythmic swinging, + But in and out he threads their simple show + ’Midst childish singing. + Reels past old bearded Greeks, their grave tales weaving, + And fierce Wallachians come for Easter thieving; + Albanian women with bold bosoms heaving + To children clinging. + + Spell-bound, all watch him reel, and swerve, and bend; + His dizzy spinning + Dazzles their eyes. Word goes from friend to friend: + “He is beginning!” + For now with somber eyes, unveiled and burning, + From peasant dance they see Demetri turning + To an old trance of rapturous discerning-- + Loud plaudits winning. + + The sun shines paler on the kerchief’s gold, + The church-bell’s tolling; + The sea grows purple, and the distance cold, + With dark waves rolling. + The long lines break, the black-haired maidens wrangle; + With exclamation all the dusty tangle + Comes to a halt, ’mid glint of peasant spangle + And soft song trolling. + + But tall Demetri lost in dreaming pace + In solemn swaying, + Keeps on alone, with tense and mystic face + As he were praying. + With hand upraised, as holding the caduceus, + He looks away to old far-off Eleusis, + Devising Dionysiac curves and nooses, + Old Laws obeying. + + Why, in his face that mystic peering gaze + Like a faun, waiting? + Why does he pace his lonely, occult ways + His eyes dilating? + “Demetri!” “Mitchu!” tease the girls. Their screaming + He does not hear, lost in far other seeming, + In strange dance-spell, in old blood-tutored dreaming, + Old rhythms creating. + + + + +PEACE, 1914 + + + Why do the women walk so free and strong + In Thessaly? + It is because the Turks wreak no more wrong; + The Balkans ended, sunburnt soldiers throng, + In Thessaly. + + Why do the old monks pray so hard for rain + In Thessaly? + It is because the mountain slopes again + Roll in green terraces of silver grain, + In Thessaly. + + Why does the shepherd wear a broidered shirt + In Thessaly? + Because ’tis peace; clean is the goat-herd’s skirt, + The women spin; the needles are alert, + In Thessaly. + + And why the young kids, white as snowy curds, + In Thessaly? + The farmers are successful with their herds; + The highway’s loud with guttural teamster-words, + In Thessaly. + + Why are the threshing-floors so thickly set + In Thessaly? + Because, when harvest comes, and youth is met, + Comes the old will of Nature, sturdy yet, + In Thessaly. + + And these deserted hovels that we see + In Thessaly, + Where the Peneios winds about the tree? + The villagers have gone across the sea + From Thessaly. + + And this trim town of plaster and of thatch + In Thessaly? + America hangs fortune on the latch, + Our sons come back, then blooms the garden patch, + In Thessaly! + + Then, this is no decadent race I see + In Thessaly? + Oh, stranger, who can tell? Hard things must be. + Only, the “Greeks were Greeks,” and Greeks are we + In Thessaly. + + + + +DELPHI + + + Matrixed ’mid purple mountain steeps, + An ancient Grecian city sleeps. + Where rock-hewn fountains spill + Down scarlet-poppied hill; + Long time ago its temples fair + Rose, Doric-columned, on the air, + And voices told of riddles strange + That echoed down the mountain range; + And men and cities brought their all + To Delphi and the priestess’ thrall. + While in the mountain-pass a pipe + Played on and on and on-- + A pipe played on. + + Now up the aisles of olive-trees + Come wistful souls from over-seas, + From the Itean shore, + Past rose-hung cottage door, + And in the sacred fount they dip, + Or tell the lore with alien lip; + Or, dreaming, scan far snow-crowned heights, + Lit, as of old, with pagan lights. + While through the thyme, ’mid rock and pool, + The sheep-bells tinkle, water cool,-- + And in the mountain pass, a pipe + Plays on and on and on-- + A pipe plays on. + + While glowworms blur the dewy gorse, + And stars float from their tidal source, + And Grecian peasants steal + By creaking wagon-wheel, + We ponder on this Life and Death + Within the taking of our breath; + So old, these ruined fanes that lie, + Beneath the temple of the sky! + So old these sacred stones that gleam + With the strange shining Delphic dream. + While in the mountain-pass the pipe + Plays on and on and on-- + A pipe plays on. + + So old, this silence trembles, brought + To solemn tension with our thought-- + Deep as the mystic strain + Born in Apollo’s fane: + “Dear God, ’tis well no Pythoness + For us may prophesy or bless! + Well, that no riddle-verse controls + The will that slumbers in our souls! + Well, that we choose, calm, clear-eyed, free + To live and learn our truth from Thee!”-- + Still in the mountain-pass the pipe + Plays on and on and on-- + The pipe plays on. + + + + +THE DESCENT FROM DELPHI + + + Dawn, pallid and cold, + Parnassos, grave in the mist + Like the shrouded form of a priest; + No light in the East, + Save thin stars, worn and old. + + Under the “Shining Ones” + The temple-steps, in white, + Chromatic, gleaming, light, + Mount to the stadion’s + Oval of crumbling stones. + + Dawn, stealthy and still, + Frostily fills the fields, + Dew sprinkles the maize; + Where ranging cattle graze, + His pipe a shepherd plays. + + Sun, striking the snow + On far off mountain height,-- + Day, solemn and slow, + Rises from Long Ago + Clothed in pure samite. + + A scarlet rug in a field; + A man and a woman asleep-- + Around them, dogs and sheep, + Where the maize is quivering gold, + As the broad day is unrolled. + + The man and the woman asleep-- + Alone in the Delphian field! + And the world, once more revealed + Young, and all time is healed + The Oracle unsealed! + + + + +TWILIGHT ON ACRO-CORINTH + + + From the Venetian arch, the doubting owl + Sends forth his whimper; where the sheep-dogs lope + Sounds donkey’s thirsty octave, call of fowl, + And near green-silver maize and poppied slope, + Goat-bells ring jangling on the tether-rope + As, truant from some hooded shepherd’s scowl, + Dim, hornèd shapes in black thyme-bushes grope. + + I look four ways down all the rich descents + To mountain, cliff, and sea. First to the South + Where Argolis in purple permanence + Gives sumptuous breast to dark sea’s hungry mouth. + Enthroned in mountain fastness, warm, immense, + Or, lying prone by misty olive-fence + Losing herself in languid, dusty drouth. + + Far Eastward, islanded Ægina keeps + Her tree-girt shrine, and Sunion the prow + Of white sea-temple lifts on Laurion steeps + Where mines are hid, and silver quarries show. + Then, like a bee, the eager eye upsweeps + To Athens, where the Acros-flowers grow + And the dim road to far Eleusis creeps. + + I look toward Athens, over golden gorse, + Purple anemones, Saronic seas, + Powerful, kingly blue. I see the source + Of all Mind ever was, and then the trees + Blurring, I turn me West, perforce + Sweeping Arcadian ridges, as light flees + And over paling skies cloud-horses course. + + Bœotia, Phocis, Lokris ranges tread + Vast gorges ’round the Gulf’s imperial shores; + Like citadels, their summits, thunder-bred, + And at their feet are sacred river-floors, + And many a mountain stream its crystal bed + Has hidden beyond those labyrinthine doors + From whence down winds the clue-like glancing thread. + + And as the night surrounds me and the stars + Climb up the clouds like mountain-pastured flocks, + I muse on Progress, that which hurts and scars + Nature with blood, machines, and battle-shocks. + But, as I gaze, the whole wild sky unbars + War’s end portending; the new time unlocks + Ultimate peace no human passion mars. + + + + +ROMANCE + + + The “wine-dark” sea menaces as of old, + When young Odysseus dared; and all our ship + Shudders against the midnight mountain-waves + Hurrying to crush the steamer, in her plunge + On black path, under wind-blown scattered stars. + Strange is the contrast! Strange it is to lie + Cabined and berthed, feeling like crystal, hid + In a night-moving mountain; thence to see + At port-hole’s glimmer, land, solemn and strange! + Old as all prayers, all vigils, and all hope! + As the ship stops at Patras, and bells ring, + To look out on the mole-lights, red and white, + And see the black, unreadable night-shore. + And then, to lie back, ponder the mystery + Of that one man--that little ugly man-- + Reviled, unknown, and unbelieved, who burned + So fiercely with his message, that he sailed + From port to port, to give it. My age boasts + Its Christian ethics cool expedience. + That age, simply knew a man named “Paul,” + Who fought with beasts, endured the stripes, to give + His flaming, tender, strong epistles; wrote + To the people, as ’twixt starvings and shipwrecks + He sailed these waters, from the “upper coasts.” + + + + +NIGHT IN OLD CORINTH + + + A hill trembling with grain + And a winding path. + Shadowy sheep on the slopes; + The sound of bells and sea, + The sound of a peasant song, + The sound of pipe and drum ... + And in the twilight grey + Apollo’s temple. + + Wide doors and the cottage fire, + Bright coffee-coppers; plates + Of white curds and of fish; + A man in a scarlet cap, + Turning a roasting spit; + A woman by the fount ... + And in the twilight grey + Apollo’s temple. + + How was it when Paul came? + Corinth was blazing white, + Walled and rich and corrupt. + They “sat to eat and drink + And rose up but to play!” + The Purple Sellers knew ... + But in the twilight gleamed + Apollo’s temple! + + The fountain’s hung with moss + But the cypress-trees are tall, + And little wingèd shapes + Say “Níke” in the ground. + The Jews “requiring signs,” + And the Greeks “looking for wisdom,” + Still in the twilight, see + Apollo’s temple! + + + + +AQUAMARINE + + + I think, when I grow tired of the world, + I shall go back to Greece (in spring, of course), + By forest trail, and oleander source, + Past snow-peaks on green mountain lawns impearled. + + To Trypi: where, from saddle I shall slide, + And hear my donkey’s bell jerk as he feeds + On herbs and simples--growing to his needs-- + By rosy roofs set in the green glenside. + + Far down the valleys I shall hear the call + Of white-garbed peasants; throaty cattle-cry; + The little Trypi brook will rustle by + Among the poplars, silver-green and tall. + + I shall watch Greek girls, toiling up the height, + Laden with brush and whorls of scented thyme, + And see their youthful climbing pantomime, + Ere I lie down to ponder with my might + + On three sweet subjects, simple village themes, + And yet so strange, so subtle, I have met + No man, nor woman, who can tell me yet + The answers, nor have found them in my dreams. + + First: The Greek plane-trees, cool ancestral trees, + Biblical-strong, like mighty tents of Saul, + What earth power spreads their green ethereal + Canopied gloom, their soft immensities? + + Next, the Greek fruits and flowers; what godlike soil + Nourishes orange, fig, and olive stretch, + So that no child goes forth the goats to fetch + But fills his cap with colored orchard spoil? + + Last, I shall ponder (never sure, quite, + Imaging richly, merged in miracle) + Wondering what source conceals the mystic shell + Staining with blue the Ægean’s mica-light. + + Lies in it some great Pool, that slow distils + Azure of flowers and skies to pigment bold? + Or do the encircling mountain-chains enfold + A vat of purple, whence wine-color spills? + + Ægean Blue, that crimson-orchil tide + Bold, deep, intensest, incandescent flame, + Pure well of Azure, fitly has no name + But Greece in her inimitable pride + + Of worship on strange occult secret planes + The hidden sponsors of her visual life + May, long ago, ’neath sacrificial knife + Have loosed the gods’ blue blood from Dacian veins. + + One can see Spartan blood flow down Greek shores, + In crimson poppy-tide, in scarlet waves; + But it is “wine-dark” energy, that laves + Gold-bronzèd rocks and hidden sea-cave floors. + + Ah! it is not enough for me to say + “Faery silver-azure! Clear, superb + Cobalt no chemistry of sun can curb, + Attar of purest lapis-lazuli.” + + ’Tis not enough for me to invent a name + Like Nauplian Blue, Greek Blue, Blue of Emprise, + As I re-vision golden argosies + Or red-sailed moth-boats sailing molten flame. + + No--I must ponder (never sure quite), + Always a-dream in Trypi, where the trees + Whisper adventurous old names of seas, + Through silver valley-eve and mountain night. + + + + +THE SHEPHERDESS + + + Not only mulberry vendors travel Langada Pass, + Rough soldiers and black-fezzed peddlers take that trail + And stop to drink at a khan ’neath the rocky mass, + Where the pine-trees root in the drifts of sliding shale, + And a half-crazed Greek sells resin-wine and cheese + And “Thalassa” mutters, pointing to far-off seas. + + For Langada Pass is miles of precipice rock + Where the rug-hung pack-mules scramble with fumbling feet + Sliding unsteadily over the cobbles, that shock, + Stone upon stone, in monotonous noontide heat. + But a mountain girl, fleet-footed, with brown knees bare, + Flutters along the crags, where the great pines flare. + + Now the mulberry vendors are fuddled with Spartan rum, + They howl in the cañons and kick the sides of their steeds. + The soldiers are merry, they sit on the rocks and hum + And talk politics and twiddle their malachite beads; + Hardly a shrine for a maid, or a convent roof, + Under the blue sky, classic and calm and aloof; + The goats stand cynical, cloven of horn and hoof. + + But she whistles and calls and scrambles up to her flock, + High on the bronze-grey peaks of Langada Pass, + With warm eyes mote-flecked, bright as the quartz gold rock + A deer-like, dryad-like fierce, shy, crag-born lass, + Perching where orange anemones spangle the banks + And white streams flash down thicketed mountain flanks. + + We told her the tale of the world and the dreams of men, + We poured out wine-of-the-world in her shepherd cup, + She took it calmly, thoughtfully, drinking up + All that we were, quaffing us, thirstily, then: + “Salute your cities,” the wild little shepherdess said, + And swift as an eagle, far up the precipice sped. + + Washington, New York, and Boston have new renown! + Their rivers of seething light, where the witch wires hold + Clustering, bright-balled fruits, and the chimneys frown + Like satyrs drunk with smoke through the sunset gold-- + All these must bow, in turn, to a little lass + Who “salutes the cities” out of Langada Pass! + + + + +MAY-DAY IN KALAMATA + + + In Kalamata, where the harvests are + Purple and crimson for the currant-bin, + When merchants close their shutters with a jar, + The young night-gallant twangs his brown guitar, + And first begins the merry May-day din. + + All night they strum the mandolins and lutes; + Glyco, the jolly merchant of the fruits, + Sings to accordion: “O nux kalé!” + In Kalamata on the first of May. + + Morning comes. See the church across the street + Its doorway wreathed! See Anastasia pass, + Twining her pretty shoulders with the sweet + Mountain-born orchids, brought on tireless feet + By lads from Sparta o’er Taÿgetos. + + All night they strum the lute, and mandolin, + Georgio, the dark-eyed, plays the violin, + Sings under balconies: “O nux kalé!” + In Kalamata on the first of May. + + The cottage-doors are hung with poppy-wreaths, + To keep away the evil spirits: hats + Are garlanded with oleander. Leaves + Fair, golden-braided Marianthé weaves + Into a veil for her long sunny plaits. + + All night they sound the flutes and castanets; + Mitchu, in pompommed shoes, fingers the frets, + Quaffs resin-wine,--“Aha--! O nux kalé!” + In Kalamata on the first of May. + + To the _Platea_, all the booths astir; + Mulberry vendors clad in goat-skins come; + Here are embroidered bags and fragrant myrrh, + And silver-handled knives; and the drum-whirr + Beats like a heart throb in the village hum. + + All night they play the rough accordion; + The sailors from the “skala,” to a man, + March, drunk with mastika, along the quay, + In Kalamata on the first of May. + + Along the railroad all the stations fill + With children garlanded; the peasant throngs + Sing at car windows. From a laurel hill, + Rings “Zito” with the happy springtime thrill, + While rose-crowned maidens chant their merry songs. + + All night they play the violin and drum; + And to the windows tawdry women come + Bright-eyed and bold, to hear: “O nux kalé!” + In Kalamata on the first of May. + + May-day, down all the silver-olive plain, + Along the mountain trail, and torrent track, + May-day on ships on blue Messenian Main, + On locomotives, where the young Greek swain + Hangs lily wreaths upon his engine stack! + + All night I hear the zither; the guitar + Maddens my northern pulses, and from far, + Far up the mountainside: “O nux kalé!” + Wakes Kalamata on the first of May. + + + + +FROM THE ARCADIAN GATE + + + From Arcadian Gate, with its tower-topped bulk, + White on Ithóme’s war-ridden hulk, + A road winds down past the artichokes, + And the almond-trees, and acacia-spokes. + And, silver-harnessed, the small brooks fly + Down to Messenian industry. + And, here one sees, under the trees, + Greek women making the cheese. + + Black kettles hang from the giant plane, + Where children gather, and where you gain + A charming sight from your donkey-mount, + For the wash-trough’s set by the village-fount, + And, hanging high on the olive-boughs, + Where, grey, light-fingered zephyrs drowse, + Swaying in bags, in the summer breeze, + Greek babies take their embroidered ease. + + In old Dodona, so they say, + In a time when priest-craft had its sway, + “The Will of the Gods” came jostling, + Through the oak-leaves’ gentle rustling, + And the Priest of the Oracle carefully hung + Brazen vessels, which, easily rung, + By moving branches, in many keys, + Instructed the Greeks how their gods to please. + + ’Tis an old Greek fashion this hanging of things; + Many the legends from which it springs. + Twists of scarlet, and bright-dyed flax, + Hang on the rough Arcadian shacks, + Where the railroad follows the mountain base. + They hang brown jugs by the watering-place. + Amulets hang on the goats and the swine; + Wreaths hang high on the house and the shrine. + + And now the pots for the cheese + And the babies in black-eyed reveries + Sway, like the brasses long ago. + Hanging on high branch and on low! + Somehow the sight doth strangely please, + This new fruit on the old Greek trees! + One hears “Will of the Gods!” in speech + Babbling from olive and oak and beech. + + + + +THE ABBESS + + + Pink oleander lamps the brook-bed trails, + And orange-trees hang fruitage o’er the grain, + And there are hedges, green with fitful rain, + And cyclamen in white the hillside veils. + + While through the villages, ’neath Mistra’s height, + The children run to give a rose and stare + At strangers riding where grey olives flare + Mistily in the long hills’ summer light. + + Rose-pinnacled, a Franco-Turkish wall + Trailing with ivy, rears its crumbling mass, + Pantassa Church’s apse and mouldered hall + Look down upon the plain of Eurotas. + + Byzantine tower’s clear octagonal, + Jewel-like and fretted, circles on the sky; + A pavèd walk leads to the nunnery, + Past moss-grown arch and ruined capital. + + And here, an Abbess, old, yet maiden-faced, + Sits in a frigid pomp, in solemn pride: + Stately, aloof, the church’s pallid bride, + Greets us with countenance austere and chaste. + + The Abbess leads the way, with rigid calm, + Detached, haughty, imperious; her eyes + Pompously ignorant, religious-wise, + Cool as the blank intoning of a psalm. + + There are great piles of rose-leaves in the room, + Convent-brewed wines and bright bags, needle-wrought; + There is an ancient fountain in the court, + And guttering candles in the Church’s gloom. + + “The times have changed,” we said; “women no more + Hide them from life. We mingle and we work. + Christ only asks that not a soul shall shirk + Or flinch from bearing burdens that He bore.” + + The Abbess smiled. “Silence,” she said; “we learn, + On this hilltop we women watch the East, + The morning sun o’er Sparta is our priest, + The mountain stars like midnight tapers burn.” + + We looked at her; her eyes were crystal clear, + Passionless, pure and cold as moonlit snow. + Something she felt that we could never know; + Our vision to her eyes could not appear. + + We left her in the shadowed court to brood, + Where Frankish frescoes peer through shadows dim, + And cloistered nuns in tuneless, wailing hymn, + Chant Faith untried in mountain solitude. + + + + +GREEK FARMERS + + + In green Laconia, where the hedges are + Spring-starred with flowers, and the little brooks + Wake all the mountains from their solemn dreams + Of the old days, when gods moved strong and white + On hill and sea, or slept within the clouds; + There are great slopes, broken with tillage, rough + With clumsy ploughing, thick with olive-trees. + And here they stand, the tall, black-bearded men, + Whose eyes, unblinking, look into the sun. + Men, plainly bred from tribal wanderings, + Whose blood is fevered fire, men whose lands + Are bare with waste and bloodshed; men who stand + Gazing at strangers with shy interest; + Who, when you question their fresh peasant-eyes + Straighten up from their field-tasks and reply: + “These are our flocks and pastures--we are Greeks!” + + Black-bearded men who sow, What is the Seed? + For Greece has lain beneath the Turkish plough, + And all her hills and mountains smoke again + With treachery, rape, and murder. On the seas + The nations wait to grasp; the kings and crews + Who play the Blood-game snap at little lands + Like dogs at flies. Yea, that fair seed ye sow, + Is it Greek seed? though sown by mongrel hands? + Seed of a greatness far exceeding theirs, + The lands that would despoil Greece? Will it grow + That seed, Deucalion’s hope, Athena’s pride, + Is it once more the sacred seed that fell + Out of Demeter’s hand on holy ground? + Or, is it Cadmus-sown, for crops of Hell? + Truthfully, farmers, can ye stand and say: + “These are our fields and pastures, we are Greeks”? + + They make no answer--strong, black-bearded men, + Grimly at work on the Phigalian Hill + Where the grey Bassæ Temple guards the corn. + They make no answer in the mountain towns + Arcadian, where pink-roofed houses splotch + The hillsides and where hidden teamsters climb + Thicketed bridle-paths beside the streams. + They cannot tell us, if they know, what seed + The sculptors, patriots, and statesmen sowed; + Nor even if these furrows that they plow + Will bring a season’s harvest to their doors. + But, as we pass them, under upland oaks, + Under the fig-trees in the rocky gorge, + They walk with strange, fleet steps, so tireless, + So strong, with eyes set on some distant goal, + Till we, too, puzzled, murmur: “_They are Greeks_.” + + Oh, fateful World! insatiate modern life-- + Driven by urgencies too great to tell, + Destroying, recreating, balancing-- + What of this Old World, dreaming modern dreams, + Yet with the old dream dwelling in the land + To teach it Pride? Shall we dare face a Greek-- + With all his shining temples at his back, + With the eternal Thought behind his name,-- + As he were German, Russian, Turk, Chinese? + If these black-bearded mongrels share the pride + Of Argonauts and claim a classic birth + And till the wild land, dropping in the seed, + Forever saying softly, “We are Greeks,” + Why should they garner any other crop, + Why should they bend and toil for better gain + Than seeing New Greece realize her dream? + + + + +SONG + + + Toil on, fishermen! + Pan sits on the cliff, + Smiles and watches the fare, + Wreaths him with flowers there, + Bites at a lettuce leaf, + Binds him a poppy sheaf, + Drinks from a painted jug, + Watching the full nets tug; + Toil on, fishermen! + + Work on, harvesters! + Demeter rests on the hill, + Near to the threshing-floor; + Near to the cottage door, + Girds her with fruited vines, + Blows foam from the wines, + Drinks from a golden bowl, + While corn-filled wagons roll; + Work on, harvesters! + + Rest well, goat-herds! + Hermes cares for the sheep, + Flashes across the sun, + Burnishes helmet wings, + The wreathed caduceus brings, + To swift talaria-flight, + Through the sheep-scattered night; + Rest well, goat-herds! + + + + +TO THE OLYMPIAN HERMES + + + Now let the formal, folded curtain fall + Over this majesty of mellowed stone. + Let me go forth with eyes alight with joy + From this god-gazing. Let me not pause nor stay + Till by some clear word I have given faith + To doubting minds, how Greeks ennobled form + And carved high meaning in a body’s truth. + Yet, Hermes, fair god, consciously the flower + Of the Greek dream, sculptured so lofty-kind, + Stainlessly physical, superbly true;-- + Who is to tell thee that thou hast one fleck + On that pure manliness, and dare to speak + Something against thy calm that seems to say, + “Earth has no greater gift than perfect limbs, + And god-like manhood’s straight significance”? + Forgive me, Hermes, I had thought to take + Thy princely healthiness to ailing worlds; + To meanness and to littleness and lust, + Bidding them gaze upon thee in thy calm, + Telling them: “This is all. This Hermes stands + For Greek expression of a definite truth + Speaking its message to the world of men + And placing beauty as a final goal.” + But then I pondered: What will be the gain + If men say: “Hermes is very kind and fair, + Wholesome and generous and unafraid + And--soulless! Let be! we’ll no longer hope + For strength more than the body--loftier calm + Than this superb control of manly limbs, + Friendly with sun and rock, and sea, and life. + Now yield we up that old, defeated claim + Of soul, the ugly, hunted, harried thing, + And trust us to a pagan manliness, + Stand Hermes-like, unpuzzled, unamazed!” + I knew, oh Hermes! Greek perfection, lit + Like stately lamp with one clear, shining joy, + That of well-being, I knew life ended not + With just the beauty of a human form; + Marble, translated into mystery + Must needs have line to make it fair and right; + And that is all.... Thy unknown sculptor knew + The pagan mind and set thy godhood high, + In an unsullied semblance of a man + Untouched by sorrow, poverty, and shame. + Immortal _semblance_--then the cleavage comes! + Real men must live (we mortals know the fight), + Hot-blooded, passionate, forlorn, astray; + We know how men determine to be true + To some one Greatness,--struggle to the test + Baffled and crucified;--in bitter shame + Leaving the unsolved meaning of their lives. + And now we know, by those French faces torn + To rags, around the dumbly loyal eyes; + By English soldiers, done to crippled wrecks + And hideous mangling, how men dare to die, + Or live their silent, agonizing days. + And then we know there is a human thing + Transcending any body--called a Soul! + Yea, let the formal, folded curtain fall + O’er all that graciousness of mellowed stone. + The Pagan knew the beauty of the flesh. + We, Modern, view that beauty with resolve + Firm and unswerving that it be outdone, + Firm that all ugly, bruised, and broken things + Shall stand invested with a deathless pride + Before our eyes--that see them beautiful; + Determined that the perfect ones approach + Humbly with sense of some imperfectness, + And kneel in homage to the shattered brave. + + + + +GREECE, 1915-16 + + + Yea, taunt me, World Voice--I am dumb and blind, + My body broken, and my heart unclad. + Yet am I silent, while strange forces wind + The chains about me. Helpless, scorned, maligned, + I answer not. The Greece of long ago + Speaks for me in this newest time of woe. + + Europe reviles me. Yea, I stand alone + Like woman left before the ruined door, + Like woman who, beneath her outraged moan, + Remembers sacred hours. Like a stone + I am cold, passionless, mid the wild uproar, + Murmuring “Peace” and “Hellas” o’er and o’er. + + Apollo’s beauty sprang from out my womb; + Socrates called me, mother. Every hill + And templed glade, and solemn-urnèd tomb, + Bids me refrain; no longer to resume + War and rapine, no longer blood to spill, + Nor hate engender, nor intent to kill. + + Europe! Greece speaks, Greece, who so deeply drank + The bitter cup of ravage; who has laid + A new foundation: near her altars, blank + Of by-gone fires, she phalanxes the rank + Of golden grain. And bids the new-born Greek + Old classic words with modern tongue to speak. + + Homer withholds me, Æschylus restrains, + “Human Euripides” exhorts me--“Stay!” + I was despoilèd once; strike off my chains, + Unsay the insult! Greece nor plots nor feigns, + Only withholds her, agonized, at bay, + But loyal to her hallowed cliffs and plains! + + + + +THE SINGING STONES + + “Remember me, the Singing Stone ... for ... Phœbus ... laid on me his + Delphic harp--thenceforth I am lyre-voiced; strike me lightly with a + little pebble; and carry away witness of my boast.”--_Greek Anthology._ + + + Beyond brute Titan dissonance, black, bitter strains + Of Warfare; through the smitten fields of wheat; + Upon the bloody bridges, where the wains + Roll drone chords between marching soldier-feet; + Through mob-voice, robbed of cadence and of beat, + I hear the Stones of Sunion + Singing by the sea: + + “Lift we on high our time-defying shafts! + Our white-wing on the promontory stays, + Our age-old glory from the Ancient wafts + Godward out of an old, blind, Pagan mood, + While in the surging blue the Islands brood + In dim, time-purpled haze.” + + Out of the din of sociologic strife, + Of hoarse-voiced men, embruted by their work, + Of women, low-intoning lesser life, + From the rich Theme, which modern voices shirk, + Where all the forced, half-harmonizings lurk,-- + I hear the stones of Delphi + Singing in the rain: + + “Black swell the mountains, guarding well the Cleft, + Clear spills the water, o’er the fountain rim, + The worshipers are gone, the priests bereft. + Men keep no light upon the altar dim; + No Council meets, but ah, the hope is left, + The dream goes on, new voices chant the Hymn.” + + To the soft twilight of Æsthetic ease, + Where a smile is no smile, a tear no tear; + Where the fruit has no seed, the wine no lees, + No strong song comes. Yet, faintly year by year, + ’Mid those who listen, wistful, and in fear, + I hear the stones of Bassæ + Singing on the heights: + + “Grey comes the dawn upon the mountain crest, + Warm lie the vines on the Phigalian Hill; + The deities are gone, their secrets rest + Hidden by time. But still the Sun-God smites + Altar and soil, and richly thus requites + The farmers’ faith, and all the fields fulfill.” + + And everywhere my wistful head is bowed, + Pensive, absorbed, to find significance, + I hear stone chorus; the immortal crowd + Of pillars round some vocal radiance-- + Chant Spirit-Song of new inheritance-- + I hear all Pagan Temples + Singing in the dawn: + + “Lift we on high our columns shining white! + Our broad wings on the promontories stay; + For us forever was the world’s first light,-- + Ignorant God-seeking. Ye, that follow, may + Soar to a higher vision! ’mid the Pagan night. + We were the singers of a brighter Day.” + + + + +THE OLD QUEST + + “Feed in joy thine own flock and look on thine own land.”--_Greek + Anthology._ + + + “Friend! hast thou seen the rosy mass + Of cyclamen along the pass + To Arcady? + Doth the green country sweep enlarge + Beneath the white cloud’s floating barge? + Does the sun lift a gleaming targe + On Arcady? + + “Hold.... Do the trees keep happy nests + Between the young leaves’ trembling breasts + In Arcady? + Does running water laugh and sing, + Do butterflies waft wing-and-wing? + Spins the white moon her mystic ring + O’er Arcady? + + “Speak!--Are there greenwoods cool and dense, + Do flower-grails gleam out from thence + In Arcady? + Do pines the aisles and arches blur, + With frankincense and breaths of myrrh, + Veiling the happy forms that stir + Through Arcady? + + “Thou seest that I am blind,”--said he, + “But hast thou been where I would be + In Arcady? + Oh! didst thou see within the gate + The one who promised me to wait? + Stays she for me, though I come late + To Arcady? + + “I wonder that she doth not send + A clue to show the roads that trend + To Arcady-- + But thou canst tell me. Does it rise + Empinnacled to azure skies?... + Thou sayst?... _None knoweth where it lies, + Fair Arcady!_” + + _’Tis sunset and the end of day, + The roads are closed--so all men say-- + To Arcady. + The birds and butterflies are fled; + The honey quaffed; the perfume shed; + The feet that used to dance are sped + From Arcady._ + + “The roads are closed?... Oh, not to me! + Thou seest that I am blind,” said he. + “And Arcady?... + Full well I know thou liest now, + Hast thou the world-mark on thy brow? + Hast thou no one to ’wait thee--thou? + In Arcady?” + + He wanders down the darkling way + The mute horizons watch him stray + Toward Arcady. + His feet are bleeding, he is blind, + He dreams of that he will not find, + But in his wide unconquered mind + Lives Arcady! + + + + +THE GODS ARE NOT GONE, BUT MAN IS BLIND + + + Over the hills the gods come walking, + Where the black pines draw their swords, + And the spell-bound leaves cease talking, + For the High-Priest sun comes stalking + And ’tis no time for words. + + And oh! the gifts the gods are bringing-- + Stretches of happy heath, + Jewels with souls, and flowers singing; + Smiling stars, and new hope springing + With the wingèd hope called Death! + + Over the hills the pipes are playing, + And the gods come strong and fair. + Alas! they know not of the straying, + The faithlessness and bitter saying: + “We know no gods, nor care....” + + Over the hills--the day-sky kindles + On a blackened world of clods; + Dead and dry are the flaxless spindles, + The cruse is drained,--the fire dwindles ... + No worshipers for the gods! + + + + +THE SEA OF TIME + + +(Sappho sings to Alcæus) + + Only our few short hours, + For you and me; + Temples and groves and bowers, + And then--the Sea! + + Only our finite word + For you and me, + Who knows what gods have heard + Under the Sea? + + Love, though the gold moons wane + For you and me, + We shall not meet again + Down by the Sea. + + Ours shall be hidden ways; + For you and me + Stretch the long separate days-- + Mist on the Sea! + + Artemis--will she say + For you and me + What Law we must obey + Moves in the Sea? + + Moves, till the faces worn + By you and me, + Luminous, dream-forsworn + Change in the Sea? + + Change, for unending tides + Bear you and me + And the Self in us glides + From Sea to Sea. + + Love, shall the sailing souls + Of you and me + Float where new shore unrolls + Rimmed by the Sea? + + Comes then the meeting place + For you and me? + Silence ... white bubbles trace + Foam on the Sea! + + + + +ON THE THOROUGHFARE + + + To-day I go to buy some dates + From Glyco’s cart. + “Ten cents,” my smiling fruitman states, + And then we part-- + I to the mart, + He for the next fig-buyer waits! + + Back to my world I go, its keen + Quick energy + And competitions sharp and mean, + Its flippancy, + And sophistry, + And tampering with things unclean; + + But Glyco waits; he has ten cents; + And he has hope, + And back of him, antecedents + Give him such scope! + With his traditions’ affluence + I cannot cope! + + + + +AT PÆSTUM + + + The low, flat marshland, myrtle overrun, + A palm, a Roman wall that skirts the way, + The far blue reaches of Salerno’s bay, + Then ... the three temples standing in the sun. + + These are the caskets of the sun-sealed years; + ’Mid tides that ebb and flow, ’neath stars that set, + Deathless their grave and tranquil beauty ... yet + Buried in silence, in eternal tears. + + Beneath these tympana the Dorians trod; + Here, Doric priests upon an alien shore + Made sacrifice, perhaps these myrtles wore, + And garlanded the offering to their god. + + Demeter saw the bright libations spilled; + To Hermes leapt the scarlet through the fleece. + Amid these columns moved the gods of Greece; + These lofty spaces with the pæan thrilled. + + This, centuries ago. Demeter now + Is known no more. Poseidon, too, hath fled. + ’Twould seem that Pan and Hermes both are dead; + No Nike springs upon a Grecian prow. + + Yet is this sacred pause, this pillared calm + Still stirred by whispers from Tyrrhenian waves + While near the shadows of these architraves + Lie smiling shores of terraced fruit and palm. + + And springing from Demeter’s altar site, + Where the old dream of gods hath died away, + And the Greek torch burned down to ashen grey, + There blooms a star shape, mystical and white. + + One mystical white star! Oh! Pagan fire + Whose temples stand, whose gods have been forgot, + One goddess holds in memory this spot, + Else why should Nature thus in bloom aspire? + + Why else in this dim fane the sea intone, + And sun send fire to the altars bare, + And moss and lichen trace strange scripture, here + The lizards flash like symbols o’er the stone? + + The low, flat marshland, myrtle overrun, + A palm, a Roman wall that skirts the way, + The far blue reaches of Salerno’s bay, + Then ... the three temples standing in the sun. + + + + +PHIDIAS + +A DRAMATIC EPISODE + +_Dungeon in an Athenian prison; a small grated window near the ceiling +shows a patch of blue sky. The scene discloses Phidias, prostrate and +manacled. In the dusk of the cell lingers the_ JAILER. + + + JAILER (_curiously_). What sayst thou, Phidias, who art accused? + The old plaint, snarling that thou art abused? + + PHIDIAS (_lifting his head wearily_). + What do I answer? Yea! what thing thou wilt! + What care I for this legendary guilt? + Who makes or unmakes Unity? Accused? + Why, any fool accuses. It amused + The enemies of Pericles to stab + At him through me. Let gossips spread their blab, + The sea is just as broad, the sky as clear + And I as blameless. + + JAILER (_persisting_). But that brought thee here, + Took thee from royal favor, once the dear + Adviser, friend of Pericles. It seems + Here is the end of all thy mighty dreams; + ’Twas Pericles who made thee, and there lurks + His royal patronage about thy works. + + PHIDIAS (_sullenly_). So reason vulgar minds; as well to say + Hephæstus made me, manacled this way, + Hammered to fever, bent to twisted woe. + No, clown! no tyrant brought this overthrow, + Nor my once vivid glory, but the fate + That overtakes the artist; whether late, + Slow, poisoning, by deadly world-born things, + Or early blight of strong imaginings + Too fervent for his frame. Athens is free + From every blame. Not Pericles made me! + + JAILER (_wagging his head obstinately_). + ’Twas love of Pericles that cast thee here, + Ungeniused thee, put thee to rot in drear + Murk of this den; and if not he who made + Thee what thou wast--aloof and haughty blade + Fellow I watched in Agora, as one + Treading on air, thy white himation + Streaming like wings back of thy eager form, + As thy swift sandal moved among the swarm + Of merchants, gamesters, thieves; while deep gaze drank + Of something that was neither wealth nor rank-- + Why then,--who made thee? for that thou hast fame + ’Tis granted, when the rabble speak thy name. + + PHIDIAS (_moving restlessly, clenches his hands, answering + impatiently_). I made me, fool, made this unfinished self, + Nourished me as a child, in happy health, + Fostered the thirst my mother gave to me + With her electric milk. Ecstatic tree + Charmides planted, I did grow and thrive, + Adding to that, what Greece alone could give! + Studied cult-statues, studied Xoana, saw + Paralysis in Polygnotus’ law, + Wondered that Hegias and Hageladas wrought + Hardly beyond the cold Egyptian thought. + Out of their almond-eyed archaic things, + New butterfly, my free Athena springs! + My Zeus Olympian came to my prayer + To see a god. I saw, then made him there! + (_To jailer._) Poor ragged dolt, clanking thy silly keys, + Did Pericles make me as I made these? + Did Athens tell me what a man must do + Who sees instinctive _life_, and sees it true? + + JAILER (_impudently_). + How now! What saw’st thou that _I_ might not see? + A rosy nymph at bath! Aphrodite + Caught in a net of foam? Hermes’ disguise? + Come now, what is this power within thine eyes? + + PHIDIAS (_speaking dreamily as if to himself_). + What is the power? Life! The heroic thing + Streaming magnetic from a sea-gull’s wing, + That light in stars, in waves, in children’s eyes, + In green plane-tree, or in deep, sphinx-like skies + Of unknown countries, where the grasses blow + Unseen of man; where flower-laced streamlets flow + Past mystic herbs, Demeter loves to keep + Secretly growing on the mountain steep. + I saw the curves of fruits, saw Grecian sails + Take fire-blue seas; saw the soft, misty veils + Of maidens wrap their limbs, saw horses, shields, + Victories, warriors, priests, and battlefields; + Each man a poem; women each a jar + Filled with soft, psychic flame, an avatar + Shaped to a noble outline, lofty truth + From some great vital Source-- + (_The Sculptor breaks off suddenly, scrutinizing the jailer + and continuing._) + Rascal, uncouth + As are thy words and gestures, I can see + Some trace of life-light.--Gods! were I but free-- + + JAILER (_interrupting with smug complacency_). + Which, proper thanks to Theseus, thou art not, + Thou light-fingered; thou dingy-robed sot! + Carving thy way to treason, selling State + For greasy coin, with Hermes as thy mate + Slanting his profile on it. Dreamer,--thou! + “Bronze-worker.” Yea! By Dionysus! How + Thou workedst guilty things for Athens’ shame, + Thinking to hide behind thy Patron’s name! + Athens, the famous city; thou, a worm, + Coiling in earth, no four-eyed marble herm + Will mark. Our furry worms that make the silk + Munch the mulberry; but thy crafty ilk + Munch the fine gold, for sickly marble shapes + Of statues stoned by every Jack-a-napes; + ’Twas thou, worm, coiled ’round thy princely friend, + And gained War-Treasure for thy braggart’s end. + + PHIDIAS (_sadly musing_). The fool is glib. His lesson he has got + From Agora and Propylæa, not + The polished utterance of Bema’s Hill. + But that crowd’s word, that bodes or good or ill + From a fierce thirst; sneering pitiless breath, + Freezing a man, or scorching him to death. + + JAILER (_scratching his head, expectorates knowingly and argues_). + Why are thy statues costly? with the urns + Of Dipylon Gate, the passer-by discerns + Good lusty statues, made by Such-an-one, + Quite comely, they, and all of porous stone; + Why use Pentelic marble? so much gold? + Thou dreamer-schemer, sculptor overbold? + + PHIDIAS (_with a moan turns from his tormentor to face the stone + wall, muttering_). “Dreamer,” he called me. Is it by that name + My curse comes? Verily; I dreamed my shame, + My rich accusings. Dreamed brook-flowing folds + Of draperies, dreamed my young hero-moulds, + Dreamed men who sat their horses, as they rode + Clouds over seas, dreamed Panathenaic ode + In singing-rhythm round the Parthenon; + The frieze and metopes of Theseion; + Dreamed the sweet-bodied girls, whose maiden strength + Poise vase and basket all the Temple length. + Dreamed the slow, garlanded, portentous beasts, + Led by the veiled and sacrificial priests; + Dreamed the young, leaping horseman’s haughty ease + Pediment grouped, or filleted in frieze. + Was it a dream only to-day shall know? + Lives it no longer than this artist’s throe? + If that must be, then butterfly most drear + I sink back to the worm-thing crawling here. + + JAILER (_having curiously listened, now struts forward and faces the + Sculptor. He eyes him stupidly and shakes his finger at him_). + Why, were it not for Pericles who gave + Thee marble, color, gold for statues brave,-- + Poured out his coffers,--we should amply be + Equipped for Persia. Bronze and ivory + Changed back to drachmæ, all the sacred rock + Would stand as staunch, to the barbaric shock, + As when Pisistratus, with hardy race, + Made the Acropolis his fortress place. + And look ye, with that gold Athena wears + (Filched from State monies, for thy stone affairs), + We could plant ships in Piræus, array + Our strength to Corinth, where the Persians may + Once more with envy strike.--But, thou wouldest bring + To a State’s need thy stone imagining! + Fie! but for gold, thy dreams would be as vague + As fat my wife scrapes from altar-dreg, + And boils to stuff to make my chiton white; + Ethereal substance, wind-shaken, alight + With lambent iridescence, very fine, + From the amphora gushing forth like wine. + But look you, in a moment, just a trace + Of foam is all that froths from out the vase, + And nothing’s left but the damp greasy lees; + So knave, with thee, without thy Pericles! + + THE SCULPTOR (_with scornful amusement to himself_). + He mouths that name as if it were a mask, + Through which a stupid actor says his task, + Forgets, mistakes, yet struts around the place + Thinking the mask gives him a certain grace. + + (_Phidias wearily rises and stretches himself, the jailer meanwhile + curiously observing him._) + + PHIDIAS (_abruptly_). + Slave, thou art childish, many a name like this + Links close to art, for its own ego-bliss, + To have possession, be the master, who + Owns, keeps, controls, the work we artists do. + Pericles views the height of Athens’ power, + Pomp of Acropolis, where every hour + In golden, crimson, blue, and creamy dye + Ecstatic marble forms sing to the sky, + And hears them sing! (This for his kingly wage:) + “_Nikomen_, Athens, Pericles, Golden Age!” + + JAILER (_looking at the prisoner with heavy curiosity_). + And what, by Hades, _is_ the thing they sing? + + PHIDIAS (_turns impulsively to answer; then a fierce reticence makes + him draw himself up and turn away_). + Torture me not with thy coarse questioning; + My sorrowing answers, for the ribaldries + Of bath or games: “Thus spluttered Phidias, + Maddened at being walled up.” So the crass + Idling crowd, jostling in brainless mass, + Gapes, sneers, and marvels, at my grim defeat; + Mud covers stately names where rascals meet. + + JAILER (_with offended dignity_). + Well, then, good-night. I leave thee to thy prayers. + No friends, no patron, for thy artist-wares, + Unless, indeed (_grinning back of his hand_) + Zeus showers thee with gold + Like Danaē. + + PHIDIAS (_steadily and reverently_). Yea, most mighty Zeus can hold + Me to my service, to that Ageless Thing + Higher than he, called Beauty. + +(_He breaks off suddenly, goes eagerly to the now departing jailer, +saying authoritatively_.) + + Fellow, bring + Here to my cell, some wax, a tool or two, + Some clay, a lump, stuck in thy cap will do-- + A hand’s length of the white, Pentelic stone, + From where it sleeps within the mountain, grown + Pregnant by streams and flowers, for some birth + Of wingéd dream, out of hypnotic earth. + + JAILER (_backing mockingly away, mimics coarsely_). + A jewel, a star, a little bit of wax! + Some tiny thing this mighty genius lacks! + That pearl, perchance, Aspasia’s bosom decks, + Or blood-red stones hung round Hetairæ-necks! + + PHIDIAS (_beseechingly_). Only some clay, man, in the dark my touch + Will fashion thee a goddess-image, such + As still they place in niches, who obey + “Sea-wards, oh! Mystæ,” on Eleusis-Way. + I’ll mould thee woman’s hand, or horse’s head, + A dreaming faun, Marsyas as he bled; + A babe’s round, dimpled, saucy little back; + A vine-wreathed satyr, with his grape-filled sack. + + JAILER (_pompously drawing aloof_). + By Dionysus! that were illy done. + Artist is one thing. State another. Shun + Thee and punish thee, doth Will of State, + Who art no artist more, but he who late + Sculptor to Pericles, now is a knave, + Who sits and twists his thumbs in prison-cave! + + (_The_ JAILER _finishes by an insulting gesture and departs_. PHIDIAS + _going to the heavy door listens to his retreating footsteps. He draws + a long sigh and, standing with his back to the door, looks up at the + patch of blue sky, in silence. At last he speaks._) + + Thus they leave Phidias, worker in the bronze, + Breather of life! breaker of chisel-bonds! + He is, they think, a man, a common thing-- + All yellow, freckled, thin-blooded; they wring + His soul, because of policies. + Make him a sacrifice to fallacies; + “Drop him,” they say, in any dungeon now; + “Gods, grant in time his traitor’s neck shall bow + To death, for that he trifled with the State! + Strike his face from the shield where he dared mate + That face with Pericles,”--Oh! lofty Hill + High Sacred Rock, where sun-bathed columns thrill; + Proud statue-gleaming, gold Acropolis; + Dreamed I so high, to fall as low as--this? + Athens, I made thee out of my heart’s blood; + Rising by ages, from Time’s ’whelming flood. + Deucalion-fashion, soar my stones that sing + The beauty of this age’s visioning. + Out of Iktinos’ soul the Parthenon grew-- + Those glorious Doric shafts, that taper through + The blaze of morn or eve. Athena’s shrine, + Lodging her ivory maidenhood, is mine! + ’Twas I who gave the Lemnian her life, + Knew god-like action whether peace or strife. + Knew how a god would stand, breathe, smile, or frown, + And by that knowledge, deities’ renown, + I was a god-creator. Yet I lie + Here in befoulèd darkness, with the sky + Still burning blue upon the mountain tops + Surrounding Athens; where the Sun-God stops + Of evening, all his golden fingers laid + On marble chords of rhythmic colonnade, + And plays so strange, so Delphic-high a strain, + That hopes ethereal fill men’s hearts again. + Oh! Athens, marble glory, is it naught + Phidias lived, and dreamed, and planned, and taught? + + (_In his agony the Sculptor buries his head in his hands. There is a + long silence, suddenly broken by the alighting of a_ CRICKET _upon the + small grated window; the_ CRICKET _keeps up a steady trilling and is + not at first noticed by the Sculptor_.) + + +THE CRICKET + + Greet, greet, greet, + Pan with hymning sweet. + Wine and corn are here, + Grapes and honey clear; + Olives, purple-black, + Burst from tawny sack. + Through Olympian night + Temples glimmer white + Stars their tangled vines + Wreathe around the shrines. + Shepherds all alone + Under mountain tree, + By the midnight sea, + Shall pipe songs of thee + Singer in the stone! + + (PHIDIAS _listening intently, passes his hand over his eyes, creeps + nearer under the grating, straining his gaze upward_.) + + Prometheus! but I think this minstrel wrings + Wise melody from gauzy zither-wings, + A healing balm, like to the lustral wave + At Delphi, comes my broken soul to lave. + For, as he perches with his roundelay, + Methinks he counsels me; not for to-day + Only is artist-pride and feverish bliss-- + Perchance my spirit still may suffer this + Infamy, yet go singing down the years! + + (_The Sculptor pauses doubtfully. Still looking upward, he presses + closer beneath the little window._) + + Answer me, Cricket, are my stricken tears, + My empty hands, proof of a thing to be, + That I dreamed true? If Beauty nourished me, + Mothered and saved; shall I in ages more + Stand firm and proud, telling what guise she wore + These days? For with young Myron I would hold + There is a law of Beauty, which, controlled + By men’s stern truth, becomes a sacred thing, + Expanded from our holy cherishing. + It is not static, cold, but lives and grows + Out of the All of Life, the artist knows. + + (_The_ CRICKET _after another silence, again chirps. This time the + rhythm is feebler and grows fainter and fainter, as the Sculptor, face + upwards, eagerly listens_.) + + +THE CRICKET + + Sweet, sweet, sweet, + Praise is full and meet; + O’er the architrave, + Beautiful and brave, + Strong and good and fair, + Poise in hallowed air. + In the violet clime, + In the winter rime, + On the poppied steep, + In the passes deep, + All the temples know + Paths that Greece shall go + Toward posterities + Far beyond the seas! + Far as man is known, + Thou shalt speak to men + Far beyond thy ken, + Beyond tongue or pen, + Singer in the stone! + + (PHIDIAS _at the close of the lilt lifts both arms appealingly. The_ + CRICKET _is silent a moment_.) + + PHIDIAS. Hist!--the green minstrel, god-of-little-things, + Thinketh perchance he strums his lyric wings + On dark Hymettus, where bees sip so long, + They lose their way in all the flower throng, + And many a little waxy dot of fuzz + Is caught in honey-prison. (_Whimsically._) Thou dost buzz + Cricket, as loud as I, encased + In this hard prison, bitter to my taste. + + (_The_ CRICKET _after a long pause trills for the last time_.) + + Fleet, fleet, fleet, + The ways of fame are sweet. + A marble head of dreams + Conquers the world, meseems. + Beautiful vases tell + How happy peoples dwell. + Beautiful bodies speak + New message to the weak. + Greece adown the years + Is the song of Seers. + Kora still intones + Nike still responds: + “Wielder of the wands.” + “Worker in the Bronze.” + “Singer in the Stones.” + + SCULPTOR (_suddenly and rapturously_). + Xaire! thou little herald, Xaire! thou + Hast cheered me, saved me! See my courage now! + What foul, damp cell can ever hold me here? + What slander stain my work of yester-year? + Upon the Hill my glowing children call + To the unborn of Artists; to the All, + Great Fusion of the races, who + Shall yet unite, some holy thing to do, + Before this strange world on its journey far + In trackless space shall move an empty star. + For portico and frieze and vase and fane. + Fountain and stele, that our utmost main + Our utterest patience brought to perfect whole + Will cast strange, spellful seed, and where the soul + Of art is known, its free, broad, ardent wing, + “Greece,” will be whispered like a sacred thing! + (_To the_ CRICKET.) Yea, Yea! thou little herald, “wingèd pipe,” + So I’ll indite thee in thy wisdom ripe-- + Now will I write my comrade young and lithe + Pæonius, how I imprisoned writhe. + Yet for his comfort will I softly tell + The cricket message to my dreary cell. + Luck! that I hid the chalk lump in my sleeve! + Joy that I have the parchment! Who’ll believe + That this is _all_ he hath, who was the friend + Of Pericles brought to this bitter end! + + (_The Sculptor with the parchment on his knee, busies himself in + writing. Occasionally he pauses and reads aloud what he has written._) + + Pæonius, good comrade, merry Greek, + Walking Olympian groves, watching the freak + Of scarlet-flowered pomegranate vine + Tasting the cool jugs filled with pine-tree wine, + Fruits like warm bowls of amber nectar hung + And figs from branches o’er the streamlets flung-- + Read and reflect, and if thou com’st to see + Some supple scheme to set thy brother free, + Act on it swiftly; only be advised + _Pericles’ day is over_. What he prized + Was proud display, but what the people want + Is arms and ships that they may proudly vaunt. + (Since Marathon no Greek knows how to smile + Passing the Soros’ valiant hero-pile, + And still they say in Sparta, athletes wait + To teach barbarians how Greece is great.) + I, the poor Sculptor, lived too near the throne, + Therefore, I lie now on the dungeon stone! + + (PHIDIAS’S _gaze wanders, he becomes absorbed, intense, then once more + he applies himself to the letter_.) + + Last summer, passing Sunion, my sail + Red-burning down the stormy silver trail + O’er clouded blue, I humbly turned my sight + Up to that white fane, on the bronzèd height, + All its upspringing columns touched with sun + As the slow golden clouds walked high upon + Wave buttressed paths, to purple Cyclades + Those mystic islands of Saronic seas. + And as the molten sapphire round me sprayed + O’er the eye-painted prow, I humbly prayed + Poseidon, that Piræus I might gain; + Offered no cock, no vase, oil to contain, + But vowed a frieze from my young pupil’s skill, + New, daring sculpture for the Sea-God’s Hill + In Parian marble, calm and haughty white, + To gleam for sailors passing in the night. + How I was timid then! who after dared + Dispute with Pericles, and proudly shared + His vast ambitions for that golden realm-- + That Athens, which the vulgar overwhelm. + That I did promise, wilt thou execute? + So will these singing stones, out of the mute + Parian marble, form immortal choir + Chanting “Poseidon” to the ocean’s lyre. + + (PHIDIAS _pauses once more. He draws a long sigh, then continues + writing._) + + Well, brother-artist, here I agonized, + Until a cricket, by great Zeus apprised, + Perched on the window-bar and chirped a thing + Wise as Athena, took away the sting + Of the world’s serpent-sayings. Friend, I give + Faith to the cricket message while I live. + + (_The Sculptor, head in hands ponders deeply then again resumes + writing._) + + He trilled, Pæonius, a theme like this: + What we _do_ lives, though after all the bliss + Of our own living, must our bodies pass! + Hast ever caught the perfume of sweet grass + Dying beneath the sickle? Our breath goes + Thus to the gods indifferent, ’mid the snows + High on Parnassos’ or Kiona’s crest, + Where mountain after mountain heaves a breast, + Black, billow-deep, sky-ranging, in a chain + Tumultuously, serene around the plain. + But what we make of beauty keeps its power + Down the long years, from the conception’s hour. + For mark ye, lad, I never sensed my work, + But did it all unconscious; now in murk, + In prison black, I see it flying forth, + The strong wings of my friezes! All the worth + Of Laurion silver in Colossi paid + And proud Athena, ivory o’er laid. + Gold-sandalled, springing, mellow-marble feet, + Olive-crowned heads in pensive bending, sweet + Backs, limbs, and bosoms! Noble eye and tress, + Caught in the dream of their own loveliness-- + I see it all, so calm! “Nothing too much,” + Tunics in solemn folds, majesty such + As comes with purity; things strong and free; + White to the sky and naked to the sea. + Women and men that move adown the days + Out of the forest deep, through shimmering maize, + In fructifying suns, in cooling dews,-- + All tranquil, noble, filled with God, or Muse + Of deathless Greece.--Yea, all my strife, + My will, my soul, was this portrayal--Life! + + (_Moved by what he has written, the Sculptor gets to his feet and + paces feverishly his narrow cell. He goes on writing as he walks and + reading aloud._) + + I now see by prophetic cricket-voice + That Life is deathless, that my works rejoice + For all rejoicing. Brother mine + We carve for worlds to come. Beyond the line + Of horizons, untravelled, rise the lands + Hungry of spirit, waiting at our hands + Bread of True Vision. Yea, where rusty wars, + Hot blood of nation-struggle, stain these shores, + Women and men shall bleed with sacrifice + To a dead god, called Progress, and the Vice + Of chance-worship, on sickly, pampered knees + And counting gold in languors of disease. + Can’st picture these, coming to look upon + My glorious horsemen of the Parthenon? + Seeing your Nikes tread triumphant air? + Our marble dreams forever beauty-clean + And dark heroic bronzes stained with green, + By fire and sword and water all unspoiled, + Their perfect limbs’ clear candor unassoiled? + Mark ye, those stranger eyes shall take and take, + Still the thirst grow and still the joy to slake + From Old-World beauty. Till we sculptors stand + Supreme World-life within our pulseless hand! + Think, lad, when father’s little ones shall tell + How Greeks saw, felt, and struggled, conquered, fell! + Fear not, Pæonius, our spirits win + Out of this age to call all ages kin. + + (PHIDIAS, _sighing as one relieved of a burden, pauses awhile, then + writes a few more lines_.) + + Smile not upon this, friend--All fancy--Yea! + But, by the Etruscans, gone but yesterday + To Italy, and now established there; + By Dorians, building temples by the fair + Purple Tyrennian, so I think + Greek soul o’erflows, as over fountain-brink, + And that we circle out and out, our creed + Begetting world-dream for an unborn breed, + Ardent posterities!--Thus do I then + Bid now farewell to my own race of men! + And for a future permanence, new clime, + Lift statues in the peristyles of Time + And trust my message, where that message seeks + Its own fulfillment. Hail to the happy Greeks + Hail to that Race; keen, wistful, passionate, + That shall know Greece, Athens, the gods, the State! + + (_The paper hangs listlessly in the hand of_ PHIDIAS, _who sits in + revery, lost to all around him_.) + + JAILER (_entering_). Rise! thou infamous sculptor! A decree! + Follow! Thy haughty judges have demanded thee! + + (PHIDIAS _wearily rising, stares stupidly at him, then looks up to the + little window where the_ CRICKET _perched and makes a slight gesture + of salute and farewell_.) + + PHIDIAS. “So be it.” + (_Hastily aside._) See this coin? Of all good fees + The best, with head of high Themistocles-- + Thine--if thy hand this simple scroll wilt bear + To the great sculptor at Olympia. + To give to him my farewell words and tears, + (_The Sculptor pauses, looking unseeingly at the_ JAILER _and + adding softly_.) As I pass outward--down the faithful years! + + + + +EPILOGUE + + + As children keep + Some spiraled shell or crystal crusted stone + For wonder and for solace, when alone + They fall asleep, + + So do I soft caress + And guard through days of World-dark such a charm + And cherish from indifference and harm + One loveliness. + + And every Grecian vase + And sculptured fragment to my eyes doth mean + Life, calm and balanced, simple, and serene, + Transcending Race! + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + +Obvious punctuation errors and omissions have been corrected. + +Page 37: “grim Thermoyplæ” changed to “grim Thermopylæ” + +Page 108: “the rythm is feebler” changed to “the rhythm is feebler” + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75533 *** |