Читать книгу The Poems of Schiller — Third period - Friedrich Schiller - Страница 5
ОглавлениеTHE MAIDEN'S LAMENT.
The clouds fast gather,
The forest-oaks roar—
A maiden is sitting
Beside the green shore,—
The billows are breaking with might, with might,
And she sighs aloud in the darkling night,
Her eyelid heavy with weeping.
"My heart's dead within me,
The world is a void;
To the wish it gives nothing,
Each hope is destroyed.
I have tasted the fulness of bliss below
I have lived, I have loved,—Thy child, oh take now,
Thou Holy One, into Thy keeping!"
"In vain is thy sorrow,
In vain thy tears fall,
For the dead from their slumbers
They ne'er can recall;
Yet if aught can pour comfort and balm in thy heart,
Now that love its sweet pleasures no more can impart,
Speak thy wish, and thou granted shalt find it!"
"Though in vain is my sorrow,
Though in vain my tears fall,—
Though the dead from their slumbers
They ne'er can recall,
Yet no balm is so sweet to the desolate heart,
When love its soft pleasures no more can impart,
As the torments that love leaves behind it!"
TO MY FRIENDS.
Yes, my friends!—that happier times have been
Than the present, none can contravene;
That a race once lived of nobler worth;
And if ancient chronicles were dumb,
Countless stones in witness forth would come
From the deepest entrails of the earth.
But this highly-favored race has gone,
Gone forever to the realms of night.
We, we live! The moments are our own,
And the living judge the right.
Brighter zones, my friends, no doubt excel
This, the land wherein we're doomed to dwell,
As the hardy travellers proclaim;
But if Nature has denied us much,
Art is yet responsive to our touch,
And our hearts can kindle at her flame.
If the laurel will not flourish here—
If the myrtle is cold winter's prey,
Yet the vine, to crown us, year by year,
Still puts forth its foliage gay.
Of a busier life 'tis well to speak,
Where four worlds their wealth to barter seek,
On the world's great market, Thames' broad stream;
Ships in thousands go there and depart—
There are seen the costliest works of art,
And the earth-god, Mammon, reigns supreme
But the sun his image only graves
On the silent streamlet's level plain,
Not upon the torrent's muddy waves,
Swollen by the heavy rain.
Far more blessed than we, in northern states
Dwells the beggar at the angel-gates,
For he sees the peerless city—Rome!
Beauty's glorious charms around him lie,
And, a second heaven, up toward the sky
Mounts St. Peter's proud and wondrous dome.
But, with all the charms that splendor grants,
Rome is but the tomb of ages past;
Life but smiles upon the blooming plants
That the seasons round her cast.
Greater actions elsewhere may be rife
Than with us, in our contracted life—
But beneath the sun there's naught that's new;
Yet we see the great of every age
Pass before us on the world's wide stage
Thoughtfully and calmly in review
All. in life repeats itself forever,
Young for ay is phantasy alone;
What has happened nowhere,—happened never,—
That has never older grown!
PUNCH SONG.
Four elements, joined in
Harmonious strife,
Shadow the world forth,
And typify life.
Into the goblet
The lemon's juice pour;
Acid is ever
Life's innermost core.
Now, with the sugar's
All-softening juice,
The strength of the acid
So burning reduce.
The bright sparkling water
Now pour in the bowl;
Water all-gently
Encircles the whole.
Let drops of the spirit
To join them now flow;
Life to the living
Naught else can bestow.
Drain it off quickly
Before it exhales;
Save when 'tis glowing,
The draught naught avails.
NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT.
See, he sitteth on his mat
Sitteth there upright,
With the grace with which he sat
While he saw the light.
Where is now the sturdy gripe,—
Where the breath sedate,
That so lately whiffed the pipe
Toward the Spirit great?
Where the bright and falcon eye,
That the reindeer's tread
On the waving grass could spy,
Thick with dewdrops spread?
Where the limbs that used to dart
Swifter through the snow
Than the twenty-membered hart,
Than the mountain roe?
Where the arm that sturdily
Bent the deadly bow?
See, its life hath fleeted by,—
See, it hangeth low!
Happy he!—He now has gone
Where no snow is found:
Where with maize the fields are sown,
Self-sprung from the ground;
Where with birds each bush is filled,
Where with game the wood;
Where the fish, with joy unstilled,
Wanton in the flood.
With the spirits blest he feeds,—
Leaves us here in gloom;
We can only praise his deeds,
And his corpse entomb.
Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring,
Sound the death-note sad!
Bury with him everything
That can make him glad!
'Neath his head the hatchet hide
That he boldly swung;
And the bear's fat haunch beside,
For the road is long;
And the knife, well sharpened,
That, with slashes three,
Scalp and skin from foeman's head
Tore off skilfully.
And to paint his body, place
Dyes within his hand;
Let him shine with ruddy grace
In the Spirit-land!
THE FEAST OF VICTORY.
Priam's castle-walls had sunk,
Troy in dust and ashes lay,
And each Greek, with triumph drunk,
Richly laden with his prey,
Sat upon his ship's high prow,
On the Hellespontic strand,
Starting on his journey now,
Bound for Greece, his own fair land.
Raise the glad exulting shout!
Toward the land that gave them birth
Turn they now the ships about,
As they seek their native earth.
And in rows, all mournfully,
Sat the Trojan women there,—
Beat their breasts in agony,
Pallid, with dishevelled hair.
In the feast of joy so glad
Mingled they the song of woe,
Weeping o'er their fortunes sad,
In their country's overthrow.
"Land beloved, oh, fare thee well!
By our foreign masters led,
Far from home we're doomed to dwell,—
Ah, how happy are the dead!"
Soon the blood by Calchas spilt
On the altar heavenward smokes;
Pallas, by whom towns are built
And destroyed, the priest invokes;
Neptune, too, who all the earth
With his billowy girdle laves,—
Zeus, who gives to terror birth,
Who the dreaded Aegis waves.
Now the weary fight is done,
Ne'er again to be renewed;
Time's wide circuit now is run,
And the mighty town subdued!
Atreus' son, the army's head,
Told the people's numbers o'er,
Whom he, as their captain, led
To Scamander's vale of yore.
Sorrow's black and heavy clouds
Passed across the monarch's brow:
Of those vast and valiant crowds,
Oh, how few were left him now!
Joyful songs let each one raise,
Who will see his home again,
In whose veins the life-blood plays,
For, alas! not all remain!
"All who homeward wend their way,
Will not there find peace of mind;
On their household altars, they
Murder foul perchance may find.
Many fall by false friend's stroke,
Who in fight immortal proved:"—
So Ulysses warning spoke,
By Athene's spirit moved.
Happy he, whose faithful spouse
Guards his home with honor true!
Woman ofttimes breaks her vows,
Ever loves she what is new.
And Atrides glories there
In the prize he won in fight,
And around her body fair
Twines his arms with fond delight.
Evil works must punished be.
Vengeance follows after crime,
For Kronion's just decree
Rules the heavenly courts sublime.
Evil must in evil end;
Zeus will on the impious band
Woe for broken guest-rights send,
Weighing with impartial hand.
"It may well the glad befit,"
Cried Olleus' valiant son, 24 "To extol the Gods who sit On Olympus' lofty throne! Fortune all her gifts supplies, Blindly, and no justice knows, For Patroclus buried lies, And Thersites homeward goes! Since she blindly throws away Each lot in her wheel contained, Let him shout with joy to-day Who the prize of life has gained." "Ay, the wars the best devour! Brother, we will think of thee, In the fight a very tower, When we join in revelry! When the Grecian ships were fired, By thine arm was safety brought; Yet the man by craft inspired 25 Won the spoils thy valor sought. Peace be to thine ashes blest! Thou wert vanquished not in fight: Anger 'tis destroys the best,— Ajax fell by Ajax' might!" Neoptolemus poured then, To his sire renowned 26 the wine— "'Mongst the lots of earthly men, Mighty father, prize I thine! Of the goods that life supplies, Greatest far of all is fame; Though to dust the body flies, Yet still lives a noble name. Valiant one, thy glory's ray Will immortal be in song; For, though life may pass away, To all time the dead belong!" "Since the voice of minstrelsy Speaks not of the vanquished man, I will Hector's witness be,"— Tydeus' noble son 27 began: "Fighting bravely in defence Of his household-gods he fell. Great the victor's glory thence, He in purpose did excel! Battling for his altars dear, Sank that rock, no more to rise; E'en the foemen will revere One whose honored name ne'er dies." Nestor, joyous reveller old, Who three generations saw, Now the leaf-crowned cup of gold Gave to weeping Hecuba. "Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful,— Balsam for a broken heart. Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful,— Balsam for a broken heart. "E'en to Niobe, whom Heaven Loved in wrath to persecute, Respite from her pangs was given, Tasting of the corn's ripe fruit. Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Buried deep in Lethe's wave Lies all grief, all sorrowing! Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Swallowed up in Lethe's wave Is all grief, all sorrowing!" And the Prophetess 28 inspired By her God, upstarted now,— Toward the smoke of homesteads fired, Looking from the lofty prow. "Smoke is each thing here below; Every worldly greatness dies, As the vapory columns go,— None are fixed but Deities! Cares behind the horseman sit— Round about the vessel play; Lest the morrow hinder it, Let us, therefore, live to-day."
PUNCH SONG.
(TO BE SUNG IN NORTHERN COUNTRIES.)
On the mountain's breezy summit,
Where the southern sunbeams shine,
Aided by their warming vigor,
Nature yields the golden wine.
How the wondrous mother formeth,
None have ever read aright;
Hid forever is her working,
And inscrutable her might.
Sparkling as a son of Phoebus,
As the fiery source of light,
From the vat it bubbling springeth,
Purple, and as crystal bright;
And rejoiceth all the senses,
And in every sorrowing breast
Poureth hope's refreshing balsam,
And on life bestows new zest.
But their slanting rays all feebly
On our zone the sunbeams shoot;
They can only tinge the foliage,
But they ripen ne'er the fruit.
Yet the north insists on living,
And what lives will merry be;
So, although the grape is wanting,
We invent wine cleverly.
Pale the drink we now are offering
On the household altar here;
But what living Nature maketh,
Sparkling is and ever clear.
Let us from the brimming goblet,
Drain the troubled flood with mirth;
Art is but a gift of heaven,
Borrowed from the glow of earth.
Even strength's dominions boundless
'Neath her rule obedient lie;
From the old the new she fashions
With creative energy.
She the elements' close union
Severs with her sovereign nod;
With the flame upon the altar,
Emulates the great sun-god.
For the distant, happy islands
Now the vessel sallies forth,
And the southern fruits, all-golden,
Pours upon the eager north.
As a type, then,—as an image,
Be to us this fiery juice,
Of the wonders that frail mortals
Can with steadfast will produce!
THE COMPLAINT OF CERES. 29 Does pleasant spring return once more? Does earth her happy youth regain? Sweet suns green hills are shining o'er; Soft brooklets burst their icy chain: Upon the blue translucent river Laughs down an all-unclouded day, The winged west winds gently quiver, The buds are bursting from the spray; While birds are blithe on every tree; The Oread from the mountain-shore Sighs, "Lo! thy flowers come back to thee— Thy child, sad mother, comes no more!" Alas! how long an age it seems Since all the earth I wandered over, And vainly, Titan, tasked thy beams The loved—the lost one—to discover! Though all may seek—yet none can call Her tender presence back to me The sun, with eyes detecting all, Is blind one vanished form to see. Hast thou, O Zeus! hast thou away From these sad arms my daughter torn? Has Pluto, from the realms of day, Enamored—to dark rivers borne? Who to the dismal phantom-strand The herald of my grief will venture? The boat forever leaves the land, But only shadows there may enter.— Veiled from each holier eye repose The realms where midnight wraps the dead, And, while the Stygian river flows, No living footstep there may tread! A thousand pathways wind the drear Descent;—none upward lead to-day;— No witness to the mother's ear The daughter's sorrows can betray. Mothers of happy human clay Can share at least their children's doom; And when the loved ones pass away, Can track—can join them—in the tomb! The race alone of heavenly birth Are banished from the darksome portals; The Fates have mercy on the earth, And death is only kind to mortals! 30 Oh, plunge me in the night of nights, From heaven's ambrosial halls exiled! Oh, let the goddess lose the rights That shut the mother from the child! Where sits the dark king's joyless bride, Where midst the dead her home is made; Oh that my noiseless steps might glide, Amidst the shades, myself a shade! I see her eyes, that search through tears, In vain the golden light to greet; That yearn for yonder distant spheres, That pine the mother's face to meet! Till some bright moment shall renew The severed hearts' familiar ties; And softened pity steal in dew, From Pluto's slow-relenting eyes! Ah, vain the wish, the sorrows are! Calm in the changeless paths above Rolls on the day-god's golden car— Fast are the fixed decrees of Jove! Far from the ever-gloomy plain, He turns his blissful looks away. Alas! night never gives again What once it seizes as its prey! Till over Lethe's sullen swell, Aurora's rosy hues shall glow; And arching through the midmost hell Shine forth the lovely Iris-bow! And is there naught of her; no token— No pledge from that beloved hand? To tell how love remains unbroken, How far soever be the land? Has love no link, no lightest thread, The mother to the child to bind? Between the living and the dead, Can hope no holy compact find? No! every bond is not yet riven; We are not yet divided wholly; To us the eternal powers have given A symbol language, sweet and holy. When Spring's fair children pass away, When, in the north wind's icy air, The leaf and flower alike decay, And leave the rivelled branches bare, Then from Vertumnus' lavish horn I take life's seeds to strew below— And bid the gold that germs the corn An offering to the Styx to go! Sad in the earth the seeds I lay— Laid at thy heart, my child—to be The mournful tokens which convey My sorrow and my love to thee! But, when the hours, in measured dance, The happy smile of spring restore, Rife in the sun-god's golden glance The buried dead revive once more! The germs that perished to thine eyes, Within the cold breast of the earth, Spring up to bloom in gentler skies, The brighter for the second birth! The stem its blossom rears above— Its roots in night's dark womb repose— The plant but by the equal love Of light and darkness fostered—grows! If half with death the germs may sleep, Yet half with life they share the beams; My heralds from the dreary deep, Soft voices from the solemn streams,— Like her, so them, awhile entombs, Stern Orcus, in his dismal reign, Yet spring sends forth their tender blooms With such sweet messages again, To tell,—how far from light above, Where only mournful shadows meet, Memory is still alive to love, And still the faithful heart can beat! Joy to ye children of the field! Whose life each coming year renews, To your sweet cups the heaven shall yield The purest of its nectar-dews! Steeped in the light's resplendent streams, The hues that streak the Iris-bow Shall trim your blooms as with the beams The looks of young Aurora know. The budding life of happy spring, The yellow autumn's faded leaf, Alike to gentle hearts shall bring The symbols of my joy and grief.
THE ELEUSINIAN FESTIVAL.
Wreathe in a garland the corn's golden ear!
With it, the Cyane 31 blue intertwine Rapture must render each glance bright and clear, For the great queen is approaching her shrine,— She who compels lawless passions to cease, Who to link man with his fellow has come, And into firm habitations of peace Changed the rude tents' ever-wandering home. Shyly in the mountain-cleft Was the Troglodyte concealed; And the roving Nomad left, Desert lying, each broad field. With the javelin, with the bow, Strode the hunter through the land; To the hapless stranger woe, Billow-cast on that wild strand! When, in her sad wanderings lost, Seeking traces of her child, Ceres hailed the dreary coast, Ah, no verdant plain then smiled! That she here with trust may stay, None vouchsafes a sheltering roof; Not a temple's columns gay Give of godlike worship proof. Fruit of no propitious ear Bids her to the pure feast fly; On the ghastly altars here Human bones alone e'er dry. Far as she might onward rove, Misery found she still in all, And within her soul of love, Sorrowed she o'er man's deep fall. "Is it thus I find the man To whom we our image lend, Whose fair limbs of noble span Upward towards the heavens ascend? Laid we not before his feet Earth's unbounded godlike womb? Yet upon his kingly seat Wanders he without a home?" "Does no god compassion feel? Will none of the blissful race, With an arm of miracle, Raise him from his deep disgrace? In the heights where rapture reigns Pangs of others ne'er can move; Yet man's anguish and man's pains My tormented heart must prove." "So that a man a man may be, Let him make an endless bond With the kind earth trustingly, Who is ever good and fond To revere the law of time, And the moon's melodious song Who, with silent step sublime, Move their sacred course along." And she softly parts the cloud That conceals her from the sight; Sudden, in the savage crowd, Stands she, as a goddess bright. There she finds the concourse rude In their glad feast revelling, And the chalice filled with blood As a sacrifice they bring. But she turns her face away, Horror-struck, and speaks the while "Bloody tiger-feasts ne'er may Of a god the lips defile, He needs victims free from stain, Fruits matured by autumn's sun; With the pure gifts of the plain Honored is the Holy One!" And she takes the heavy shaft From the hunter's cruel hand; With the murderous weapon's haft Furrowing the light-strown sand,— Takes from out her garland's crown, Filled with life, one single grain, Sinks it in the furrow down, And the germ soon swells amain. And the green stalks gracefully Shoot, ere long, the ground above, And, as far as eye can see, Waves it like a golden grove. With her smile the earth she cheers, Binds the earliest sheaves so fair, As her hearth the landmark rears,— And the goddess breathes this prayer: "Father Zeus, who reign'st o'er all That in ether's mansions dwell, Let a sign from thee now fall That thou lov'st this offering well! And from the unhappy crowd That, as yet, has ne'er known thee, Take away the eye's dark cloud, Showing them their deity!" Zeus, upon his lofty throne, Harkens to his sister's prayer; From the blue heights thundering down, Hurls his forked lightning there, Crackling, it begins to blaze, From the altar whirling bounds,— And his swift-winged eagle plays High above in circling rounds. Soon at the feet of their mistress are kneeling, Filled with emotion, the rapturous throng; Into humanity's earliest feeling Melt their rude spirits, untutored and strong. Each bloody weapon behind them they leave, Rays on their senses beclouded soon shine, And from the mouth of the queen they receive, Gladly and meekly, instruction divine. All the deities advance Downward from their heavenly seats; Themis' self 'tis leads the dance, And, with staff of justice, metes Unto every one his rights,— Landmarks, too, 'tis hers to fix; And in witness she invites All the hidden powers of Styx. And the forge-god, too, is there, The inventive son of Zeus; Fashioner of vessels fair Skilled in clay and brass's use. 'Tis from him the art man knows Tongs and bellows how to wield; 'Neath his hammer's heavy blows Was the ploughshare first revealed. With projecting, weighty spear, Front of all, Minerva stands, Lifts her voice so strong and clear, And the godlike host commands. Steadfast walls 'tis hers to found, Shield and screen for every one, That the scattered world around Bind in loving unison. The immortals' steps she guides O'er the trackless plains so vast, And where'er her foot abides Is the boundary god held fast; And her measuring chain is led Round the mountain's border green,— E'en the raging torrent's bed In the holy ring is seen. All the Nymphs and Oreads too Who, the mountain pathways o'er, Swift-foot Artemis pursue, All to swell the concourse, pour, Brandishing the hunting-spear,— Set to work,—glad shouts uprise,— 'Neath their axes' blows so clear Crashing down the pine-wood flies. E'en the sedge-crowned God ascends From his verdant spring to light, And his raft's direction bends At the goddess' word of might,— While the hours, all gently bound, Nimbly to their duty fly; Rugged trunks are fashioned round By her skilled hand gracefully. E'en the sea-god thither fares;— Sudden, with his trident's blow, He the granite columns tears From earth's entrails far below;— In his mighty hands, on high, Waves he them, like some light ball, And with nimble Hermes by, Raises up the rampart-wall. But from out the golden strings Lures Apollo harmony, Measured time's sweet murmurings, And the might of melody. The Camoenae swell the strain With their song of ninefold tone: Captive bound in music's chain, Softly stone unites to stone. Cybele, with skilful hand, Open throws the wide-winged door; Locks and bolts by her are planned, Sure to last forevermore. Soon complete the wondrous halls By the gods' own hands are made, And the temple's glowing walls Stand in festal pomp arrayed. With a crown of myrtle twined, Now the goddess queen comes there, And she leads the fairest hind To the shepherdess most fair. Venus, with her beauteous boy, That first pair herself attires; All the gods bring gifts of joy, Blessing their love's sacred fires. Guided by the deities, Soon the new-born townsmen pour, Ushered in with harmonies, Through the friendly open door. Holding now the rites divine, Ceres at Zeus' altar stands,— Blessing those around the shrine, Thus she speaks, with folded hands:— "Freedom's love the beast inflames, And the god rules free in air, While the law of Nature tames Each wild lust that lingers there. Yet, when thus together thrown, Man with man must fain unite; And by his own worth alone Can he freedom gain, and might." Wreathe in a garland the corn's golden ear! With it, the Cyane blue intertwine! Rapture must render each glance bright and clear, For the great queen is approaching her shrine,— She who our homesteads so blissful has given, She who has man to his fellow-man bound: Let our glad numbers extol then to heaven, Her who the earth's kindly mother is found!
THE RING OF POLYCRATES. 32 A BALLAD. Upon his battlements he stood, And downward gazed in joyous mood, On Samos' Isle, that owned his sway, "All this is subject to my yoke;" To Egypt's monarch thus he spoke,— "That I am truly blest, then, say!" "The immortals' favor thou hast known! Thy sceptre's might has overthrown All those who once were like to thee. Yet to avenge them one lives still; I cannot call thee blest, until That dreaded foe has ceased to be." While to these words the king gave vent, A herald from Miletus sent, Appeared before the tyrant there: "Lord, let thy incense rise to-day, And with the laurel branches gay Thou well may'st crown thy festive hair!" "Thy foe has sunk beneath the spear,— I'm sent to bear the glad news here, By thy true marshal Polydore"— Then from a basin black he takes— The fearful sight their terror wakes— A well-known head, besmeared with gore. The king with horror stepped aside, And then with anxious look replied: "Thy bliss to fortune ne'er commit. On faithless waves, bethink thee how Thy fleet with doubtful fate swims now— How soon the storm may scatter it!" But ere he yet had spoke the word, A shout of jubilee is heard Resounding from the distant strand. With foreign treasures teeming o'er, The vessels' mast-rich wood once more Returns home to its native land. The guest then speaks with startled mind: "Fortune to-day, in truth, seems kind; But thou her fickleness shouldst fear: The Cretan hordes, well skilled, in arms, Now threaten thee with war's alarms; E'en now they are approaching here." And, ere the word has 'scaped his lips, A stir is seen amongst the ships, And thousand voices "Victory!" cry: "We are delivered from our foe, The storm has laid the Cretan low, The war is ended, is gone by!" The shout with horror hears the guest: "In truth, I must esteem thee blest! Yet dread I the decrees of heaven. The envy of the gods I fear; To taste of unmixed rapture here Is never to a mortal given." "With me, too, everything succeeds; In all my sovereign acts and deeds The grace of Heaven is ever by; And yet I had a well-loved heir— I paid my debt to fortune there— God took him hence—I saw him die." "Wouldst thou from sorrow, then, be free. Pray to each unseen Deity, For thy well-being, grief to send; The man on whom the Gods bestow Their gifts with hands that overflow, Comes never to a happy end." "And if the Gods thy prayer resist, Then to a friend's instruction list,— Invoke thyself adversity; And what, of all thy treasures bright, Gives to thy heart the most delight— That take and cast thou in the sea!" Then speaks the other, moved by fear: "This ring to me is far most dear Of all this isle within it knows— I to the furies pledge it now, If they will happiness allow"— And in the flood the gem he throws. And with the morrow's earliest light, Appeared before the monarch's sight A fisherman, all joyously; "Lord, I this fish just now have caught, No net before e'er held the sort; And as a gift I bring it thee." The fish was opened by the cook, Who suddenly, with wondering look, Runs up, and utters these glad sounds: "Within the fish's maw, behold, I've found, great lord, thy ring of gold! Thy fortune truly knows no bounds!" The guest with terror turned away: "I cannot here, then, longer stay,— My friend thou canst no longer be! The gods have willed that thou shouldst die: Lest I, too, perish, I must fly"— He spoke,—and sailed thence hastily.
THE CRANES OF IBYCUS.
A BALLAD.
Once to the song and chariot-fight,
Where all the tribes of Greece unite
On Corinth's isthmus joyously,
The god-loved Ibycus drew nigh.
On him Apollo had bestowed
The gift of song and strains inspired;
So, with light staff, he took his road
From Rhegium, by the godhead fired.
Acrocorinth, on mountain high,
Now burns upon the wanderer's eye,
And he begins, with pious dread,
Poseidon's grove of firs to tread.
Naught moves around him, save a swarm
Of cranes, who guide him on his way;
Who from far southern regions warm
Have hither come in squadron gray.
"Thou friendly band, all hail to thee!
Who led'st me safely o'er the sea!
I deem thee as a favoring sign,—
My destiny resembles thine.
Both come from a far distant coast,
Both pray for some kind sheltering place;—
Propitious toward us be the host
Who from the stranger wards disgrace!"
And on he hastes, in joyous wood,
And reaches soon the middle wood
When, on a narrow bridge, by force
Two murderers sudden bar his course.
He must prepare him for the fray,
But soon his wearied hand sinks low;
Inured the gentle lyre to play,
It ne'er has strung the deadly bow.
On gods and men for aid he cries,—
No savior to his prayer replies;
However far his voice he sends,
Naught living to his cry attends.
"And must I in a foreign land,
Unwept, deserted, perish here,
Falling beneath a murderous hand,
Where no avenger can appear?"
Deep-wounded, down he sinks at last,
When, lo! the cranes' wings rustle past.
He hears,—though he no more can see,—
Their voices screaming fearfully.
"By you, ye cranes, that soar on high,
If not another voice is heard,
Be borne to heaven my murder-cry!"
He speaks, and dies, too, with the word.
The naked corpse, ere long, is found,
And, though defaced by many a wound,
His host in Corinth soon could tell
The features that he loved so well.
"And is it thus I find thee now,
Who hoped the pine's victorious crown
To place upon the singer's brow,
Illumined by his bright renown?"
The news is heard with grief by all
Met at Poseidon's festival;
All Greece is conscious of the smart,
He leaves a void in every heart;
And to the Prytanis 33 swift hie The people, and they urge him on The dead man's manes to pacify And with the murderer's blood atone. But where's the trace that from the throng The people's streaming crowds among, Allured there by the sports so bright, Can bring the villain back to light? By craven robbers was he slain? Or by some envious hidden foe? That Helios only can explain, Whose rays illume all things below. Perchance, with shameless step and proud, He threads e'en now the Grecian crowd— Whilst vengeance follows in pursuit, Gloats over his transgression's fruit. The very gods perchance he braves Upon the threshold of their fane,— Joins boldly in the human waves That haste yon theatre to gain. For there the Grecian tribes appear, Fast pouring in from far and near; On close-packed benches sit they there,— The stage the weight can scarcely bear. Like ocean-billows' hollow roar, The teaming crowds of living man Toward the cerulean heavens upsoar, In bow of ever-widening span. Who knows the nation, who the name, Of all who there together came? From Theseus' town, from Aulis' strand From Phocis, from the Spartan land, From Asia's distant coast, they wend, From every island of the sea, And from the stage they hear ascend The chorus's dread melody. Who, sad and solemn, as of old, With footsteps measured and controlled, Advancing from the far background, Circle the theatre's wide round. Thus, mortal women never move! No mortal home to them gave birth! Their giant-bodies tower above, High o'er the puny sons of earth. With loins in mantle black concealed, Within their fleshless bands they wield The torch, that with a dull red glows,— While in their cheek no life-blood flows; And where the hair is floating wide And loving, round a mortal brow, Here snakes and adders are descried, Whose bellies swell with poison now. And, standing in a fearful ring, The dread and solemn chant they sing, That through the bosom thrilling goes, And round the sinner fetters throws. Sense-robbing, of heart-maddening power, The furies' strains resound through air The listener's marrow they devour,— The lyre can yield such numbers ne'er. "Happy the man who, blemish-free, Preserves a soul of purity! Near him we ne'er avenging come, He freely o'er life's path may roam. But woe to him who, hid from view, Hath done the deed of murder base! Upon his heels we close pursue,— We, who belong to night's dark race!"
