Monsieur Léonce Miranda may bequeath,
In absence of more fit recipient, fund
And usufruct together to the Church
Whereof he was a special devotee
“ — Which disposition, being consonant
With a long series of such acts and deeds
Notorious in his life-time, needs must stand,
Unprejudiced by eccentricity
Nowise amounting to distemper: since,
In every instance signalized as such,
We recognize no overleaping bounds,
No straying out of the permissible:
Duty to the Religion of the Land, —
Neither excessive nor inordinate.
“The minor accusations are dismissed;
They prove mere freak and fancy, boyish mood
In age mature of simple kindly man.
Exuberant in generosities
To all the world: no fact confirms the fear
He meditated mischief to himself
That morning when he met the accident
Which ended fatally. The case is closed.”
How otherwise? So, when I grazed the skirts,
And had the glimpse of who made, yesterday, —
Woman and retinue of goats and sheep, —
The sombre path one whiteness, vision-like,
As out of gate, and in at gate again,
They wavered, — she was lady there for life:
And, after life — I hope, a white success
Of some sort, wheresoever life resume
School interrupted by vacation — death;
Seeing that home she goes with prize in hand,
Confirmed the Châtelaine of Clairvaux.
True,
Such prize fades soon to insignificance.
Though she have eaten her Miranda up,
And spun a cradle-cone through which she pricks
Her passage, and proves Peacock-butterfly
This Autumn — wait a little week of cold!
Peacock and death’s-head-moth end much the same.
And could she still continue spinning, — sure,
Cradle would soon crave shroud for substitute,
And o’er this life of hers distaste would drop
Red-cotton-Night-cap-wise.
How say you, friend?
Have I redeemed my promise? Smile assent
Through the dark Winter-gloom between us both!
Already, months ago and miles away,
I just as good as told you, in a flash,
The while we paced the sands before my house.
All this poor story — truth and nothing else.
Accept that moment’s flashing, amplified,
Impalpability reduced to speech,
Conception proved by birth, — no other change!
Can what Saint-Rambert flashed me in a thought,
Good gloomy London make a poem of?
Such ought to be whatever dares precede,
Play ruddy herald-star to your white blaze
About to bring us day. How fail imbibe
Some foretaste of effulgence? Sun shall wax,
And star shall wane: what matter, so star tell
The drowsy world to start awake, rub eyes,
And stand all ready for morn’s joy a-blush?
January 23, 1873.
ARISTOPHANES’ APOLOGY
Wind , wave, and bark, bear Euthukles and me,
Balaustion, from — not sorrow but despair,
Not memory but the present and its pang!
Athenai, live thou hearted in my heart:
Never, while I live, may I see thee more,
Never again may these repugnant orbs
Ache themselves blind before the hideous pomp,
The ghastly mirth which mocked thine overthrow
— Death’s entry, Haides’ outrage!
Doomed to die, —
Fire should have flung a passion of embrace
About thee till, resplendently inarmed,
(Temple by temple folded to his breast,
All thy white wonder fainting out in ash)
Lightly some vaporous sigh of soul escaped,
And so the Immortals bade Athenai back!
Or earth might sunder and absorb thee, save,
Buried below Olumpos and its gods,
Akropolis to dominate her realm
For Koré, and console the ghosts; or, sea,
What if thy watery plural vastitude,
Rolling unanimous advance, had rushed,
Might upon might, a moment, — stood, one stare,
Sea-face to city-face, thy glaucous wave
Glassing that marbled last magnificence, —
Till fate’s pale tremulous foam-flower tipped the grey,
And when wave broke and overswarmed and, sucked
To bounds back, multitudinously ceased,
Let land again breathe unconfused with sea,
Attiké was, Athenai was not now!
Such end I could have borne, for I had shared.
But this which, glanced at, aches within my orbs
To blinding, — bear me thence, bark, wind and wave!
Me, Euthukles, and, hearted in each heart,
Athenai, undisgraced as Pallas’ self,
Bear to my birthplace, Helios’ island-bride,
Zeus’ darling: thither speed us, homeward-bound,
Wafted already twelve hours’ sail away
From horror, nearer by one sunset Rhodes!
Why should despair be? Since, distinct above
Man’s wickedness and folly, flies the wind
And floats the cloud, free transport for our soul
Out of its fleshly durance dim and low, —
Since disembodied soul anticipates
(Thought-borne as now, in rapturous unrestraint)
Above all crowding, crystal silentness,
Above all noise, a silver solitude: —
Surely, where thought so bears soul, soul in time
May permanently bide, “assert the wise,”
There live in peace, there work in hope once more —
O nothing doubt, Philemon! Greed and strife,
Hatred and cark and care, what place have they
In yon blue liberality of heaven?
How the sea helps! How rose-smit earth will rise
Breast-high thence, some bright morning, and be Rhodes!
Heaven, earth and sea, my warrant — in their name,
Believe — o’er falsehood, truth is surely sphered,
O’er ugliness beams beauty, o’er this world
Extends that realm where, “as the wise assert,”
Philemon, thou shalt see Euripides
Clearer than mortal sense perceived the man!
A sunset nearer Rhodes, by twelve hours’ sweep
Of surge secured from horror? Rather say,
Quieted out of weakness into strength.
I dare invite, survey the scene my sense
Staggered to apprehend: for, disenvolved
From the mere outside anguish and contempt,
Slowly a justice centred in a doom
Reveals itself. Ay, pride succumbed to pride,
Oppression met the oppressor and was matched.
Athenai’s vaunt braved Sparté’s violence
Till, in the shock, prone fell Peiraios, low
Rampart and bulwark lay, as, — timing stroke
Of hammer, axe, and beam hoist, poised and swung, —
The very flute-girls blew their laughing best,
In dance about the conqueror while he bade
Music and merriment help enginery
Batter down, break to pieces all the trust
Of citizens once, slaves now. See what walls
Play substitute for the long double range
Themistoklean, heralding a guest
From harbour on to citadel! Each side
Their senseless walls demoli
shed stone by stone,
See, — outer wall as stonelike, — heads and hearts, —
Athenai’s terror-stricken populace!
Prattlers, tongue-tied in crouching abjectness, —
Braggarts, who wring hands wont to flourish swords —
Sophist and rhetorician, demagogue,
(Argument dumb, authority a jest)
Dikast and heliast, pleader, litigant,
Quack-priest, sham-prophecy-retailer, scout
O’ the customs, sycophant, whate’er the style,
Altar-scrap-snatcher, pimp and parasite, —
Rivalities at truce now each with each,
Stupefied mud-banks, — such an use they serve!
While the one order which performs exact
To promise, functions faithful last as first,
What is it but the city’s lyric troop,
Chantress and psaltress, flute-girl, dancing-girl?
Athenai’s harlotry takes laughing care
Their patron miss no pipings, late she loved,
But deathward tread at least the kordax-step.
Die then, who pulled such glory on your heads!
There let it grind to powder! Perikles!
The living are the dead now: death be life!
Why should the sunset yonder waste its wealth?
Prove thee Olympian! If my heart supply
Inviolate the structure, — true to type,
Build me some spirit-place no flesh shall find,
As Pheidias may inspire thee: slab on slab,
Renew Athenai, quarry out the cloud,
Convert to gold yon west extravagance!
‘Neath Propulaia, from Akropolis
By vapoury grade and grade, gold all the way,
Step to thy snow-Pnux, mount thy Bema-cloud,
Thunder and lighten thence a Hellas through
That shall be better and more beautiful
And too august for Sparté’s foot to spurn!
Chasmed in the crag, again our Theatre
Predominates, one purple: Staghunt-month,
Brings it not Dionusia? Hail, the Three!
Aischulos, Sophokles, Euripides
Compete, gain prize or lose prize, godlike still.
Nay, lest they lack the old god-exercise —
Their noble want the unworthy, — as of old,
(How otherwise should patience crown their might?)
What if each find his ape promoted man,
His censor raised for antic service still?
Some new Hermippos to pelt Perikles,
Kratinos to swear Pheidias robbed a shrine,
Eruxis — I suspect, Euripides,
No brow will ache because with mop and mow
He gibes my poet! There’s a dog-faced dwarf
That gets to godship somehow, yet retains
His apehood in the Egyptian hierarchy,
More decent, indecorous just enough:
Why should not dog-ape, graced in due degree,
Grow Momos as thou Zeus? Or didst thou sigh
Rightly with thy Makaria? “After life,
Better no sentiency than turbulence;
Death cures the low contention.” Be it so!
Yet progress means contention, to my mind.
Euthukles, who, except for love that speaks,
Art silent by my side while words of mine
Provoke that foe from which escape is vain
Henceforward, wake Athenai’s fate and fall, —
Memories asleep as, at the altar-foot
Those Furies in the Oresteian song, —
Do I amiss who, wanting strength, use craft,
Advance upon the foe I cannot fly,
Nor feign a snake is dormant though it gnaw?
That fate and fall, once bedded in our brain,
Roots itself past upwrenching; but coaxed forth,
Encouraged out to practise fork and fang, —
Perhaps, when satiate with prompt sustenance,
It may pine, likelier die than if left swell
In peace by our pretension to ignore,
Or pricked to threefold fury, should our stamp
Bruise and not brain the pest.
A middle course!
What hinders that we treat this tragic theme
As the Three taught when either woke some woe,
— How Klutaimnestra hated, what the pride
Of Iokasté, why Med?ia clove
Nature asunder. Small rebuked by large,
We felt our puny hates refine to air,
Our poor prides sink, prevent the humbling hand,
Our petty passions purify their tide.
So, Euthukles, permit the tragedy
To re-enact itself, this voyage through,
Till sunsets end and sunrise brighten Rhodes!
Majestic on the stage of memory,
Peplosed and kothorned, let Athenai fall
Once more, nay, oft again till life conclude,
Lent for the lesson: Choros, I and thou!
What else in life seems piteous any more
After such pity, or proves terrible
Beside such terror?
Still — since Phrunichos
Offended, by too premature a touch
Of that Milesian smart-place freshly frayed —
(Ah, my poor people, whose prompt remedy
Was — fine the poet, not reform thyself!)
Beware precipitate approach! Rehearse
Rather the prologue, well a year away,
Than the main misery, a sunset old.
What else but fitting prologue to the piece
Style an adventure, stranger than my first
By so much as the issue it enwombed
Lurked big beyond Balaustion’s littleness?
Second supreme adventure! O that Spring,
That eve I told the earlier to my friends!
Where are the four now, with each red-ripe mouth
Crumpled so close, no quickest breath it fetched
Could disengage the lip-flower furled to bud
For fear Admetos, — shivering head and foot,
As with sick soul and blind averted face
He trusted hand forth to obey his friend, —
Should find no wife in her cold hand’s response,
Nor see the disenshrouded statue start
Alkestis, live the life and love the love!
I wonder, does the streamlet ripple still,
Outsmoothing galingale and watermint
Its mat-floor? while at brim, ‘twixt sedge and sedge,
What bubblings past Baccheion, broadened much,
Pricked by the reed and fretted by the fly,
Oared by the boatman-spider’s pair of arms!
Lenaia was a gladsome month ago —
Euripides had taught “Andromedé:”
Next month, would teach “Kresphontes” — which same month
Someone from Phokis, who companioned me
Since all that happened on those temple-steps,
Would marry me and turn Athenian too.
Now! if next year the masters let the slaves
Do Bacchic service and restore mankind
That trilogy whereof, ‘t is noised, one play
Presents the Bacchai, — no Euripides
Will teach the choros, nor shall we be tinged
By any such grand sunset of his soul,
Exiles from dead Athenai, — not the live
That’s in the cloud there with the new-born star!
Speak to the infinite intelligence,
Sing to the everlasting sympathy!
Winds belly sail, and drench of dancing brine
Buffet our boat-side, so the prore bound free!
Condense our voyage into one great day
Made up of sunset-closes: eve by eve,
Resume that memorable night-discourse
When, — like some meteor-brilliance, fire and filth,
&
nbsp; Or say, his own Amphitheos, deity
And dung, who, bound on the gods’ embassage,
Got men’s acknowledgment in kick and cuff —
We made acquaintance with a visitor
Ominous, apparitional, who went
Strange as he came, but shall not pass away.
Let us attempt that memorable talk,
Clothe the adventure’s every incident
With due expression: may not looks be told,
Gesture made speak, and speech so amplified
That words find blood-warmth which, cold-writ, they lose?
Recall the night we heard the news from Thrace,
One year ago, Athenai still herself.
We two were sitting silent in the house,
Yet cheerless hardly. Euthukles, forgive!
I somehow speak to unseen auditors.
Not you , but — Euthukles had entered, grave,
Grand, may I say, as who brings laurel-branch
And message from the tripod: such it proved.
He first removed the garland from his brow,
Then took my hand and looked into my face.
“Speak good words!” much misgiving faltered I.
“Good words, the best, Balaustion! He is crowned,
Gone with his Attic ivy home to feast,
Since Aischulos required companionship.
Pour a libation for Euripides!”
When we had sat the heavier silence out —
“Dead and triumphant still!” began reply
To my eye’s question. “As he willed he worked:
And, as he worked, he wanted not, be sure,
Triumph his whole life through, submitting work
To work’s right judges, never to the wrong —
To competency, not ineptitude.
When he had run life’s proper race and worked
Quite to the stade’s end, there remained to try
The stade’s turn, should strength dare the double course.
Half the diaulos reached, the hundred plays
Accomplished, force in its rebound sufficed
To lift along the athlete and ensure
A second wreath, proposed by fools for first,
The statist’s olive as the poet’s bay.
Wiselier, he suffered not a twofold aim
Retard his pace, confuse his sight, at once
Poet and statist; though the multitude
Girded him ever ‘All thine aim thine art?
The idle poet only? No regard
For civic duty, public service, here?
We drop our ballot-bean for Sophokles!
Not only could he write “Antigoné,”
But — since (we argued) whoso penned that piece
Might just as well conduct a squadron, — straight
Good-naturedly he took on him command,
Got laughed at, and went back to making plays,
Having allowed us our experiment
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 175