As he who only knows one phase of life!
So doubly shall I prove ‘best friend of man,’
If I report the whole truth — Vice, perceived
While he shut eyes to all but Virtue there.
Man’s made of both: and both must be of use
To somebody: if not to him, to me.
While, as to your imaginary Third
Who, stationed (by mechanics past my guess)
So as to take in every side at once,
And not successively, — may reconcile
The High and Low in tragi-comic verse, —
He shall be hailed superior to us both
When born — in the Tin-islands! Meantime, here
In bright Athenai, I contest the claim,
Call myself Iostephanos’ ‘best friend,’
Who took my own course, worked as I descried
Ordainment, stuck to my first faculty.
“For listen! There’s no failure breaks the heart,
Whate’er be man’s endeavour in this world,
Like the rash poet’s when he — nowise fails
By poetizing badly, — Zeus or makes
Or mars a man, so — at it, merrily!
But when, — made man, — much like myself, — equipt
For such and such achievement, — rash he turns
Out of the straight path, bent on snatch of feat
From — who’s the appointed fellow born thereto, —
Crows take him! — in your Kassiterides?
Half-doing his work, leaving mine untouched,
That were the failure. Here I stand, heart-whole,
No Thamuris!
“Well thought of, Thamuris!
Has zeal, pray, for ‘best friend’ Euripides
Allowed you to observe the honour done
His elder rival, in our Poikilé?
You don’t know? Once and only once, trod stage,
Sang and touched lyre in person, in his youth,
Our Sophokles, — youth, beauty, dedicate
To Thamuris who named the tragedy.
The voice of him was weak; face, limbs and lyre,
These were worth saving: Thamuris stands yet
Perfect as painting helps in such a case.
At least you know the story, for ‘best friend’
Enriched his ‘Rhesos’ from the Blind Bard’s store;
So haste and see the work, and lay to heart
What it was struck me when I eyed the piece!
Here stands a poet punished for rash strife
With Powers above his power, who see with sight
Beyond his vision, sing accordingly
A song, which he must needs dare emulate.
Poet, remain the man nor ape the Muse!
“But — lend me the psalterion! Nay, for once —
Once let my hand fall where the other’s lay!
I see it, just as I were Sophokles,
That sunrise and combustion of the east!”
And then he sang — are these unlike the words?
Thamuris marching, — lyre and song of Thrace —
(Perpend the first, the worst of woes that were
Allotted lyre and song, ye poet-race!)
Thamuris from Oichalia, feasted there
By kingly Eurutos of late, now bound
For Dorion at the uprise broad and bare
Of Mount Pangaios (ore with earth enwound
Glittered beneath his footstep) — marching gay
And glad, Thessalia through, came, robed and crowned,
From triumph on to triumph, mid a ray
Of early morn, — came, saw and knew the spot
Assigned him for his worst of woes, that day.
Balura — happier while its name was not —
Met him, but nowise menaced; slipt aside,
Obsequious river to pursue its lot
Of solacing the valley — say, some wide
Thick busy human cluster, house and home,
Embanked for peace, or thrift that thanks the tide.
Thamuris, marching, laughed “Each flake of foam”
(As sparklingly the ripple raced him by)
“Mocks slower clouds adrift in the blue dome!”
For Autumn was the season; red the sky
Held morn’s conclusive signet of the sun
To break the mists up, bid them blaze and die.
Morn had the mastery as, one by one
All pomps produced themselves along the tract
From earth’s far ending to near heaven begun.
Was there a ravaged tree? it laughed compact
With gold, a leaf-ball crisp, high-brandished now,
Tempting to onset frost which late attacked.
Was there a wizened shrub, a starveling bough,
A fleecy thistle filched from by the wind,
A weed, Pan’s trampling hoof would disallow?
Each, with a glory and a rapture twined
About it, joined the rush of air and light
And force: the world was of one joyous mind.
Say not the birds flew! they forebore their right —
Swam, revelling onward in the roll of things.
Say not the beasts’ mirth bounded! that was flight —
How could the creatures leap, no lift of wings?
Such earth’s community of purpose, such
The ease of earth’s fulfilled imaginings, —
So did the near and far appear to touch
I’ the moment’s transport, — that an interchange
Of function, far with near, seemed scarce too much;
And had the rooted plant aspired to range
With the snake’s license, while the insect yearned
To glow fixed as the flower, it were not strange —
No more than if the fluttery tree-top turned
To actual music, sang itself aloft;
Or if the wind, impassioned chantress, earned
The right to soar embodied in some soft
Fine form all fit for cloud-companionship,
And, blissful, once touch beauty chased so oft.
Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slip
Born of the fiery transport; lyre and song
Were his, to smite with hand and launch from lip —
Peerless recorded, since the list grew long
Of poets (saith Homeros) free to stand
Pedestalled mid the Muses’ temple-throng,
A statued service, laurelled, lyre in hand,
(Ay, for we see them) — Thamuris of Thrace
Predominating foremost of the band.
Therefore the morn-ray that enriched his face,
If it gave lambent chill, took flame again
From flush of pride; he saw, he knew the place.
What wind arrived with all the rhythms from plain,
Hill, dale, and that rough wildwood interspersed?
Compounding these to one consummate strain,
It reached him, music; but his own outburst
Of victory concluded the account,
And that grew song which was mere music erst.
“Be my Parnassos, thou Pangaian mount!
And turn thee, river, nameless hitherto!
Famed shalt thou vie with famed Pieria’s fount!
“Here I await the end of this ado:
Which wins — Earth’s poet or the Heavenly Muse.” . . .
But song broke up in laughter. “Tell the rest
Who may! I have not spurned the common life,
Nor vaunted mine a lyre to match the Muse
Who sings for gods, not men! Accordingly,
I shall not decorate her vestibule —
Mute marble, blind the eyes and quenched the brain,
Loose in the hand a bright, a broken lyre!
— Not Thamuris but Aristophanes!
“There! I have sung content back to myself,
And started subject for a play beside.
My next performance shall content you both.
Did ‘Prelude-Battle’ maul ‘best friend’ too much?
Then ‘Main-Fight’ be my next song, fairness’ self!
Its subject — Contest for the Tragic Crown.
Ay, you shall hear none else but Aischulos
Lay down the law of Tragedy, and prove
‘Best friend’ a stray-away, — no praise denied
His manifold deservings, never fear —
Nor word more of the old fun! Death defends.
Sound admonition has its due effect.
Oh, you have uttered weighty words, believe!
Such as shall bear abundant fruit, next year,
In judgment, regular, legitimate.
Let Bacchos’ self preside in person! Ay —
For there’s a buzz about those ‘Bacchanals’
Rumour attributes to your great and dead
For final effort: just the prodigy
Great dead men leave, to lay survivors low!
— Until we make acquaintance with our fate
And find, fate’s worst done, we, the same, survive
Perchance to honour more the patron-god,
Fitlier inaugurate a festal year.
Now that the cloud has broken, sky laughs blue,
Earth blossoms youthfully. Athenai breathes.
After a twenty-six years’ wintry blank
Struck from her life, — war-madness, one long swoon,
She wakes up: Arginousai bids good cheer.
We have disposed of Kallikratidas;
Once more will Sparté sue for terms, — who knows?
Cede Dekeleia, as the rumour runs:
Terms which Athenai, of right mind again,
Accepts — she can no other. Peace declared,
Have my long labours borne their fruit or no?
Grinned coarse buffoonery so oft in vain?
Enough — it simply saved you. Saved ones, praise
Theoria’s beauty and Opora’s breadth!
Nor, when Peace realizes promised bliss,
Forget the Bald Bard, Envy! but go burst
As the cup goes round and the cates abound,
Collops of hare with roast spinks rare!
Confess my pipings, dancings, posings served
A purpose: guttlings, guzzlings, had their use!
Say whether light Muse, Rosy-finger-tips,
Or ‘best friend’s’ heavy-hand, Melpomené,
Touched lyre to purpose, played Amphion’s part,
And built Athenai to the skies once more!
Farewell, brave couple! Next year, welcome me!”
No doubt, in what he said that night, sincere!
One story he referred to, false or fact,
Was not without adaptability.
They do say — Lais the Corinthian once
Chancing to see Euripides (who paced
Composing in a garden, tablet-book
In left hand, with appended stulos prompt)
“Answer me,” she began, “O Poet, — this!
What didst intend by writing in thy play
Go hang, thou filthy doer ?” Struck on heap,
Euripides, at the audacious speech —
“Well now,” quoth he, “thyself art just the one
I should imagine fit for deeds of filth!”
She laughingly retorted his own line
“What’s filth, — unless who does it, thinks it so?”
So might he doubtless think. “Farewell,” said we.
And he was gone, lost in the morning-grey
Rose-streaked and gold to eastward. Did we dream?
Could the poor twelve-hours hold this argument
We render durable from fugitive,
As duly at each sunset’s droop of sail,
Delay of oar, submission to sea-might,
I still remember, you as duly dint
Remembrance, with the punctual rapid style,
Into — what calm cold page!
Thus soul escapes
From eloquence made captive: thus mere words
— Ah, would the lifeless body stay! But no:
Change upon change till, — who may recognize
What did soul service, in the dusty heap?
What energy of Aristophanes
Inflames the wreck Balaustion saves to show?
Ashes be evidence how fire — with smoke —
All night went lamping on! But morn must rise.
The poet — I shall say — burned up and, blank
Smouldered this ash, now white and cold enough.
Nay, Euthukles! for best, though mine it be,
Comes yet. Write on, write ever, wrong no word!
Add, first, — he gone, if jollity went too,
Some of the graver mood, which mixed and marred,
Departed likewise. Sight of narrow scope
Has this meek consolation: neither ills
We dread, nor joys we dare anticipate,
Perform to promise. Each soul sows a seed —
Euripides and Aristophanes;
Seed bears crop, scarce within our little lives;
But germinates, — perhaps enough to judge, —
Next year?
Whereas, next year brought harvest-time!
For, next year came, and went not, but is now,
Still now, while you and I are bound for Rhodes
That’s all but reached — and harvest has it brought,
Dire as the homicidal dragon-crop.
Sophokles had dismissal ere it dawned,
Happy as ever; though men mournfully
Plausive, — when only soul could triumph now,
And Iophon produced his father’s play, —
Crowned the consummate song where Oidipous
Dared the descent mid earthquake-thundering,
And hardly Theseus’ hands availed to guard
Eyes from the horror, as their grove disgorged
Its dread ones, while each daughter sank to ground.
Then Aristophanes, on heel of that,
Triumphant also, followed with his “Frogs:”
Produced at next Lenaia, — three months since, —
The promised Main-Fight, loyal, license-free!
As if the poet, primed with Thasian juice,
(Himself swore — wine that conquers every kind
For long abiding in the head) could fix
Thenceforward any object in its truth,
Through eyeballs bathed by mere Castalian dew,
Nor miss the borrowed medium, — vinous drop
That colours all to the right crimson pitch
When mirth grows mockery, censure takes the tinge
Of malice!
All was Aristophanes:
There blazed the glory, there shot black the shame.
Ay, Bacchos did stand forth, the Tragic God
In person! and when duly dragged through mire, —
Having lied, filched, played fool, proved coward, flung
The boys their dose of fit indecency,
And finally got trounced to heart’s content,
At his own feast, in his own theatre
( — Oh never fear! ‘T was consecrated sport,
Exact tradition, warranted no whit
Offensive to instructed taste, — indeed,
Essential to Athenai’s liberty,
Could the poor stranger understand!) why, then —
He was pronounced the rarely-qualified
To rate the work, adjust the claims to worth,
Of Aischulos (of whom, in other mood,
This same appreciative poet pleased
To say “He’s all one stiff and gluey piece
Of back of swine’s neck!”) — and of Chatterbox
Who, “twisting words like wool,” usurped his seat
In Plouton’s realm: “the arch-rogue, liar, scamp
That lives by snatching-up of altar-orts,”
Then came a contest for supremacy —
Crammed full of genius, wit and fun and freak.
No spice of undue spite to spoil the dish
Of all sorts, — for the Mystics matched the Frogs
In poetry, no Seiren sang so sweet! —
Till, pressed into the service (how dispense
With Phaps-Elaphion and free foot-display?)
The Muse of dead Euripides danced frank,
Rattled her bits of tile, made all too plain
How baby-work like “Herakles” had birth!
Last, Bacchos, — candidly disclaiming brains
Able to follow finer argument, —
Confessed himself much moved by three main facts:
First, — if you stick a “Lost his flask of oil”
At pause of period, you perplex the sense —
Were it the Elegy for Marathon!
Next, if you weigh two verses, “car” — the word,
Will outweigh “club” — the word, in each packed line!
And — last, worst fact of all! — in rivalry
The younger poet dared to improvise
Laudation less distinct of — Triphales?
(Nay, that served when ourself abused the youth!)
Pheidippides? (nor that’s appropriate now!)
Then, — Alkibiades, our city’s hope,
Since times change and we Comics should change too!
These three main facts, well weighed, drew judgment down,
Conclusively assigned the wretch his fate —
“Fate due” admonished the sage Mystic choir,
“To sitting, prate-apace, with Sokrates,
Neglecting music and each tragic aid!”
— All wound-up by a wish “We soon may cease
From certain griefs, and warfare, worst of them!”
— Since, deaf to Comedy’s persistent voice,
War still raged, still was like to rage. In vain
Had Sparté cried once more “But grant us Peace
We give you Dekeleia back!” Too shrewd
Was Kleophon to let escape, forsooth,
The enemy — at final gasp, besides!
So, Aristophanes obtained the prize,
And so Athenai felt she had a friend
Far better than her “best friend,” lost last year;
And so, such fame had “Frogs” that, when came round
This present year, those Frogs croaked gay again
At the great Feast, Elaphebolion-month.
Only — there happened Aigispotamoi!
And, in the midst of the frog-merriment,
Plump o’ the sudden, pounces stern King Stork
On the light-hearted people of the marsh!
Spartan Lusandros swooped precipitate,
Ended Athenai, rowed her sacred bay
With oars which brought a hundred triremes back
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 301