No More Learning

Was it a dream ?
Stranger ! thou seemest thoughtful ; couldst thou answer me ? Why so silent ? I beseech and implore thee, speak.
Achilles — Neither thy feet nor the feet of mules have borne thee where thou standest. Whether in the hour of departing sleep, or at what hour of the morning, I know not, O Helena, but Aphrodite and Thetis, inclining to my prayer, have, as thou art conscious, led thee into these solitudes. To me also have they shown the way ; that I might behold the pride of Sparta, the marvel of the Earth, and — how my heart swells and ago nizes at the thought ! — the cause of innumerable woes to Hellas.
Helena — Stranger ! thou art indeed one whom the goddesses or gods might lead, and glory in ; such is thy stature, thy voice, and thy demeanor ; but who, if earthly, art thou ?
Achilles — Before thee, O Helena, stands Achilles, son of Peleus. Tremble not, turn not pale, bend not thy knees, O Helena.
Helena — Spare me, thou goddess-born ! thou cherished and only son of silver-footed Thetis ! Chryseis and Briseis ought to soften and content thy heart. Lead not me also into captivity. Woes too surely have I brought down on Hellas; but woes have been mine alike, and will forever be.
Achilles — Daughter of Zeus ! what word hast thou spoken ! Chryseis, child of the aged priest who performs in this land due sacrifices to Apollo, fell to the lot of another ; an insolent and unworthy man, who hath already brought more sorrows upon our people than thou hast ; so that dogs and vultures prey on the brave who sank without a wound. Briseis is indeed mine; the lovely and dutiful Briseis. He, unjust and con tumelious, proud at once and base, would tear her from me. But gods above ! in what region has the wolf with impunity dared to seize upon the kid which the lion hath taken ?
Talk not of being led into servitude. Could mortal be guilty of such impiety? Hath it never thundered on these mountain heads ? Doth Zeus, the wide-seeing, see all the Earth but Ida ? doth he watch over all but his own ? Capaneus and
VOL. II. — 12
178 ACHILLES AND HELENA.
Typhoeus less offended him, than would the wretch whose grasp should violate the golden hair of Helena. And dost thou still tremble ? irresolute and distrustful !
Helena — I must tremble ; and more and more.
Achilles — Take my hand : be confident : be comforted.
I am comforted. Achilles — The scene around us, calm and silent as the sky itself, tranquilizes thee ; and so it ought. Turnest thou to
Helena —May Itake it? may Ihold it?
survey it ? perhaps it is unknown to thee.
Helena — Truly ; for since my arrival I have never gone
beyond the walls of the city.
Achilles — Look then around thee freely, perplexed no longer.
Pleasant is this level eminence, surrounded by broom and myrtle, and crisp-leaved beech and broad dark pine above. Pleasant the short slender grass, bent by insects as they alight on it or climb along it, and shining up into our eyes, interrupted by tall sisterhoods of gray lavender, and by dark-eyed cistus, and by lightsome citisus, and by little troops of serpolet running in disorder here and there.
Helena — Wonderful ! how didst thou ever learn to name so many plants?
Achilles — Chiron taught me them, when I walked at his side while he was culling herbs for the benefit of his brethren. All these he taught me, and at least twenty more ; for won drous was his wisdom, boundless his knowledge, and I was proud to learn.
Ah, look again ! look at those little yellow poppies ; they appear to be just come out to catch all that the sun will throw into their cups : they appear in their joyance and incipient dance to call upon the lyre to sing among them.
Helena — Childish ! for one with such a spear against his shoulder ; terrific even its shadow ; it seems to make a chasm across the plain.
Achilles — To talk or to think like a child is not always a proof of folly : it may sometimes push aside heavy griefs where the strength of wisdom fails. What art thou pondering, Helena ?
Helena — Recollecting the names of the plants. Several of them I do believe I had heard before, but had quite forgotten ; my memory will be better now.
Achilles — Better now? in the midst of war and tumult?
Helena — I am sure it will be, for didst thou not say that Chiron taught them ?
ACHILLES AND HELENA. 179
Achilles — He sang to me over the lyre the lives of Narcissus and Hyacinthus, brought back by the beautiful Hours, of silent unwearied feet, regular as the stars in their courses. Many of the trees and bright-eyed flowers once lived and moved, and spoke as we are speaking. They may yet have memories, although they have cares no longer.
Helena — Ah I then they have no memories ; and they see their own beauty only.
Achilles — Helena ! thou turnest pale, and droopest.
Helena — The odor of the blossoms, or of the gums, or the height of the place, or something else, makes me dizzy. Can it be the wind in my ears ?
Achilles —There is none.
Helena — I could wish there were a little.
Achilles — Be seated, O Helena !
Helena — The feeble are obedient : the weary may rest even
in the presence of the powerful.
Achilles — On this very ground where we are now reposing,
they who conducted us hither told me, the fatal prize of beauty was awarded. One of them smiled ; the other, whom in duty I love the most, looked anxious, and let fall some tears.
Helena — Yet she was not one of the vanquished.
Achilles — Goddesses contended for it ; Helena was afar. Helena — Fatal was the decision of the arbiter !
But could not the venerable Peleus, nor Pyrrhus the infant so
beautiful and so helpless, detain thee, O Achilles, from this sad, sad war?
Achilles — No reverence or kindness for the race of Atreus
I detest and abhor both brothers : but another man is more hateful to me still. Forbear we to name him. The valiant, holding the hearth as sacred as the
brought me against Troy ;
temple, is never a violator of hospitality. He carries not away the gold he finds in the house ; he folds not up the purple linen worked for solemnities, about to convey it from the cedar chest to the dark ship, together with the wife confided to his pro tection in her husband's absence, and sitting close and expectant by the altar of the gods.
It was no merit in Menelaus to love thee ; it was a crime in another — I will not say to love, for even Priam or Nestor might love thee — but to avow it, and act on the avowal.
Helena — Menelaus, it is true, was fond of me, when Paris was sent by Aphrodite to our house. It would have been very
180 ACHILLES AND HELENA.
wrong to break my vow to Menelaus, but Aphrodite urged me by day and by night, telling me that to make her break hers to Paris would be quite inexpiable. She told Paris the same thing at the same hour ; and as often. He repeated it to me every morning : his dreams tallied with mine exactly. At last
Achilles — The last is not yet come. Helena! by the Immor tals! if ever I meet him in battle I transfix him with this spear.
Helena — Pray do not. Aphrodite would be angry and never forgive thee.
Achilles — I am not sure of that ; she soon pardons. Variable as Iris, one day she favors and the next day she forsakes.
Helena — She may then forsake me.
Achilles — Other deities, O Helena, watch over and protect thee. Thy two brave brothers are with those deities now, and never are absent from their higher festivals.
Helena — They could protect me were they living, and they would. O that thou couldst but have seen them !
Achilles — Companions of my father on the borders of the Phasis, they became his guests before they went all three to hunt the boar in the brakes of Calydon. Thence too the beauty of a woman brought many sorrows into brave men's breasts, and caused many tears to hang long and heavily on the eye lashes of matrons.
Helena — Didst thou indeed see my brothers at that season ? Yes, certainly.
Achilles — I saw them not, desirous though I always was of seeing them, that I might have learnt from them, and might have practiced with them, whatever is laudable and manly. But my father, fearing my impetuosity, as he said, and my inexperience, sent me away. Soothsayers had foretold some mischief to me from an arrow : and among the brakes many arrows might fly wide, glancing from trees.
Helena — I wish thou hadst seen them, were it only once. Three such youths together the blessed sun will never shine upon again.
O my sweet brothers ! how they tended me ! how they loved me ! how often they wished me to mount their horses and to hurl their javelins. They could only teach me to swim with them ; and when I had well learnt it I was more afraid than at first. It gratified me to be praised for anything but swim ming.
Happy, happy hours ! soon over ! Does happiness always go
THE TOMB OF ACHILLES. 181
away before beauty ? It must go then : surely it might stay that little while. Alas ! dear Castor ! and dearer PolydeucSs ! often shall Ithink of you as ye were (and oh ! as Iwas) on the banks of the Eurotas. Brave noble creatures ! they were as tall, as terrible, and almost as beautiful, as thou art. Be not wroth ! Blush no more for me.
Achilles — Helena ! Helena ! wife of Menelaus ! my mother
I
is reported to have left about me only one place vulnerable : have at last found where it is. Farewell.
Helena — O leave me not ! Earnestly I entreat and implore thee, leave me not alone. These solitudes are terrible : there must be wild beasts among them ; there certainly are Fauns and Satyrs. And there is Cybele, who carries towers and temples on her head; who hates and abhors Aphrodite, who persecutes those she favors, and whose priests are so cruel as to be cruel even to themselves.
Again, O daughter of Leda and of Zeus, farewell !
THE TOMB OF ACHILLES. By LORD BYRON.
(From "The Bride of Abydos. ")
[Lord George Noel Gordon Byron : A famous English poet ; born in Lon don, January 22, 1788. At the age of ten he succeeded to the estate and title of his granduncle William, fifth Lord Byron. He was educated "at Harrow and Cambridge, and in 1807 published his first volume of poems, Hours of Idle ness. " After a tour through eastern Europe he brought out two cantos of " Childe Harold," which met with instantaneous success, and soon after he mar ried the heiress Miss Millbanke. The union proving unfortunate, Byron left England, and passed several years in Italy. In 1823 he joined the Greek insur gents in Cephalonia, and later at Missolonghi, where he died of a fever April 19, 1824. His chief poetical works are: "Childe Harold," "Don Juan," "Manfred," "Cain," "Marino Faliero," " Sardanapalus," "The Giaour," "Bride of Abydos," "The Corsair," "Lara," and "Mazeppa. "]
The winds are high on Helle's wave ; As on that night of stormy water
When Love, who sent, forgot to save The young, the beautiful, the brave,
Achilles —According to their promise, the goddesses who brought thee hither in a cloud will in a cloud reconduct thee, safely and unseen, into the city.
THE TOMB OF ACHILLES.
The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter,
Oh ! when alone along the sky,
The turret torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, And shrieking sea birds warned him home : And clouds aloft, and tides below,
With signs and sounds forbade to go ; He could not see, he would not hear, Or sound or sign foreboding fear :
His eye but saw that light of love, The only star it hailed above ; — His ear but rang with Hero's song,
" Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true.
ii.
The winds are high and Helle's tide Rolls darkly heaving to the main ;
And night's descending shadows hide That field with blood bedewed in vain,
The desert of old Priam's pride ; — The tombs, sole relics of his reign
All, save immortal dreams that could beguile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle.
nx.
Oh ! yet — for thus my steps have been ; These feet have pressed the sacred shore ;
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — Minstrel ! with thee to move, to mourn,
To trace again those fields of yore, Believing every hillock green
Contains no fabled hero's ashes, And that around the undoubted scene
Thine own " broad Hellespont " still dashes, Be long my lot ! and cold were he
Who there could gaze denying thee !
rv.
The night hath closed on Helle's stream, Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill
That moon which shone on his high theme : No warrior chides her peaceful beam,
But conscious shepherds bless it still.
(ENONE. 183
Their flocks are grazing on the mound Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow :
That mighty heap of gathered ground Which Amnion's son ran proudly round, By nations raised, by monarchs crowned,
Within — thy dwelling place how narrow ; Without — can only strangers breathe :
The name of him that was beneath :
Dust long outlasts the storied stone ;
(ENONE.
By ALFRED TENNYSON.
[Alfred Tennyson, Baron Tennyson: English poet; born at Somersby, England, August 6, 1809 ; died at Aldworth, October 6, 1892. His first poems were published with his brother Charles' in a small volume entitled "Poems of Two Brothers," in 1827. Two years later he won the chancellor's gold medal for his prize poem, "Timbuctoo. " The following year came his "Poems Chiefly Lyrical. " In 1832 a new volume of miscellaneous poems was published, and was attacked savagely by the Quarterly Review. Ten years afterward another volume of miscellaneous verse was collected. In 1847 he published "The Princess," which was warmly received. In 1850 came "In Memoriam," and he was appointed poet laureate to succeed Wordsworth. Among his other works may be mentioned: "Idylls of the King" (1859), "Enoch Arden" and "The Holy Grail" (1869), "Queen Mary" (1875), "Harold" (1876), "The Cup" (1884), "Tiresias" (1885), "Locksley Hall Sixty Years After" (1886), "The Foresters" and "The Death of ffinone" (1892)].
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
The lawns and meadow ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine
In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus
Stands up and takes the morning : but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
Troas and Ilion's columned citadel,
The crown of Troas.
Hither came at noon
Is now a lone and nameless barrow !
But thou — thy very dust is gone!
(EXONE.
Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest.
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.
" O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : The grasshopper is silent in the grass :
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops : the golden bee
I alone awake.
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
Is lily-cradled :
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,
And I
am all aweary of my life.
" O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves
That house the cold crowned snake ! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River God,
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,
A cloud that gathered shape : for it may be
That, while I speak of little while
My heart may wander from its deeper woe.
"
waited underneath the dawning hills,
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark,
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,
Leading jet-black goat white-horned, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone.
"
sat alone white-breasted like star
mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere die.
mother Ida, hearken ere die.
Far off the torrent called me from the cleft
Far up the solitary morning smote
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes
II OO
:
a
a
I :
I :
it, a
(ENONE.
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Clustered about his temples like a God's:
And his cheek brightened as the foam bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.
" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,
That smelt ambrosially, and while I looked
And listened, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.
' My own CEnone, Beautiful-browed CEnone, my own soul,
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n
" For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace
Of movement, and the charm of married brows. '
" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine,
And added, ' This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon
Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice
Elected umpire, Here comes to-day,
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods. '
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
It was the deep mid noon : one silvery cloud
Had lost his way between the piney sides
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel,
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose,
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine,
(ENONE.
This way and that, in many a wild festoon
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.
" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
On the tree tops a crested peacock lit,
And o'er him flowed a golden cloud, and leaned Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew.
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule
Unquestioned, overflowing revenue
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, Or labored mine undrainable of ore.
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-thronged beneath her shadowing citadel
In glassy bays among her tallest towers. '
" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
Still she spake on and still she spake of power,
' Which in all action is the end of all ;
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor crowns Alliance and Allegiance, till thy hand
Fail from the scepter staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born,
Should come most welcome, seeing men in power Only, are likest gods, who have attained
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats
Above the thunder, with undying bliss
In knowledge of their own supremacy. '
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit
Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power Flattered his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,
The while, above, her full and earnest eye
(ENONE.
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.
" ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself
Would come uncalled for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear ;
And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence. '
" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I
So shalt thou find me fairest.
If gazing on divinity disrobed
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiased by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood,
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinewed with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom. '
Here she ceased, And Paris pondered, and I cried, ' 0 Paris,
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me I
" O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,
I Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere
die.
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.
" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,
am, Yet, indeed,
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower ; And from that time to this I
am alone, And I shall be alone until I die.
(ENONE.
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whispered in his ear, ' I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece,'
I shut my sight for fear : But when I looked, Paris had raised his arm,
She spoke and laughed :
" Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ?
My love hath told me so a thousand times.
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday,
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she ? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.
" O mother, hear me yet before I die.
They came, they cut away my tallest pines,
My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract
Fostered the callow eaglet — from beneath
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat
Low in the valley. Never, never more
Shall lone (Enone see the morning mist
Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid
With narrow moonlit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.
" O mother, hear me yet before I die.
I wish that somewhere in the ruined folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable, that uninvited came
Into the fair Pelelan banquet hall,
And cast the golden fruit upon the board,
(ENONE.
And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men.
" O mother, hear me yet before I die.
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,
In this green valley, under this green hill,
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? Sealed it with kisses ? watered it with tears ?
O happy tears, and how unlike to these !
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth,
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live :
1 pray thee, pass before my light of life,
And shadow all my soul that I may die.
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die.
" O mother, hear me yet before I die.
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts
Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes Across me : never child be born of me,
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes !
" O mother, hear me yet before I die.
Hear me, O Earth. I will not die alone,
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says
A fire dances before her, and a sound
Rings ever in her ears of armed men.
What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day,
All earth and air seem only burning fire. "
190 DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD.
DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD. By LUCIAN OF 8AMOSATA.
[Lucian, one of the foremost humorists and men of letters of all time, was born in Asia Minor during Trajan's reign, about a. d. 100. He studied for a sculptor, but finally went to Antioch and devoted himself to literature and ora tory. He died in extreme old age. His works, written in Greek, are largely satirical burlesques on pagan philosophy and mythology and on the literature of his day, with some stories. ]
Antilochus (Son op Nestor) and Achilleus.
Antilochus — What sort of language was that, Achilleus, you addressed to Odysseus the day before yesterday about death; how ignoble and unworthy of both your teachers, Cheiron and Phoenix ! For I overheard you, when you were saying that you would wish to be a servant, bound to the soil, in the house of any poor man " whose means of support were small," rather than to be king over all the dead. These senti ments, indeed, some abject Phrygian, cowardly, and dishonor ably clinging to life, might, perhaps, be allowed to utter ; but for the son of Peleus, the most rashly daring of all heroes, to entertain so ignoble thoughts about himself, is a considerable disgrace, and a contradiction to your actions in life ; you who, though you might have reigned ingloriously a length of time in Pthiotis, of your own accord preferred death with fair fame.
Achilleus — But, O son of Nestor, at that time I was still unacquainted with the state of things here, and was ignorant which of those two conditions was the better, and used to prefer that wretched paltry glory to existence ; but now I already per ceive how profitless it is, even though the people above ground shall parrotlike sing its praises to the utmost of their power. With the dead there is perfect sameness of dignity ; and neither those good looks of mine, Antilochus, nor my powers of strength are here : but we lie all alike under the same murky gloom, and in no way superior one to the other ; and neither the dead of the Trojans have fear of me, nor do those of the Achaeans pay me any court : but there is complete and entire equality in address, and all dead men are the same, " both the coward and the brave. " These thoughts cause me anguish, and I am grieved that I am not alive and serving as a hireling.
Antilochus — Yet what can one do, Achilleus? For such is the will of Nature — that all certainly die : so one must abide
DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD.
191
by her ordinance, and not be grieved at the constituted order of things. Besides, you observe how many of us, your friends, are about you here. And, after a short space of time, Odysseus, too, will certainly arrive ; and community in misfortune, and the fact that one is not alone in suffering, brings comfort. You see Herakles and Meleager ; and other admired heroes, who, I imagine, would not accept a return to the upper regions, if one were to send them back to be hired servants to starvelings and beggars. —
Protesilaus, one op the Victims oe the Trojan War, seeks to avenge himself by an assault on helen.
Your exhortation is friendly and well meant ;
Achilleus
but, I know not how, the remembrance of things in life troubles me, and I imagine it does each one of you, too. However, if you do not confess it openly, you are in that respect worse off, in that you endure it in silence.
Antilochus — No, rather better off, Achilleus ; for see the uselessness of speaking ! And we have come to the resolution to keep silence, and to bear, and put up with not to incur ridicule, as you do, by indulging such wishes.
JEakua [gatekeeper'] — Why are you falling upon Helen, and throttling her, Protesilaus?
Protesilaus — Why Because was through her met with my death, iEakus, leaving behind me my house half finished, and my newly married wife widow.
JEakus — Blame Menelaus, then, who led you to Troy, for the sake of such woman.
Protesilaus — You are right. It's he have to call to
account. — Menelaus
No, not me, my fine sir, but Paris more likely, who, contrary to every principle of justice, ran off with the wife of his host — myself. Why, this fellow deserves to be throttled not by you only but by all Hellenes and foreigners, seeing he has been the cause of death to such numbers.
Protesilaus — Better so. Never, therefore, assure you, will let you out of my hands, " ill-fated Paris " (taking him by
the throat).
Paris — Then you do an injustice, Protesilaus, and that, too,
to your fellow-craftsman. For myself, also, am devotee of Eros, and am held fast prisoner by the same divinity. And
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192 DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD.
you know how involuntary a sort of thing is love, and how a certain divinity drives us wherever he wishes, and it is impos sible to resist him.
JEakus — I will maintain the cause even of Eros against you. Why, he would himself acknowledge that, likely enough, he was the cause, as regards Paris, of his falling in love ; but that of your death, Protesilaus, no one else was the cause but yourself, who, entirely forgetful of your newly married wife, when you brought your ships up at the Troad, so rashly and foolhardily leapt out before the rest, enamored of glory ; on account of which you were the first, in the disembarkation, to die.
Protesilaus — You are right. Would therefore it were possible for me to get hold of Eros here !
Protesilaus — Then, I shall, in defense of myself, make a still juster reply to you, ^Sakus : it is not I am responsible for all this, but Destiny, and the fact that my thread of life was so spun from the first.
JEakus — Rightly, too. Why, then, do you blame them?
Aias (Ajax) and Agamemnon.
Agamemnon — If you in a fit of madness, Aias, killed your self, and intended also to murder us all, why do you blame Odysseus ; and, the day before yesterday, why did you not even look at him, when he came to consult the oracle, or deign to address a word to your old comrade and companion, but haughtily passed him by with huge strides ?
Aias — With good reason, Agamemnon ; for he was the actual and sole cause of my madness, seeing that he put himself in competition with me for the arms.
Agamemnon — And did you consider it your right to be un opposed, and to lord it over all without the toil of contest ?
Aias — Yes, indeed, in such respect ; for the suit of armor was my own, as it was my uncle's. Indeed, you others, though far superior, declined the contest for yourselves, and yielded the prize to me ; whereas the son of Laertes, whom I often saved, when in imminent peril of being cut to pieces by the Phrygians, set himself up to be my superior, and to be more worthy to receive the arms.
Agamemnon — Blame Thetis, then, my admirable sir, who, though she should have delivered over the heritage of the arms
PISIDICfi. 193
to you as her relative, took and deposited them for general competition.
Aias — No, but Odysseus, who was the only one to put himself forward as claimant.
Agamemnon — It is excusable, human as he was, he had great longing after glory, very pleasant acquisition, for the sake of which every one of us also underwent dangers seeing, too, he conquered you, and that before Trojan judges.
Aias — know what Goddess gave sentence against me but not allowed one to say anything regarding the divinities.
But as for your Odysseus, however, could not by any means cease from hating him, Agamemnon not even Athena her self should enjoin upon me.
PISIDICfi. 1
By ANDREW LANG.
The daughter of the Lesbian king,
Within her bower she watched the war
Far off she heard the arrows ring, The smitten harness ring afar And fighting on the foremost car,
Stood one who smote where all must flee Fairer than the immortals are
He seemed to fair Pisidice
She saw, she loved him, and her heart Unto Achilles, Peleus' son,
Threw all its guarded gates apart,
A maiden fortress lightly won.
And ere that day of strife was done,
No more of land or faith recked she But joyed in her new life begun, —
Her life of love, Pisidice'
She took gift into her hand,
As one that has boon to crave
She stole across the ruined land,
Where lay the dead without grave, And to Achilles' hand she gave
Her gift, the secret postern's key
By permission of the Century Company.
vol. II. — 13
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GREEKS AND TROJANS.
" To-morrow let me be thy slave ! " Moaned to her love PisidicS.
At dawn the Argives' clarion call
Rang down Methymna's burning street ;
They slew the sleeping warriors all, They drove the women to the fleet, Save one that to Achilles' feet
Clung — but in sudden wrath cried he,
" For her no doom but death is meet,"
And there men stoned Pisidice.
In havens of that haunted coast, Amid the myrtles of the shore,
The moon sees many a maiden ghost, Love's outcast now and evermore.
The silence hears the shades deplore
Their hour of dear-bought love ; but thee The waves lull, 'neath thine olives hoar,
To dreamless rest, PisidicS.
GREEKS AND TROJANS. By WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. (From " Troilus and Cressida. ")
[The legend of Troilus and Cressida is entirely un-Homeric, bat for some reason took hold deeply of later poets. He is only mentioned once in the Iliad, and that casually near the end (Book 24, line 257), while she is not mentioned at all. The aged Priam, in his frantic grief over Hector's death, thus assails his other sons (Pope's translation) :—
" Wretch that I am! my bravest offspring slain, Ton, the disgrace of Priam's honse, remain! Nestor the brave, renowned in rank of war, With Troilns, dreadful on his rushing car,
And last great Hector, more than man divine, . . . All those relentless Mars untimely slew,
And left me these, a soft and servile crew. "]
Scene: The Gfrecian Camp, before Agamemnon's tent. Trumpets. Enter Agamemnon, Nestob, Ulysses, Menelaus, and others.
Agamemnon — Princes,
What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks ? The ample proposition, that hope makes
GREEKS AND TROJANS.
In all designs begun on earth below,
Fails in the promised largeness ; checks and disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest reared ;
As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap,
Infect the sound pine, and divert his grain
Tortive and errant from his course of growth.
Nor, princess, is it matter new to us,
That we come short of our suppose so far,
That, after seven years' siege, yet Troy walls stand ; Sith every action that hath gone before,
Whereof we have record, trial did draw
Bias and thwart, not answering the aim,
And that unbodied figure of the thought
That gave't surmised shape. Why, then, you princes, Do you with cheeks abashed behold our works ;
And think them shames, which are, indeed, nought else But the protractive trials of great Jove,
To find persistive constancy in men ?
The fineness of which metal is not found
In fortune's love ; for them, the bold and coward
The wise and fool, the artist and unread,
The hard and soft, seem all affined and kin :
But, in the wind and tempest of her frown,
Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan,
Puffing at all, winnows the light away :
And what hath mass, or matter, by itself,
Lies, rich in virtue, and unmingled.
Nestor —
With due observance of thy godlike seat,
Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply
Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance,
Lies the true proof of men : The sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail
Upon her patient breast, making their way
With those of nobler bulk !
But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage
The gentle Thetis, and, anon, behold
The strong-ribbed bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between the two moist elements,
Like Perseus' horse : Where's then the saucy boat, Whose weak untimbered sides but even now
Corivaled greatness ? either to harbor fled,
Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so
Doth valor's show, and valor's worth, divide,
In storms of fortune : For, in her ray and brightness,
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The herd hath more annoyance by the brize,
Than by the tiger : but when the splitting wind
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks,
And flies fled under shade, why, then, the thing of courage, As roused with rage, with rage doth sympathize,
And, with an accent tuned the selfsame key,
Returns to chiding fortune.
Ulysses — Agamemnon, — Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit,
In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up, — hear what Ulysses speaks. Besides the applause and approbation,
The which, — most mighty for thy place and sway, — [To Agamemnon.
And thou most reverend for thy stretched-out life, — [To Nestor.
I give to you both your speeches, — which were such, As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece
Should hold up high in brass ; and such again,
As venerable Nestor, hatched in silver,
Should with a bond of air, (strong as the axletree
On which heaven rides,) knit all the Greekish ears
To his experienced tongue, — yet let it please both, — Thou great, — and wise, — to hear Ulysses speak.
Agamemnon —
Speak, prince of Ithaca ; and be't of less expect That matter needless, of importless burden, Divide thy lips : than we are confident,
When rank Thersites opes his mastiff jaws,
We shall hear music, wit, and oracle.
Ulysses —
Troy, yet upon this basis, had been down,
And the great Hector's sword had lacked a master, But for these instances.
The specialty of rule hath been neglected :
And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand
Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive,
To whom the foragers shall all repair,
What honey is expected ? Degree being vizarded,
The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask.
The heavens themselves, the planets, and this center, Observe degree, priority, and place,
Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,
GREEKS AND TROJANS.
Office, and custom, in all line of order;
And therefore is the glorious planet, Sol,
In noble eminence enthroned and sphered
Amidst the other ; whose med'cinable eye
Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil,
And posts, like the commandment of a king,
Sans check, to good and bad : But when the planets, In evil mixture, to disorder wander,
What plagues, and what portents ? what mutiny? What raging of the sea ? shaking of earth ? Commotion in the winds ? frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate
The unity and married calm of states
Quite from their fixture ? Oh, when degree is shaked, Which is the ladder of all high designs,
The enterprize is sick ! How could communities, Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities,
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,
The primogenitive and due of birth,
Prerogative of age, crowns, scepters, laurels,
But by degree, stand in authentic place ?
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And, hark, what discord follows ! each thing meets
In mere oppugnancy : The bounded waters
Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores,
And make a sop of all this solid globe :
Strength should be lord of imbecility,
And the rude son shall strike his father dead :
Force should be right ; or, rather, right and wrong (Between whose endless jar justice resides)
Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite ;
And appetite, an universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And, last, eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,
This chaos, when degree is suffocate,
Follows the choking.
And this neglection of degree it is,
That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose
It hath to climb. The general's disdained
By him one step below ; he, by the next ;
That next by him beneath : so every step,
Exampled by the first pace that is sick
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Of his superior, grows to an envious fever
Of pale and bloodless emulation :
And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,
Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.
Nestor —
Most wisely hath Ulysses here discovered The fever whereof all our power is sick.
Agamemnon —
The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, What is the remedy ?
Ulysses — — The great Achilles,
whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, —
Having his ear full of his airy fame,
Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent
Lies mocking our designs : With him, Patroclus, Upon a lazy bed the livelong day,
Breaks scurril jests ;
And with ridiculous and awkward action
(Which, slanderer, he imitation calls)
He pageants us. Sometimes, great Agamemnon, Thy topless reputation he puts on;
And, like a strutting player, — whose conceit
Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound
'Twixt his stretched footing and the scaffoldage,
Such to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested seeming
He acts thy greatness in : and when he speaks,
'Tis like a chime a mending ; with terms unsquared, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropped, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff,
The large Achilles, on his pressed bed lolling,
From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause ; Cries — Excellent ! 'tis Agamemnon just.