Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ARISTOPHANES' APOLOGY; BEING THE LAST ADVENTURE OF BALAUSTION: PART 3, by ROBERT BROWNING Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: When the long silence ended, -- our best friend Last Line: "glory to god -- who saves euripides!" Subject(s): Greece; Greeks | ||||||||
When the long silence ended, -- "Our best friend -- Lost, our best friend!" he muttered musingly. Then, "Lachares the sculptor" (half aloud) "Sinned he or sinned he not? 'Outrageous sin!' Shuddered our elders, 'Pallas should be clothed: He carved her naked.' 'But more beautiful!' Answers this generation: 'Wisdom formed For love not fear!' And there the statue stands, Entraps the eye severer art repels. Moreover, Pallas wields the thunderbolt, Yet has not struck the artist all this while. Pheidias and Aischulos? Euripides And Lachares? But youth will have its way! The ripe man ought to be as old as young -- As young as old. I too have youth at need. Much may be said for stripping wisdom bare! "And who's 'our best friend'? You play kottabos; Here's the last mode of playing. Take a sphere With orifices at due interval, Through topmost one of which, a throw adroit Sends wine from cup, clean passage, from out side To where, in hollow midst, a manikin Suspended ever bobs with head erect Right underneath whatever hole's a-top When you set orb a-rolling: plumb, he gets Ever this benediction of the splash. An other-fashioned orb presents him fixed: Of all the outlets, he fronts only one, And only when that one -- and rare the chance -- Comes uppermost, does he turn upward too: He can't turn all sides with the turning orb. Inside this sphere of life -- all objects, sense And soul perceive -- Euripides hangs fixed, Gets knowledge through the single aperture Of High and Right: with visage fronting these He waits the wine thence ere he operate, Work in the world and write a tragedy. When that hole happens to revolve to point, In drops the knowledge, waiting meets reward. But, duly in rotation, Low and Wrong -- When these enjoy the moment's altitude, His heels are found just where his head should be! No knowledge that way! I am movable, -- To slightest shift of orb make prompt response, Face Low and Wrong and Weak and all the rest, And still drink knowledge, wine-drenched every turn, -- Equally favored by their opposites. Little and Bad exist, are natural: Then let me know them, and be twice as great 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 tragicomic 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 endeavor 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 honor done His elder rival, in our Poikile? 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' Rumor 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 honor 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 Sparte sue for terms, -- who knows? Cede Dekeleia, as the rumor runs: Terms which Athenai, of right mind again, Accepts -- she can no other! Peace declared, Have my long labors 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, Melpomene, 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-gray, 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 colors 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," -- Who failed to recognize Euripides? 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 Sparte 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 Captive! And first word of the conqueror Was "Down with those Long Walls, Peiraios' pride! Destroy, yourselves, your bulwarks! Peace needs none!" And "We obey" they shuddered in the their dream. But, at next quick imposure of decree -- "No longer democratic government! Henceforth such oligarchy as ourselves Please to appoint you!" -- then the horror-stung Dreamers awake; they started up a-stare At the half-helot captain and his crew -- Spartans, "men used to let their hair grow long, To fast, be dirty, and just -- Sokratize" -- Whose word was "Trample on Themistokles!" So, as the way is with much misery, The heads swam, hands refused their office, hearts Sunk as they stood in stupor. "Wreck the Walls? Ruin Peiraios? -- with our Pallas armed For interference? -- Herakles apprised, And Theseus hasting? Lay the Long Walls low?" Three days they stood, stared, -- stonier than their walls. Whereupon, sleep who might, Lusandros woke: Saw the prostration of his enemy, Utter and absolute beyond belief, Past hope of hatred even. I surmise He also probably saw fade in fume Certain fears, bred of Bakis-prophecy, Nor apprehended any more that gods And heroes, -- fire, must glow forth, guard the ground Where prone, by sober day-dawn, corpse-like lay Powerless Athenai, late predominant Lady of Hellas, -- Sparte's slave-prize now! Where should a menace lurk in those slack limbs? What was to move his circumspection? Why Demolish just Peiraios? "Stay!" bade he: "Already promise-breakers? True to type, Athenians! past, and present, and to come, -- The fickle and the false! No stone dislodged, No implement applied, yet three days' grace Expire! Forbearance is no longer-lived. By breaking promise, terms of peace you break -- Too gently framed for falsehood, fickleness! All must be reconsidered -- yours the fault!" Wherewith, he called a council of allies. Pent-up resentment used its privilege, -- Outburst at ending: this the summed result. "Because we would avenge no transient wrong But an eternity of insolence, Aggression, -- folly, no disasters mend, Pride, no reverses teach humility, -- Because too plainly were all punishment, Such as comports with less obdurate crime, Evadable by falsehood, fickleness -- Experience proves the true Athenian type, -- Therefore, 't is need we dig deep down into The root of evil; lop nor bole nor branch. Look up, look round and see, on every side, What nurtured the rank tree to noisome fruit! We who live hutted (so they laugh) not housed, Build barns for temples, prize mud-monuments, Nor show the sneering stranger aught but -- men, -- Spartans take insult of Athenians just Because they boast Akropolis to mount, And Propulaia to make entry by, Through a mad maze of marble arrogance Such as you see -- such as let none see more! Abolish the detested luxury! Leave not one stone upon another, raze Athenai to the rock! Let hill and plain Become a waste, a grassy pasture-ground Where sheep may wander, grazing goats depend From shapeless crags once columns! so at last Shall peace inhabit there, and peace enough." Whereon, a shout approved "Such peace bestow!" Then did a Man of Phokis rise -- O heart! Rise -- when no bolt of Zeus disparted sky, No omen-bird from Pallas scared the crew, Rise -- when mere human argument could stem No foam-fringe of the passion surging fierce, Baffle no wrath-wave that o'er barrier broke -- Who was the Man of Phokis rose and flung A flower i' the way of that fierce foot's advance, Which -- stop for? -- nay, had stamped down sword's assault! Could it be He stayed Sparte with the snatch -- "Daughter of Agamemnon, late my liege, Elektra, palaced, once a visitant To thy poor rustic dwelling, now I come?" Ay, facing fury of revenge, and lust Of hate, and malice moaning to appease Hunger on prey presumptuous, prostrate now -- Full in the hideous faces -- last resource, You flung that choric flower, my Euthukles! And see, as through some pinhole, should the wind Wedgingly pierce but once, in with a rush Hurries the whole wild weather, rends to rags The weak sail stretched against the outside storm -- So did the power of that triumphant play Pour in, and oversweep the assembled foe! Triumphant play, wherein our poet first Dared bring the grandeur of the Tragic Two Down to the level of our common life, Close to the beating of our common heart. Elektra? 'T was Athenai, Sparte's ice Thawed to, while that sad portraiture appealed -- Agamemnonian lady, lost by fault Of her own kindred, cast from house and home, Despoiled of all the brave inheritance, Dowered humbly as befits a herdsman's mate, Partaker of his cottage, clothed in rags, Patient performer of the poorest chares, Yet mindful, all the while, of glory past When she walked darling of Mukenai, dear Beyond Orestes to the King of Men! So, because Greeks are Greeks, though Sparte's brood, And hearts are hearts, though in Lusandros' breast, And poetry is power, and Euthukles Had faith therein to, full-face, fling the same -- Sudden, the ice-thaw! The assembled foe, Heaving and swaying with strange friendliness, Cried, "Reverence Elektra!" -- cried, "Abstain Like that chaste Herdsman, nor dare violate The sanctity of such reverse! Let stand Athenai!" Mindful of that story's close, Perchance, and how, -- when he, the Herdsman chaste, Needs apprehend no break of tranquil sleep, -- All in due time, a stranger, dark, disguised, Knocks at the door: with searching glance, notes keen, Knows quick, through mean attire and disrespect, The ravaged princess! Ay, right on, the clutch Of guiding retribution has in charge The author of the outrage! While one hand, Elektra's, pulls the door behind, made fast On fate, -- the other strains, prepared to push The victim-queen, should she make frightened pause Before that serpentining blood which steals Out of the darkness where, a pace beyond, Above the slain Aigisthos, bides his blow Dreadful Orestes! Klutaimnestra, wise This time, forebore; Elektra held her own; Saved was Athenai through Euripides, Through Euthukles, through -- more than ever -- me, Balaustion, me, who, Wild-pomegranate-flower, Felt my fruit triumph, and fade proudly so! But next day, as ungracious minds are wont, The Spartan, late surprised into a grace, Grew sudden sober at the enormity, And grudged, by daybreak, midnight's easy gift; Splenetically must repay its cost By due increase of rigor, doglike snatch At aught still left dog to concede like man. Rough sea, at flow of tide, may lip, perchance, Smoothly the land-line reached as for repose -- Lie indolent in all unquestioned sway; But ebbing, when needs must, all thwart and loth, Sea claws at sand relinquished strugglingly. So, harsh Lusandros -- pinioned to inflict The lesser penalty alone -- spoke harsh, As minded to embitter scathe by scorn. "Athenai's self be saved then, thank the Lyre! If Tragedy withdraws her presence -- quick, If Comedy replace her, -- what more just? Let Comedy do service, frisk away, Dance off stage these indomitable stones, Long Walls, Peiraian bulwarks! Hew and heave, Pick at, pound into dust each dear defence! Not to the Kommos -- eleleleleu With breast bethumped, as Tragic lyre prefers, But Comedy shall sound the flute, and crow At kordax-end -- the hearty slapping-dance! Collect those flute-girls -- trash who flattered ear With whistlings, and fed eye with caper-cuts, While we Lakonians supped black broth or crunched Sea-urchin, conchs and all, unpricked -- coarse brutes! Command they lead off step, time steady stroke To spade and pickaxe, till demolished lie Athenai's pride in powder!" Done that day -- That sixteenth famed day of Munuchion-month! The day when Hellas fought at Salamis, The very day Euripides was born, Those flute-girls -- Phaps-Elaphion at their head -- Did blow their best, did dance their worst, the while Sparte pulled down the walls, wrecked wide the works, Laid low each merest molehill of defence, And so the Power, Athenai, passed away! We would not see its passing! Ere I knew The issue of their counsels, -- crouching low And shrouded by my peplos, -- I conceived, Despite the shut eyes, the stopped ears, -- by count Only of heart-beats, telling the slow time, -- Athenai's doom was signed and signified In that assembly, -- ay, but knew there watched One who would dare and do, nor bate at all The stranger's licensed duty, -- speak the word Allowed the Man from Phokis! Naught remained But urge departure, flee the sights and sounds, Hideous exultings, wailings worth contempt, And pressed to other earth, new heaven, by sea That somehow ever prompts to 'scape despair. Help rose to heart's wish; at the harbor-side, The old gray mariner did reverence To who had saved his ship, still weather-tight As when with prow gay-garlanded she praised The hospitable port and pushed to sea. "Convoy Balaustion back to Rhodes, for sake Of her and her Euripides!" laughed he. Rhodes, -- shall it not be there, my Euthukles, Till this brief trouble of a lifetime end, That solitude -- two make so populous! -- For food finds memories of the past suffice, Maybe, anticipations, -- hope so swells, -- Of some great future we, familiar once With who so taught, should hail and entertain? He lies now in the little valley, laughed And moaned about by those mysterious streams, Boiling and freezing, like the love and hate Which helped or harmed him through his earthly course. They mix in Arethousa by his grave. The warm spring, traveller, dip thine arms into, Brighten thy brow with! Life detests black cold! I sent the tablets, the psalterion, so Rewarded Sicily; the tyrant there Bestowed them worthily in Phoibos' shrine. A gold-graved writing tells -- "I also loved The poet, Free Athenai cheaply prized -- King Dionusios, -- Archelaos-like!" And see if young Philemon, -- sure one day To do good service and be loved himself, -- If he too have not made a votive verse! "Grant, in good sooth, our great dead, all the same, Retain their sense, as certain wise men say, I'd hang myself -- to see Euripides!" Hands off, Philemon! nowise hang thyself, But pen the prime plays, labor the right life, And die at good old age as grand men use, -- Keeping thee, with that great thought, warm the while, -- That he does live, Philemon! Ay, most sure! "He lives!" hark, -- waves say, winds sing out the same, And yonder dares the citied ridge of Rhodes Its headlong plunge from sky to sea, disparts North bay from sough, -- each guarded calm, that guest May enter gladly, blow what wind there will, -- Boiled round with breakers, to no other cry! All in one choros, -- what the master-word They take up? -- hark! "There are no gods, no gods! Glory to God -- who saves Euripides!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FLOWER NO MORE THAN ITSELF by LINDA GREGG ALMA IN ALL SEASONS by LINDA GREGG ALMA IN THE DARK by LINDA GREGG ALMA TO HER SISTER by LINDA GREGG ALONE WITH THE GODDESS by LINDA GREGG APHRODITE AND THE NATURE OF ART by LINDA GREGG AS BEING IS ETERNAL by LINDA GREGG CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME' by ROBERT BROWNING |
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