Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HELLENICS: HOMER, LAERTES, AGATHA; SECOND DAY, by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Whose is the soft and pulpy hand that lies Last Line: This ithaca, this people, and this king! Subject(s): Homer (10th Century B.c.); Poetry & Poets; Iliad; Odyssey | ||||||||
In the Morning. Homer. Whose is the soft and pulpy hand that lies Athwart the ridges of my craggy one Out of the bed? can it be Agatha's? Agatba. I come to bring thee, while yet warm and frothy, A draught of milk. Rise now, rise just half-up, And drink it. Hark! the birds, two at a time, Are singing in the terebinth. Our king Hath taken down his staff and gone afield To see the men begin their daily work. Homer. Go thou to thine: I will arise. How sweet Was that goat's milk! Agatba. We have eleven below, All milchers. Wouldst thou now the tepid bath? Homer. Rather when thou hast laid on the left-hand My sandals within reach; bring colder lymph To freshen more the frame-work of mine eyes, For eyes there are, altho' their orbs be dark. Agatba. 'Tis here; let me apply it. Homer. Bravely done! Why standest thou so still and taciturn? Agatba. The king my master hath forbidden me Ever to ask a question: if I might, And were not disobedience such a sin, I would ask thee, so gentle and so wise, Whether the story of that bad Calypso Can be all true, for it would grieve me sorely To think thou wouldst repeat it were it false, And some ill-natured God (such Gods there are) Would punish thee, already too afflicted. Homer. My child! the Muses sang the tale I told, And they know more about that wanton Nymph Than they have uttered into mortal ear. I do rejoice to find thee fond of truth. Agatba. I was not always truthful. I have smarted For falsehood, under Queen Penelope, When I was little. I should hate to hear More of that wicked creature who detain'd Her lord from her, and tried to win his love. I know 'twas very wrong in me to listen. Homer. A pardonable fault: we wish for listeners Whether we speak or sing, the young and old Alike are weak in this, unwise and wise, Cheerful and sorrowful. Agatha. O! look up yonder! Why dost thou smile? everything makes thee smile At silly Agatha, but why just now? Homer. What was the sight? Agatha. O inconsiderate! O worse than inconsiderate! cruel! cruel! Homer. Tell me, what was it? I can see thro' speech. Agatha. A tawny bird above; he prowls for hours, Sailing on wilful wings that never flag Until they drop headlong to seize the prey. The hinds shout after him and make him soar Eastward: our little birds are safe from kites And idler boys. 'Tis said (can it be true?) In other parts men catch the nightingale To make it food. Homer. Nay, men eat men. Afatha. Ye Gods! But men hurt one another, nightingales Console the weary with unwearied song, Until soft slumber on the couch descends. The king my master and Penelope Forbade the slaughter or captivity Of the poor innocents who trusted them, Nor robbed them even of the tiniest grain. Homer. Generous and tender is thy master's heart, Warm as the summer, open as the sky. Agatha. How true! how I do love thee for these words! Stranger, didst thou not hear him wail aloud, Groan after groan, broken, but ill supprest, When thou recitedst in that plaintive tone How Anticleia met her son again Amid the shades below? Thlu shouldst have stopt Before that tale was told by thee; that one At least was true, if none were true before. In vain, O how in vain, I smote my breast To keep more quiet what would beat within! Never were words so sweet, so sad, as those. I sobb'd apart, I could not check my tears: Laertes too, tho' stronger, could not his, They glistened in their channels and would run, Nor could he stop them with both hands: he heard My sobs, and call'd me little fool for them; Then did he catch and hold me to his bosom, And bid me never do the like again. Homer. The rains in their due season will descend, And so will tears; they sink into the heart To soften, not to hurt it. The best men Have most to weep for, whether foreign lands Receive them (or still worse!) a home estranged. Afatha. Listen. I hear the merry yelp of dogs, And now the ferul'd staff drops in the hall, And now the master's short and hurried step Advances: here he is: turn round, turn round. Laertes. Hast thou slept well, Maeonides? Homer. I slept Three hours ere sunrise, 'tis my wont, at night I lie awake for nearly twice as long. Laertes. Ay; singing birds wake early, shake their plumes, And carol ere they feed. Sound was thy sleep? Homer. I felt again, but felt it undisturb'd, The pelting of the little curly waves, The slow and heavy stretch of rising billows, And the rapidity of their descent. I thought I heard a Triton's shell, a song Of sylvian Nymph, and laughter from behind Trees not too close for voices to come thro', Or beauty, if Nymph will'd it, to be seen; And then a graver and a grander sound Came from the sky, and last a long applause. Laertes. Marvellous things are dreams! methinks we live An age in one of them, we traverse lands A lifetime could not reach, bring from the grave Inhabitants who never met before, And vow we will not leave an absent friend We long have left, and who leaves us ere morn. Homer. Dreams are among the blessings Heaven bestows On weary mortals; nor are they least Altho' they disappoint us and are gone When we awake! 'Tis pleasant to have caught The clap of hands below us from the many, Amid the kisses of the envious few. There is a pride thou knowest not, Laertes, In carrying the best strung and loudest harp. Laertes. Apollo, who deprived thee of thy light When youth was fresh and nature bloom'd around, Bestowed on thee gifts never dim with age, And rarely granted to impatient youth. The crown thou wearest reddens not the brow Of him who wears it worthily; but some Are snatcht by violence, some purloin'd by fraud, Some dripping blood, not by the Gods unseen. To thee, O wise Maeonides, to thee Worthless is all that glitters and attracts The buzzing insects of a summer hour. The Gods have given thee what themselves enjoy, And they alone, glory through endless days. The Lydian king Sarpedon never swayed Such sceptre, nor did glaucos his compeer, Nor Priam. Priam was about my age, He had more sorrows than I ever had; I lost one son, some fifty Priam lost; This is a comfort, I may rub my palms Thinking of this, and bless the Powers above. Homer. One wicked son brought down their vengeance on him, And his wide realms invited numerous foes. Laertes. Alas! alas! are there not cares enow In ruling nearly those five thousand heads, Men, women, children; arbitrating right And wrong, and hearing maids and mothers wail; For flax blown off the cliff when almost bleacht, And curlew tamed in vain and fled away, Albeit one wing was shortened; then approach To royal ear the whisper that the bird Might peradventure have alighted nigh, And hist upon the charcoal, skinn'd and split. Bounteous as are the Gods, where is the wealth To stop these lamentations with a gift Adequate to such losses? words are light, And words come opposite, with heavy groans. Homer. The pastor of the people may keep watch, Yet cares as wakeful creep into the fold. Laertes. Beside these city griefs, what mortal knows The anxieties about my scattered sheep? Some bleating for lost offspring, some for food, Scanty in winter, scantier in the drought Of Sirius; then again the shrubs in spring, Cropt close, ere barely budded, by the goats. Methinks these animals are over-nice About their food, else might they pick sea-weeds, But these forsooth they trample on, nor deign To taste even samphire, which their betters cull. There also are some less solicitudes About those rocks, when plunderers from abroad Would pilfer eggs and nestlings; my own folk Are abstinent, without their king's decree. Homer. To help thee in such troubles, and in worse, Where is thy brave Telemakos? Laertes. That youth Is gone to rule Dulikion, where the soil Tho' fitter than our Ithaca for tilth, Bears only turbulence and idleness. He with his gentle voice and his strong arm, Will bring into due train the restive race. Homer. Few will contend with gentleness and youth, Even of those who strive against the Laws, But some subvert them who could best defend, And in whose hands the Gods have placed the sword. On the mainland there are, unless report Belie them, princes who, possessing realms Wider than sight from mountain-head can reach, Would yet invade a neighbour's stony croft, Pretending danger to their citadels From fishermen ashore, and shepherd boys Who work for daily and but scanty bread, And wax the reeds to pipe at festivals, Where the dogs snarl at them above the bones. Laertes. What! would the cloth'd in purple, as are some, Rip off the selvage from a ragged coat? Accursed be the wretch, and whosoe'er Upholds him, or connives at his misdeeds. Away with thoughts that sadden even this hour! Homer. I would indeed away with 'em, but wrath Rings on the lyre and swells above the song. It shall be heard by those who stand on high, But shall not rouse the lowlier, long opprest, Who might be madden'd at his broken sleep, And wrenching out the timbers of his gate Batter the prince's down. Laertes. Ye Gods forbid! Thou makest the skin creep upon my flesh, Albeit the danger lies from me afar. Now surely this is but a songman's tale, Yet songman never here discourst like thee, Or whispered in low voice what thou hast sung, Striking the lyre so that the strings all trembled. Are people anywhere grown thus unruly? Homer. More are they who would rule than would be ruled, Yet one must govern, else all run astray. The strongest are the calm and equitable, And kings at best are men, nor always that. Laertes. I have known many who have call'd me friend, Yet would not warn me tho' they saw ten skiffs Grating the strand with three score thieves in each. Curse on that chief across the narrow sea, Who drives whole herds and flocks innumerable, And whose huge presses groan with oil and wine Year after year, yet fain would carry off The crying kid, and strangle it for crying. Alas, Maeonides, the weakest find Strength enough to inflict deep injuries. Much I have borne, but 'twas from those below; Thou knowest not the gross indignities From goat-herd and from swine-herd I endur'd When my Odysseus had gone far away; How they consumed my substance, how the proud Divided my fat kine in this my house, And wooed before mine eyes Penelope, Reluctant and absconding till return'd Her lawful lord, true, chaste, as she herself. Homer. I know it, and remotest men shall know. If we must suffer wrong, 'tis from the vile The least intolerable. Laertes. True, my son Avenged me: more than one God aided him, But one above the rest; the Deity Of wisdom, stronger even than him of war, Guided the wanderer back, and gave the arms And will and prowess to subdue our foes, And their own dogs lapt up the lustful blood Of the proud suitors. Sweet, sweet is revenge; Her very shadow, running on before, Quickens our pace until we hold her fast. Homer. Rather would I sit quiet than pursue. Laertes. Now art thou not, from such long talk, athirst? Split this pomegranate then, and stoop the jar. Hold! I can stoop it: take this cup . . 'tis fill'd. Homer. Zeus! God of hospitality! vouchsafe To hear my prayer, as thou hast often done, That, when thy lightnings spring athwart the sea, And when thy thunders shake from brow to base The Acrokerauneans, thy right hand protect This Ithaca, this people, and this king! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EPIC STARS by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE CHILDHOOD OF HOMER by MARY KINZIE HOMER'S SEEING-EYE DOG by WILLIAM MATTHEWS THE RETURN OF THE GREEKS by EDWIN MUIR HOMER IN BASIC by KENNETH REXROTH THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER [DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED] by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER by JOHN KEATS A FIESOLAN IDYL by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR |
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