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THE TRUE STORY OF DAMON AND PYTHIAS by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)

First Line: TWO SENATORS THERE WERE OF SYRACUSE
Last Line: BUT THEY WOULD NONE OF HIM.
Subject(s): DAMON AND PYTHIAS;
Two senators there were of Syracuse,
When Dionysius the tyrant seized
The reins of State, austere, of high repute,
Still faithful to the fallen Commonwealth
The young usurper slew. In closest links
Of friendship lived the twain, whom not the bonds
Of wedlock, nor the cares of fuller life,
The love of children, the dividing power
Of high ambition severed; but their souls,
Close-knit together, still from youth to age
Kept the old tie, so strong a golden chain
Bound them together, stronger than the love
Of wife and child, stronger than Life itself,
Stronger than Death -- the bond of common Faith.

For they, four centuries before Christ came,
Following the mystic precepts of the sage
Pythagoras, who, Saint at once and Seer,
Taught, as our Master taught, the love of man
(Not all the erring Race, both small and great,
As He, but of the faithful Brotherhood),
Contemned the Pagan worship, knowing well
Wisdom and virtue and the mastery
Of slavish lusts came not of acted rite
Or incense, or the steam of sacrifice
And suppliant hands uplifted to dead gods,
But of the subtle music which attunes
The chords of life to gracious Harmony.

Wherefore a secret Order of the wise
He founded, and a Brotherhood of love,
Where each with each, toiling and suffering,
Bearing his Brother's burden, might at last
Rise to pure heights of gracious sacrifice
And self-surrender, each contending voice
Lost in the general Harmony of all.
And, therefore, if a Brother of his Rule
Fell fainting on the stony ways of life,
The Sage commanded that his Brethren bore
What succour they might give; and if he lay
Sick among strangers, helpless, suffering, poor,
And friendless, that the Brethren seeking him
Should of their sacred Duty pay again
Whatever gold or labour for his need
The stranger spent; or if a Brother pined
In jeopardy of life, his Brother's arm
Should shield him, ay, though Death itself repaid
The pious care. Thus each in each was lost,
Bearing each other's burdens, till their lives
Swelled the great concord, bearing, suffering,
Rejoicing, till their pilgrimage was done,
And they, through loftier spheres ascending, took
A higher nature, rising grade by grade
Of pureness, till at last the heavy load
And burden of the flesh, this mortal coil,
Which weighed them down, fell from them and they soared
From sphere to higher sphere, enfranchised, purged,
To some blest place of incorporeal souls.

Now, since through all the isle, from sea to sea,
The fame of their close friendship yearly grew,
Till all men knew and wondered what high force
Inspired their lives, soon to the tyrant's ear
The knowledge came; and he, who loved indeed
The accents of August Philosophy,
Though lust of power and gold had led his feet
Through miry swamps and thorny difficult ways,
Incredulous heard. To that self-seeking soul
The tales of high ungrudging sacrifice
Seemed idle phantasies, unproved, untrue,
Too thin for earth; and yet because his mind
Was set on Knowledge, for herself, he longed
To test them. Therefore gave he word to some,
His parasites, that he was fain to try
This faithful friendship and the link that bound
Their lives: "For though Pythagoras himself
Bade him believe, he would not, well he knew
Men's selfish hearts, bent upon narrow ends
Caring for naught beside. What was it gained
High place for him and honour, power and wealth,
When little more than youth, but selfish ends,
Sought without ruth for others, and achieved
While all men envied? Had it been indeed
A brother in the flesh, of the same stock,
Born of the self-same womb, perhaps 'twere well
To cleave to him, so that the union brought
Nothing of loss. But men of alien blood,
Bound by no closer tie than common faith,
That such should cling together to loss of goods --
Nay more, of life! The pious hypocrites!
'Twas time they were unveiled."
Therefore he bade
His creatures swear an oath that Pythias
Plotted his death. It mattered not a whit
'Twas but a lie, for if he found no friend
To die for him, 'twere one malignant less,
Or if he should, then two. Therefore they brought
Their accusation, and the innocent
Was doomed to die. But when he heard his fate,
Scorning the usurper's power, ere the axe fell
The tyrant of his cruel subtlety
Offered this grace, that he might bid farewell
To wife and children. When his yearning heart,
Spite of himself, consented, with a sneer
The tyrant cried, "Ay, thou shalt go indeed
If thou canst find a friend to die for thee
At sunset, if thou comest not again.
Hast thou a friend among thy Brotherhood
Of hypocrites to risk his life for thine?
Let him stand forth, and thou shalt have thy wish.
See, it wants six hours now to set of sun;
Go, but of this be sure, whate'er the cause
If thou return not ere his latest rays
Sink on the western hills, thy brainless friend
Shall die for thee. Will any bear the risk?
Let him stand forth!"
Then Damon, who stood by,
Sorrowing, to see the end, stood forth and cried,
"I will be bound for him, and if he come not
Will die the death." Quickly the gaoler loosed
The prisoner's chains and fixed on Damon's limbs
Their heavy burdens. And without a word,
Only a grateful gesture, Pythias turned,
Took horse, and through the echoing city streets,
Past pillared temples, marble palaces,
And sounding colonnades -- the tyrant's work,
Built on the city's ruined liberties --
Flew like the wind amid the wondering crowds
Of citizens, then left the town behind,
And past the trellised vineyards and the fields
Of waving grain, along the curving shore
By town and hamlet flew. The laughing sea,
Flecked with the widespread wings of dancing boats,
Spread blue before him; far upon the sky
AEtna's enormous bulk; the silent ways
Echoed the beating horse-hoofs, and his brain,
One sad unceasing monotone of sound,
One thought repeated oft, "At set of sun
Thou diest," and again: "At set of sun,
Remember! time is short; it flies! it flies!"
"Before yon sun has set thy life is done,
Or else thy friend's." "Speed on." Until at last
The old familiar fields and walls of home.

Now, when he gained his well-loved palace gate
His slave came forth, Lucullus, whom his hand
Had cherished since his birth, bound by close ties
Of loving service, and he bade him take
His steed and tend him with all care, because
Ere sunset he once more at Syracuse
Must be for life or death. The faithful hind
Obeyed without a murmur, wondering much
What thing should be, dreading some perilous chance
Waited his lord. And then the senator,
The same voice calling him, "Remember well
Thou diest, or thy friend, at set of sun,"
Entered his well-loved home.
He kissed his wife
And children dear, striving with trivial talk
Of home and homely things to hide his care,
Which pressed him sore; but she regarding him
With love's keen eyes, and that unwonted weight
Of trouble on his brow, would question him
What things had been, till last she drew from him
The sorrowful tale; how ere that day was done
He stood condemned to death, and how he came
Only to bid farewell to those his eyes
Should see no more in life. Then she who heard
Broke forth in sobs and wailings, and accused
The tyrant's pitiless spite. But with calm words
And precepts of the Master, he would soothe
The woman's passionate grief, until she lay
Silent upon his breast, and round them stood
Their children, hardly knowing what had been
Or what should come to be.
But as they spoke
With heightened tones, the listening slave without
Caught his dear master's words, and hearing, knew
The instant peril. Quick he stole to where
The tired steed, resting from his journey, stood
Asleep, and then taking a high resolve,
Knowing his master's steadfast mind, and fain
To save him from himself, and caring naught
For aught beside, with one sure stroke he stabbed
The poor beast to the heart, and then he fled
His master's anger.
With declining day,
After long hours of pain, from his sad home
Came Pythias forth, watching the westering sun
With heavy heart, for still that warning voice,
"Remember, ere the sunset," called to him,
And from his weeping wife and children dear
Tore himself free, and, parting with a groan,
Flung forth on his return, prepared to die,
Since Fate had willed it thus, and sought long time
His slave Lucullus. But in vain he called,
For nowhere was he found; then desperate,
Marking the flight of time, he sought and found
His horse where he had left it, but the beast,
Stabbed to the heart, lay dead.
Then in despair
He fled his home and rushed with frenzied haste
Along the road he came, hastening long miles
On foot to Syracuse, until his limbs
Failed him, his heart throbbed high, his breath came short,
And, stumbling as he went, he fell, and lay
A long while senseless. When his life returned
The old voice filled his ears. The sinking sun
Cast lengthening shadows. To his feet once more
Struggling, and doubting much if time remained
To save his friend, a little space again
He tottered in despair. And then, behold,
Just when his stiffening limbs refused to move
Another foot-pace, tethered to a tree,
The stout steed of some passing wayfarer
Caparisoned! Then to the saddle quick
Mounting, and giving rein, he breathed again,
If he might save his friend's life by his own.

Mile after mile the headlong chase swept on
By the dark, purple sea. The ghostly peaks
Of AEtna flushed, lit by the dying sun;
The white sails reddened; the long rays, oblique,
Lower and lower sank, dazzling his sight
With shafts of ruddy gold. No sound arose
On the hushed evening but the hurried beat
Of ringing hoofs, and the quick-coming throb
Of laboured breath, as the tired charger reeled
Upon his way. Lower, and lower still,
The sinking sunbeams shot athwart the fields,
And his heart sunk in turn. Then once again
The echoing streets, thick with applauding crowds,
As on they flashed; the palace marbles, pink
With sunset; till at last the waiting throng,
The tyrant and his guard, the headman's axe,
Lit by the dying rays; and as the sun
Sank red upon the hill, the breathless horse
Staggered and fell, and Pythias, leaping down,
Fell upon Damon's neck, knowing him saved.

Then at the tyrant's nod, the gaolers struck
The chains from Damon's limbs, and Pythias,
Laying his patient head upon the block,
Prepared to die; when lo, a voice was heard,
Grown softer than of wont, and merciful:
"Enough! I have proved them. In this sordid world,
Where he who thinks to mount above the plain
Must wade through blood and mire, breathing foul air
Of perfidy and fraud, to gain his end,
And find it worthless, lying, cozening,
And all for naught, -- pure natures still are bound
Indissolubly. More than sovereign power.
And gold and veined marbles, are to him
The crowned philosopher who sits above
The subject crowd, and, having gained the height
Of earthly things, contemns them; the calm eyes
And aspect of Divine Philosophy
Which conquers self, and from the warring notes
Of individual lives draws subtly forth
Some gracious, unsuspected harmony,
Some mystic chain of numbers, which binds fast
The waste and chaos of discordant aims
In some new cosmic order. I have found --
I, who have striven, and prize more than my crown
And blood-stained triumphs of successful war
The laurel of Olympia -- a new height
Of knowledge; a new virtue unattained,
And yet attainable; a sacrifice,
A brotherhood; a self surrender, winged
To higher Heaven than the sensual Gods'
To whom the ignorant kneel. Go! ye are free;
I pardon you. But now I pray ye take
Your ruler to your friendship, teaching me
The secrets of your creed, a proselyte
To serve a common Master. Then he made
As if to embrace them.
But no answering word
The brethren spake, and slowly turned and went,
Bowing their silent heads. The tyrant stretched
His arms in vain, as honouring their faith,
Fired with some half-false reverence for the truth
His life denied.
But they would none of him.



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