Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  As he who only knows one phase of life!

  So doubly shall I prove ‘best friend of man,’

  If I report the whole truth — Vice, perceived

  While he shut eyes to all but Virtue there.

  Man’s made of both: and both must be of use

  To somebody: if not to him, to me.

  While, as to your imaginary Third

  Who, stationed (by mechanics past my guess)

  So as to take in every side at once,

  And not successively, — may reconcile

  The High and Low in tragi-comic verse, —

  He shall be hailed superior to us both

  When born — in the Tin-islands! Meantime, here

  In bright Athenai, I contest the claim,

  Call myself Iostephanos’ ‘best friend,’

  Who took my own course, worked as I descried

  Ordainment, stuck to my first faculty.

  “For listen! There’s no failure breaks the heart,

  Whate’er be man’s endeavour in this world,

  Like the rash poet’s when he — nowise fails

  By poetizing badly, — Zeus or makes

  Or mars a man, so — at it, merrily!

  But when, — made man, — much like myself, — equipt

  For such and such achievement, — rash he turns

  Out of the straight path, bent on snatch of feat

  From — who’s the appointed fellow born thereto, —

  Crows take him! — in your Kassiterides?

  Half-doing his work, leaving mine untouched,

  That were the failure. Here I stand, heart-whole,

  No Thamuris!

  “Well thought of, Thamuris!

  Has zeal, pray, for ‘best friend’ Euripides

  Allowed you to observe the honour done

  His elder rival, in our Poikilé?

  You don’t know? Once and only once, trod stage,

  Sang and touched lyre in person, in his youth,

  Our Sophokles, — youth, beauty, dedicate

  To Thamuris who named the tragedy.

  The voice of him was weak; face, limbs and lyre,

  These were worth saving: Thamuris stands yet

  Perfect as painting helps in such a case.

  At least you know the story, for ‘best friend’

  Enriched his ‘Rhesos’ from the Blind Bard’s store;

  So haste and see the work, and lay to heart

  What it was struck me when I eyed the piece!

  Here stands a poet punished for rash strife

  With Powers above his power, who see with sight

  Beyond his vision, sing accordingly

  A song, which he must needs dare emulate.

  Poet, remain the man nor ape the Muse!

  “But — lend me the psalterion! Nay, for once —

  Once let my hand fall where the other’s lay!

  I see it, just as I were Sophokles,

  That sunrise and combustion of the east!”

  And then he sang — are these unlike the words?

  Thamuris marching, — lyre and song of Thrace —

  (Perpend the first, the worst of woes that were

  Allotted lyre and song, ye poet-race!)

  Thamuris from Oichalia, feasted there

  By kingly Eurutos of late, now bound

  For Dorion at the uprise broad and bare

  Of Mount Pangaios (ore with earth enwound

  Glittered beneath his footstep) — marching gay

  And glad, Thessalia through, came, robed and crowned,

  From triumph on to triumph, mid a ray

  Of early morn, — came, saw and knew the spot

  Assigned him for his worst of woes, that day.

  Balura — happier while its name was not —

  Met him, but nowise menaced; slipt aside,

  Obsequious river to pursue its lot

  Of solacing the valley — say, some wide

  Thick busy human cluster, house and home,

  Embanked for peace, or thrift that thanks the tide.

  Thamuris, marching, laughed “Each flake of foam”

  (As sparklingly the ripple raced him by)

  “Mocks slower clouds adrift in the blue dome!”

  For Autumn was the season; red the sky

  Held morn’s conclusive signet of the sun

  To break the mists up, bid them blaze and die.

  Morn had the mastery as, one by one

  All pomps produced themselves along the tract

  From earth’s far ending to near heaven begun.

  Was there a ravaged tree? it laughed compact

  With gold, a leaf-ball crisp, high-brandished now,

  Tempting to onset frost which late attacked.

  Was there a wizened shrub, a starveling bough,

  A fleecy thistle filched from by the wind,

  A weed, Pan’s trampling hoof would disallow?

  Each, with a glory and a rapture twined

  About it, joined the rush of air and light

  And force: the world was of one joyous mind.

  Say not the birds flew! they forebore their right —

  Swam, revelling onward in the roll of things.

  Say not the beasts’ mirth bounded! that was flight —

  How could the creatures leap, no lift of wings?

  Such earth’s community of purpose, such

  The ease of earth’s fulfilled imaginings, —

  So did the near and far appear to touch

  I’ the moment’s transport, — that an interchange

  Of function, far with near, seemed scarce too much;

  And had the rooted plant aspired to range

  With the snake’s license, while the insect yearned

  To glow fixed as the flower, it were not strange —

  No more than if the fluttery tree-top turned

  To actual music, sang itself aloft;

  Or if the wind, impassioned chantress, earned

  The right to soar embodied in some soft

  Fine form all fit for cloud-companionship,

  And, blissful, once touch beauty chased so oft.

  Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slip

  Born of the fiery transport; lyre and song

  Were his, to smite with hand and launch from lip —

  Peerless recorded, since the list grew long

  Of poets (saith Homeros) free to stand

  Pedestalled mid the Muses’ temple-throng,

  A statued service, laurelled, lyre in hand,

  (Ay, for we see them) — Thamuris of Thrace

  Predominating foremost of the band.

  Therefore the morn-ray that enriched his face,

  If it gave lambent chill, took flame again

  From flush of pride; he saw, he knew the place.

  What wind arrived with all the rhythms from plain,

  Hill, dale, and that rough wildwood interspersed?

  Compounding these to one consummate strain,

  It reached him, music; but his own outburst

  Of victory concluded the account,

  And that grew song which was mere music erst.

  “Be my Parnassos, thou Pangaian mount!

  And turn thee, river, nameless hitherto!

  Famed shalt thou vie with famed Pieria’s fount!

  “Here I await the end of this ado:

  Which wins — Earth’s poet or the Heavenly Muse.” . . .

  But song broke up in laughter. “Tell the rest

  Who may! I have not spurned the common life,

  Nor vaunted mine a lyre to match the Muse

  Who sings for gods, not men! Accordingly,

  I shall not decorate her vestibule —

  Mute marble, blind the eyes and quenched the brain,

  Loose in the hand a bright, a broken lyre!

  — Not Thamuris but Aristophanes!

  “There! I have sung content back to myself,

  And started subject for a play beside.


  My next performance shall content you both.

  Did ‘Prelude-Battle’ maul ‘best friend’ too much?

  Then ‘Main-Fight’ be my next song, fairness’ self!

  Its subject — Contest for the Tragic Crown.

  Ay, you shall hear none else but Aischulos

  Lay down the law of Tragedy, and prove

  ‘Best friend’ a stray-away, — no praise denied

  His manifold deservings, never fear —

  Nor word more of the old fun! Death defends.

  Sound admonition has its due effect.

  Oh, you have uttered weighty words, believe!

  Such as shall bear abundant fruit, next year,

  In judgment, regular, legitimate.

  Let Bacchos’ self preside in person! Ay —

  For there’s a buzz about those ‘Bacchanals’

  Rumour attributes to your great and dead

  For final effort: just the prodigy

  Great dead men leave, to lay survivors low!

  — Until we make acquaintance with our fate

  And find, fate’s worst done, we, the same, survive

  Perchance to honour more the patron-god,

  Fitlier inaugurate a festal year.

  Now that the cloud has broken, sky laughs blue,

  Earth blossoms youthfully. Athenai breathes.

  After a twenty-six years’ wintry blank

  Struck from her life, — war-madness, one long swoon,

  She wakes up: Arginousai bids good cheer.

  We have disposed of Kallikratidas;

  Once more will Sparté sue for terms, — who knows?

  Cede Dekeleia, as the rumour runs:

  Terms which Athenai, of right mind again,

  Accepts — she can no other. Peace declared,

  Have my long labours borne their fruit or no?

  Grinned coarse buffoonery so oft in vain?

  Enough — it simply saved you. Saved ones, praise

  Theoria’s beauty and Opora’s breadth!

  Nor, when Peace realizes promised bliss,

  Forget the Bald Bard, Envy! but go burst

  As the cup goes round and the cates abound,

  Collops of hare with roast spinks rare!

  Confess my pipings, dancings, posings served

  A purpose: guttlings, guzzlings, had their use!

  Say whether light Muse, Rosy-finger-tips,

  Or ‘best friend’s’ heavy-hand, Melpomené,

  Touched lyre to purpose, played Amphion’s part,

  And built Athenai to the skies once more!

  Farewell, brave couple! Next year, welcome me!”

  No doubt, in what he said that night, sincere!

  One story he referred to, false or fact,

  Was not without adaptability.

  They do say — Lais the Corinthian once

  Chancing to see Euripides (who paced

  Composing in a garden, tablet-book

  In left hand, with appended stulos prompt)

  “Answer me,” she began, “O Poet, — this!

  What didst intend by writing in thy play

  Go hang, thou filthy doer ?” Struck on heap,

  Euripides, at the audacious speech —

  “Well now,” quoth he, “thyself art just the one

  I should imagine fit for deeds of filth!”

  She laughingly retorted his own line

  “What’s filth, — unless who does it, thinks it so?”

  So might he doubtless think. “Farewell,” said we.

  And he was gone, lost in the morning-grey

  Rose-streaked and gold to eastward. Did we dream?

  Could the poor twelve-hours hold this argument

  We render durable from fugitive,

  As duly at each sunset’s droop of sail,

  Delay of oar, submission to sea-might,

  I still remember, you as duly dint

  Remembrance, with the punctual rapid style,

  Into — what calm cold page!

  Thus soul escapes

  From eloquence made captive: thus mere words

  — Ah, would the lifeless body stay! But no:

  Change upon change till, — who may recognize

  What did soul service, in the dusty heap?

  What energy of Aristophanes

  Inflames the wreck Balaustion saves to show?

  Ashes be evidence how fire — with smoke —

  All night went lamping on! But morn must rise.

  The poet — I shall say — burned up and, blank

  Smouldered this ash, now white and cold enough.

  Nay, Euthukles! for best, though mine it be,

  Comes yet. Write on, write ever, wrong no word!

  Add, first, — he gone, if jollity went too,

  Some of the graver mood, which mixed and marred,

  Departed likewise. Sight of narrow scope

  Has this meek consolation: neither ills

  We dread, nor joys we dare anticipate,

  Perform to promise. Each soul sows a seed —

  Euripides and Aristophanes;

  Seed bears crop, scarce within our little lives;

  But germinates, — perhaps enough to judge, —

  Next year?

  Whereas, next year brought harvest-time!

  For, next year came, and went not, but is now,

  Still now, while you and I are bound for Rhodes

  That’s all but reached — and harvest has it brought,

  Dire as the homicidal dragon-crop.

  Sophokles had dismissal ere it dawned,

  Happy as ever; though men mournfully

  Plausive, — when only soul could triumph now,

  And Iophon produced his father’s play, —

  Crowned the consummate song where Oidipous

  Dared the descent mid earthquake-thundering,

  And hardly Theseus’ hands availed to guard

  Eyes from the horror, as their grove disgorged

  Its dread ones, while each daughter sank to ground.

  Then Aristophanes, on heel of that,

  Triumphant also, followed with his “Frogs:”

  Produced at next Lenaia, — three months since, —

  The promised Main-Fight, loyal, license-free!

  As if the poet, primed with Thasian juice,

  (Himself swore — wine that conquers every kind

  For long abiding in the head) could fix

  Thenceforward any object in its truth,

  Through eyeballs bathed by mere Castalian dew,

  Nor miss the borrowed medium, — vinous drop

  That colours all to the right crimson pitch

  When mirth grows mockery, censure takes the tinge

  Of malice!

  All was Aristophanes:

  There blazed the glory, there shot black the shame.

  Ay, Bacchos did stand forth, the Tragic God

  In person! and when duly dragged through mire, —

  Having lied, filched, played fool, proved coward, flung

  The boys their dose of fit indecency,

  And finally got trounced to heart’s content,

  At his own feast, in his own theatre

  ( — Oh never fear! ‘T was consecrated sport,

  Exact tradition, warranted no whit

  Offensive to instructed taste, — indeed,

  Essential to Athenai’s liberty,

  Could the poor stranger understand!) why, then —

  He was pronounced the rarely-qualified

  To rate the work, adjust the claims to worth,

  Of Aischulos (of whom, in other mood,

  This same appreciative poet pleased

  To say “He’s all one stiff and gluey piece

  Of back of swine’s neck!”) — and of Chatterbox

  Who, “twisting words like wool,” usurped his seat

  In Plouton’s realm: “the arch-rogue, liar, scamp

  That lives by snatching-up of altar-orts,”
r />   — 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 Sparté cried once more “But grant us Peace

  We give you Dekeleia back!” Too shrewd

  Was Kleophon to let escape, forsooth,

  The enemy — at final gasp, besides!

  So, Aristophanes obtained the prize,

  And so Athenai felt she had a friend

  Far better than her “best friend,” lost last year;

  And so, such fame had “Frogs” that, when came round

  This present year, those Frogs croaked gay again

  At the great Feast, Elaphebolion-month.

  Only — there happened Aigispotamoi!

  And, in the midst of the frog-merriment,

  Plump o’ the sudden, pounces stern King Stork

  On the light-hearted people of the marsh!

  Spartan Lusandros swooped precipitate,

  Ended Athenai, rowed her sacred bay

  With oars which brought a hundred triremes back