T. Sturge Moore

Back to Harold Monro
Forward to Ronald Ross

A Sicilian Idyll

(First Scene)

Damon

I thank thee, no;

Already have I drunk a bowl of wine . . .

Nay, nay, why wouldst thou rise?

There rolls thy ball of worsted! Sit thee down;

Come, sit thee down, Cydilla,

And let me fetch thy ball, rewind the wool,

And tell thee all that happened yesterday.

Cydilla

Thanks, Damon; now, by Zeus, thou art so brisk,

It shames me that to stoop should try my bones.

Damon

We both are old,

And if we may have peaceful days are blessed;

Few hours of bouyancy will come to break

The sure withdrawal from us of life's flood.

Cydilla

True, true, youth looks a great way off! To think

It wonce was age did lie quite out of sight!

Damon

Not many days have been so beautiful

As yesterday, Cydilla; yet one was;

And I with thee broke tranced on its fine spell;

Thou dost remember? Yes? but not with tears,

Ah, not with tears, Cydilla, pray, oh, pray!

Cydilla

Pardon me, Damon,

'Tis many years since thou hast touched thereon;

And something stirs about thee --

Such air of eagerness as was thine when

I was more foolish than in my life, I hope

To ever have been at another time.

Damon

Pooh! foolish? -- thou wast then so very wise

That, often having seen thee foolish since,

Wonder has made me faint that thou shouldst err.

Cydilla

Nay, then I erred, dear Damon; and remorse

Was not so slow to find me as thou deemst.

Damon

There, mop those dear wet eyes, or thou'lt ne'er hear

What it was filled my heart yesterday.

Cydilla

Tell, Damon; since I well know that regrets

Hang like dull gossips round another's ear.

Damon

First, thou must know that oftentimes I rise, --

Not heeding or not finding sleep, of watching

Afraid no longer to be prodigal, --

And gaze upon the beauty of the night.

Quiet hours, while dawn absorbs the waning stars,

Are like cold water sipped between our cups

Washing the jaded palate till it taste

The wine again. Ere the sun rose, I sat

Within my garden porch; my lamp was left

Burning beside my bed, though it would be

Broad day before I should return upstairs.

I let it burn, willing to waste some oil

Rather than to disturb my tranquil mood;

But, as the Fates determined, it was seen. --

Suddenly, running round the dovecote, came

A young man naked, breathless, through the dawn,

Florid with haste and wine; it was Hipparchus.

Yes, there he stood before me panting, rubbing

His heated flesh which felt the cold at once.

When he had breath enough, he begged me straight

To put the lamp out; and himself and done it

Ere I was on the stair.

Flung all along my bed, his gasping shook it

When I at length could sit down by his side:

'What cause, young sir, brings you here in this plight

At such an hour?' He shuddered, sighed and rolled

My blanket round him; then came a gush of words:

'The first of causes, Damon, namely Love,

Eldest and least resigned and most unblushing

Of all the turbulent impulsive gods.

A quarter of an hour scarce has flown

Since lovely arms clung round me, and my head

Asleep lay nested in a woman's hair;

My cheek still bears print of its ample coils.'

Athwart its burning flush he drew my fingers

And their tips felt it might be as he said.

'Oh I have had a night, a night, a night!

Had Paris so much bliss?

And oh! was Helen's kiss

To be compared with those I tasted?

Which but for me had all been wasted

On a bald man, a fat man, a gross man, a beast

To scare the best guest from the very best feast!'

Cydilla need not hear half that he said,

For he was mad awhile.

But having given rein to hot caprice,

And satyr jest, and the distempered male,

At length, I heard his story.

At sun-down certain miles without the town

He'd chanced upon a light-wheeled litter-car,

And in it there stood one

Yet more a woman than her garb was rich,

With more of youth and health than elegance.

'The mules,' he said, 'were beauties: she was one,

And cried directions to the neighbour field:

"O catch that big bough! Fool, not that, the next!

Clumsy, you've let it go! O stop it swaying,

The eggs will jolt out!" From the road,' said he,

'I could not see who thus was rated; so

Sprang up beside her and beheld her husband,

Lover or keeper, what you like to call him; --

A middle-aged stout man upon whose shoulders

Kneeled up a scraggy mule-boy slave, who was

The fool that could not reach a thrush's nest

Which they, while plucking almond, had revealed.

Before she knew who it could be, I said,

"Why yes, he is a fool, but we, fair friend,

Were we not foolish waiting for such fools?

Let us be off!" I stooped, took, shook the reins

With one hand, while the other clasped her waist.

"Ah, who?" she turned; I smiled like amorous Zeus;

A certain vagueness clouded her wild eyes

As though she saw a swan, a bull, a shower

Of hurried flames, and felt divinely pleased.

I cracked the whip and we were jolted down;

A kiss was snatched getting the ribbons straight;

We hardly heard them first begin to bawl,

So great our expedition towards the town:

We flew. I pulled up at an inn, then bid them

Stable my mules and chariot and prepare

A meal for Dives; meanwhile we would stroll

Down to the market. Took her arm in mine,

And, out of sight, hurried her through cross-lanes,

Bade her choose, now at a fruit, now pastry booth.

Until we gained my lodging she spoke little

But often laughed, tittering from time to time,

"O Bacchus, what a prank! -- Just think of Cymon,

So stout as he is, at least five miles to walk

Without a carriage! -- well you take things coolly" --

Or such appreciation nice of gifts

I need not boast of, since I had them gratis,

When my stiff door creaked open grudgingly

Her face first fell; the room looked bare enough.

Still we brought with us food and cakes; I owned

A little cellar of delicious wine;

An unasked neighbour's garden furnished flowers;

Jests helped me nimbly, I surpassed myself;

So we were friends and, having laughed, we drank,

Ate, sang, danced, grew wild. Soon both had one

Desire, effort, goal,

One bed, one sleep, one dream . . .

O Damon, Damon, both had one alarm,

When woken by the door forced rudely open,

Lit from the stair, bedazzled, glowered at, hated!

She clung to me; her master, husband, uncle

(I know not which or what he was) stood there;

It crossed my mind he might have been her father.

Naked, unarmed, I rose, and did assume

What dignity is not derived from clothes,

Bid them to quit my room, my private dwelling.

It was no use, for that gross beast was rich;

Had his been neither legal right nor moral,

My natural right was nought, for his she was

In eyes of those bribed catchpolls. Brute revenge

Seethed in his pimpled face: 'To gaol with him!'

He shouted huskily. I wrapped some clothes

About my shuddering bed-fellow, a sheet

Flung round myself; ere she was led away,

Had whispered to her "Shriek, faint on the stair!"

Then I was seized by two dog officers.

That girl was worth her keep, for, going down,

She suddenly writhed, gasped, and had a fit.

My chance occurred, and I whipped through the casement;

All they could do was catch away the sheet;

I dropped a dozen feet into a bush,

Soon found my heels and plied them; here I am.'

Cydilla

A strange tale, Damon, this to tell to me

And introduce as thou at first began.

Damon

Thy life, Cydilla, has at all times been

A ceremony: this young man's

Discovered by free impulse, not couched in forms

Worn and made smooth by prudent folk long dead.

I love Hipparchus for his wave-like brightness;

He wastes himself, but till his flash is gone

I shall be ever glad to hear him laugh:

Nor could one make a Spartan of him even

Were one the Spartan with a will to do it.

Yet had there been no more than what is told,

Thou wouldst not now be lending ear to me.

Cydilla

Hearing such things, I think of my poor son,

Which makes me far too sad to smile at folly.

Damon

There, let me tell thee all just as it happened,

And of thy son I shall be speaking soon.

Cydilla

Delphis! Alas, are his companions still

No better than such ne'er-do-wells? I thought

His life was sager now, though he has killed

My hopes of seeing him a councillor.

Damon

How thou art quick to lay claim to a sorrow!

Should I have come so eagerly to thee

If all there was to tell thee were such poor news?

Cydilla

Forgive me; well know I there is no end

To Damon's kindness; my poor boy has proved it;

Could but his father so have understood him!

Damon

Let lie the sad contents of vanished years;

Why with complaints reproach the helpless dead?

Thy husband ne'er will cross thy hopes again.

Come, think of what a sky made yesterday

The worthy dream of thrice divine Apollo!

Hipparchus' plan was, we should take the road

(As, when such mornings tempt me, is my wont)

And cross the hills, along the coast, toward Mylae.

He in disguise, a younger handier Chloe,

Would lead my mule; must brown his face and arms:

And thereon straight to wake her he was gone.

Their voices from her cabin crossed the yard;

He swears those parts of her are still well made

Which she keeps too well hidden when about; --

And she, no little pleased, that interlards,

Between her exclamations at his figure,

Reproof of gallantries half-laughed at hers.

Anon she titters as he dons her dress

Doubtless with pantomime --

Head-carriage and hip-swagger.

A wench, more conscious of her sex than grace,

He then rejoined me, changed beyond belief,

Roguish as vintage makes them; bustling helps

Or hinders Chloe harness to the mule; --

In fine bewitching both her age and mine.

The life that in such fellows runs to waste

Is like a gust that pulls about spring trees

And spoils your hope of fruit, while it delights

The sense with bloom and odour scattered, mingled

With salt spume savours from a crested offing.

The sun was not long up when we set forth

And, coming to the deeply shadowed gate,

Found catchpolls lurked there, true to his surmise.

Them he, his beard disguised like face-ache, sauced;

(Too gaily for that bandaged cheek, thought I);

But they, whose business was to think,

Were quite contented, let the hussy pass,

Returned her kisses blown back down the road,

And crowned the mirth of their outwitter's heart.

As the steep road wound clear above the town,

Fewer became those little comedies

To which encounteres roused him: till, at last,

He scarcely knew we passed some vine-dressers:

And I could see the sun's heat, lack of sleep,

And his late orgy would defeat his powers.

So, where the road grows level and must soon

Descend, I bade him climb into the car;

On which the mule went slower still and slower.

This creature, who, upon occasions, shows

Taste very like her master's left the highway

And took a grass-grown wheel-track that led down

Zigzag athwart the broad curved banks of lawn

Coating a valley between rounded hills

Which faced the sea abruptly in huge crags.

Each slope grew steeper till I left my seat

And led the mule; for now Hipparchus' snore

Tuned with the crooning waves heard from below.

We passed two narrow belts of wood and then

The sea, that first showed blue above their tops,

Was spread before us chequered with white waves

Breaking beneath on boulders which choked up

The narrowed issue seawards of the glen.

The steep path would no more admit of wheels:

I took the beast and tethered her to graze

Within the shade of a stunt ilex clump, --

Returned to find a vacant car; Hipparchus,

Uneasy on my tilting down the shafts,

And heated with strange clothes, had roused himself

And lay asleep upon his late disguise,

Naked 'neath the cool eaves of one huge rock

That stood alone, much higher up than those

Over, and through, and under which, the waves

Made music or forced milk-white floods of foam.

There I reclined, while vision, sound and scent

Won on my willing soul like sleep on joy,

Till all accustomed thoughts were far away

As from a happy child the cares of men.

The hour was sacred to those earlier gods

Who are not active, but divinely wait

The consummation of their first great deeds,

Unfolding still and blessing hours serene.

Presently I was gazing on a boy,

(Though whence he came my mind had not perceived).

Twelve or thirteen he seemed, with clinging feet

Poised on a boulder, and against the sea

Set off. His wide-brimmed hat of straw was arched

Over his massed black and abundant curls

By orange ribbon tied beneath his chin;

Around his arms and shoulders his sole dress,

A cloak, was all bunched up. He leapt, and lighted

Upon the boulder just beneath; there swayed,

Re-poised,

And perked his head like an inquisitive bird,

As gravely happy; of all unconscious save

His body's aptness for its then employment;

His eyes intent on shells in some clear pool

Or choosing where he next will plant his feet.

Again he leaps, his curls against his hat

Bounce up behind. The daintiest thing alive,

He rocks awhile, turned from me towards the sea;

Unseen I might devour him with my eyes.

At last he stood upon a ledge each wave

Spread with a sheet of foam four inches deep;

From minute to minute, while it bathed his feet,

He gazing at them saw them disappear

And reappear all shining and refreshed;

Then raised his head, beheld the ocean stretched

Alive before him its magnitude.

None but a child could have been so absorbed

As to escape its spell till then, none else

Could so have voiced glad wonder in a song: --

'All the waves of the sea are there!

In at my eyes they crush.

Till my head holds as fair a sea:

Though I shut my eyes, they are there!

Nay towards my lids they rush,

Mad to burst forth from me

Back to the open air! --

To follow them my heart needs,

O white-maned steeds, to ride you;

Lathe-shouldered steeds,

To the western isles astride you

Amyntas speeds!'

'Damon!' said a voice quite close to me

And looking up . . . as might have stood Apollo

In one vase garment such as shepherds wear

And leaning on such tall staff stood . . . Thou guessest,

Whose majesty as vainly was disguised

As must have been Apollo's minding sheep.

Cydilla

Delphis! I know, dear Damon, it was Delphis!

Healthy life in the country having chased

His haggard looks; his speech is not wild now,

Nor wicked with exceptions to things honest:

Thy face a kindlier way than speech tells this.

Damon

Yes, dear Cydilla, he was altogether

What mountaineers might dream of for a king.

Cydilla

But tell me, is he tutor to that boy?

Damon

He is an elder brother to the lad.

Cydilla

Nay, nay, hide nothing, speak the worst at once.

Damon

I meant no hint of ill;

A god in love with young Amyntas might

Look as he did; fathers alone feel like him:

Could I convey his calm and happy speech

Thy last suspicion would be laid to rest.

Cydilla

Damon, see, my glad tears have drowned all fear;

Think'st thou he may come back and win renown,

And fill his father's place?

Not as his father filled it,

But with an inward spirit correspondent

To that contained and high imposing mien

Which made his father honoured before men

Of greater wisdom, more integrity.

Damon

And loved before men of more kindliness!

Cydilla

O Damon, far too happy am I now

To grace thy naughtiness by showing pain.

My Delphis 'owns the brains and presence too

That makes a Pericles!' . . . (the words are thine)

Had he but the will; and has he now?

Good Damon, tell me quick?

Damon

He dreams not of the court, and city life

Is what he rails at.

Cydilla

Well, if he now be wise and sober-souled

And loved for goodness, I can rest content.

Damon

My brain lights up to see thee happy! wait,

It may be I can give some notion how

Our poet spoke:

'Damon, the best of life is in thine eyes --

Worship of promise-laden beauty. Seems he not

The god of this fair scene?

Those waves claim such a master as that boy;

And these green slopes have waited till his feet

Should wander them, to prove they were not spread

In wantonness. What were this flower's prayer

Had it a voice? The place behind his ear

Would brim its cup with bliss and overbrim;

O, to be worn and fade beside his cheek!' --

'In love and happy, Delphis; and the boy?' --

'Loves and is happy' --

                     'You hale from?' --

                                      'Ætna;

We have been out two days and crossed this ridge,

West of Mount Mycon's head. I serve his father,

A farmer well-to-do and full of sense,

Who owns a grass-farm cleared among the pines

North-west the cone, where even at noon in summer,

The slope it falls on lengthens a tree's shade.

To play the lyre and write and dance

I teach this lad; in all their country toil

Join, nor ask better fare than cheese, black bread,

Butter or curds, and milk, nor better bed

Than litter of dried fern or lentisk yields,

Such as they all sleep soundly on and dream,

(If e'er they dream) of places where it grew, --

Where they have gathered mushrooms, eaten berries,

Or found the sheep they lost, or killed a fox,

Or snared the kestrel, or so played their pipes

Some maid showed pleasure, sighed, nay even wept.

There to be poet need involve no strain,

For though enough of coarseness, dung, -- nay, nay,

And suffering, too, be mingled with the life,

'Tis wedded to such an air,

Such water and sound health!

What else might jar or fret chimes in attuned

Like satyr's cloven hoof or lorn nymph's grief

In a choice ode. Though lust, disease and death,

As everywhere, are cruel tyrants, yet

They all wear flowers, and each sings a song

Such as the hilly echo loves to learn.'

'At last then even Delphis knows content?'

'Damon, not so:

This life has brought me health but not content.

That boy, whose shouts ring round us while he flings

Intent each sone toward yon shining object

Afloat inshore . . . I eat my heart to think

How all which makes him worthy of more love

Must train his ear to catch the siren croon

That never else had reached his upland home!

And he who failed in proof, how should he arm

Another against perils? Ah, false hope,

And credulous enjoyment! How should I,

Life's fool, while wakening ready wit in him,

Teach how to shun applause, and those bright eyes

Of women who pour in the lap of spring

Their whole year's substance? They can offer

To fill the day much fuller than I could,

And yet teach night surpass it. Can my means

Prevent the ruin of the thing I cherish?

What cares Zeus for him? Fate despises love.

Why, lads more exquisite, brimming with promise,

A thousand times have been lost for the lack

Of just the help a watchful god might give;

But which the best of fathers, best of mothers,

Of friends, of lovers cannot quite supply.

Powers, who swathe man's virtue up in weakness,

Then plunge his delicate mind in hot desire,

Preparing pleasure first and after shame

To bandage round his eyes, -- these gods are not

The friends of men.'

The Delphis of old days before me stood,

Passionate, stormy, teeming with black thought,

His back turned on that sparkling summer sea,

His back turned on his love; and wilder words

And less coherent thought poured from him now.

Hipparchus waking took stock of the scene.

I watched him wend down, rubbing sleepy lids,

To where the boy was busy throwing stones.

He joined the work, but even his stronger arm

And heavier flints he hurled would not suffice

To drive that floating object nearer shore:

And, ere the rebel Delphis had expressed

Enough of anger and contempt for gods,

(Who, he asserted, were the dreams of men),

I saw the stone-throwers both take the water

And swimming easily attain their end.

The way they held their noses proved the thing

A tunny, belly floating upward, dead;

Both towed it till the current caught and swept it

Out far from that sweet cove; they laughing watched:

Then, suddenly, Amyntas screamed and Delphis

Turned to see him sink

Locked in Hipparchus' arms.

The god Apollo never

Burst through a cloud with more ease than thy son

Poured from his homespun garb

The rapid glory of his naked limbs,

And like a streak of lightning reached the waves: --

Wherein his thwarted speed appeared more awful

As, brought within the scope of comprehension,

Its progress and its purpose could be gauged.

Spluttering Amyntas rose, Hipparchus near him

Who cried 'Why coy of kisses, lovely lad?

I ne'er would harm thee; art thou not ashamed

To treat thy conquest thus?'

He shouted partly to drown the sea's noise, chiefly

The nearing Dephis to disarm.

His voice lost its asurance while he spoke,

And, as he finished, quick to escape he turned;

Thy son's eyes and that steady coming on,

As he might see them over ruffled crests,

Far better helped him swim

Than ever in his life he swam before.

Delphis passed by Amyntas;

Hipparchus was o'er taken,

Cuffed, ducked and shaken;

In vain he clung about his angry foe;

Held under he perforce let go:

I, fearing for his life, set up a whoop

To bring cause and effect to thy son's mind,

And in dire rage's room his sense returned.

He towed Hipparchus back like one he'd saved

From drowning, laid him out upon that ledge

Where late Amyntas stood, where now he kneeled

Shivering, alarmed and mute.

Delphis next set the drowned man's mouth to drain;

We worked his arms, for I had joined them; soon

His breathing recommenced; we laid him higher

On sun-warmed turf to come back to himself;

Then we climbed to the cart without a word.

The sun had dried their limbs; they, putting on

Their clothes, sat down; at length, I asked the lad

What made him keen to pelt a stinking fish.

Blushing, he said, 'I wondered what it was.

But that man, when he came to help, declared

'Twould prove a dead sea-nymph, and we might see,

By swimming out, how finely she was made.

I did not half believe, yet when we found

That foul stale fish, it made us laugh.' He smiled

And watched Hipparchus spit and cough and groan.

I moved to the car and unpacked bread and meat,

A cheese, some fruit, a skin of wine, two bowls.

Amyntas was all joy to see such things;

Ran off and pulled acanthus for our plates;

Chattering, he helped me set all forth, -- was keen

To choose rock basin where the wine might cool;

Approved, was full as happy as I to praise:

And most he pleased me, when he set a place

For poor Hipparchus. Thus our eager work,

While Delphis, in his thoughts retired, sat frowning,

Grew like a home-conspiracy to trap

The one who bears the brunt of outside cares

Into the glow of cheerfulness that bathes

The children and the mother, -- happy not

To forsee winter, short-commons or long debts,

Since they are busied for the present meal, --

Too young, too weak, too kind, to peer ahead,

Or probe the dark horizon bleak with storms.

Oh! I have sometimes thought there is a god

Who helps with lucky accidents when folk

Join with the little ones to chase such gloom.

That chance withch left Hipparchus with no clothers,

Surely divinity was ambushed in it?

When he must put on Chloe's, Amyntas rocked

With laughter, and Hipparchus, quick to use

A favourable gust, pretends confusion

Such as a farmer's daughter red-faced shows

If in the dance her dress has come unpinned.

She suddenly grow grave; yet, seeing there

Friends only, stoops behind a sister-skirt.

Then, having set to rights the small mishap,

Holding her screener's elbows, round her shoulder

Peeps, to bob back meeting a young man's eye.

All, grateful for such laughs, give Hermes thanks.

And even Delphis at Hipparchus smiled

When, from behind me, he peeped bashful forth;

Laughing because he was or was not like

Some wench . . .

                        Why, Delphis, in the name of Zeus

How come you here?

Cydilla                               What can have happened, Delphis?

Be brief for pity!

Delphis                                    Nothing, mother, nothing

That has not happened time on time before

To thee, to Damon, when the life ye thought

With pride and pleasure yours, has proved a dream.

They strike down on us from the top of heaven,

Bear us up in their talons, up and up,

Drop us: we fall, are crippled, maimed for life.

'Our dreams'? nay, we are theirs for sport, for prey,

And life is the King Eagle,

The strongest, highest, flyer, from whose clutch

The fall is fatal always.

Cydilla                                        Delphis, Delphis,

Good Damon had been making me so happy

By telling . . .

Delphis

                          How he watched me near the zenith?

Three years back

That dream pounced on me and began to soar;

Having been sick, my heart had found new lies;

The only thoughts I then had ears for were

Healthy, virtuous, sweet;

Jaded town-wastrel,

A counry setting was the sole could take me

Three hears back.

Damon might have guessed

From such a dizzy height

What fall was coming.

Cydilla

Ah my boy, my boy!

Damon

Sit down, be patient, let us hear and aid, --

Has aught befallen Amyntas?

Delphis

Would he were dead!

Would that I had been brute enough to slay him. --

Great Zeus, Hipparchus had so turned his head.

His every smile and word

As we sat by our fire, stung my fool's heart. --

'How we laughed to see him curtsey,

Fidget strings about his waist, --

Giggle, his beard caught in the chlamys' hem

Drawing it tight about his neck, just like

Our Baucis.' Could not sleep

For thinking of the life they lead in towns;

He said so: when, at last,

He sighed from dreamland, thoughts

I had been day-long brooding

Broke into vision.

A child, a girl,

Beautiful, nay more than others beautiful,

Not meant for marriage, not for one man meant,

You know what she will be;

At six years old or seven her life is round her;

A company, all ages, old men, young men,

Whose vices she must prey on.

And the bent crone she will be is there too,

Patting her head and chuckling prophecies. --

O cherry lips, O wild bird eyes,

O gay invulnerable setter-at-nought

Of will, of virtue --

Thou art as constant a cause as is the sea,

As is the sun, as are the winds, as night,

Of opportunities not only but events; --

The unalterable past

Is full of thy contrivance,

Aphrodite,

Goddess of ruin!

No girl; nay, nay,

Amyntas is young,

Is gay,

Has beauty and health -- and yet

In his sleep I have seen him smile

And known that his dream was vile;

Those eyes which brimmed over with glee

Till my life flowed as fresh as the sea --

Those eyes, gloved each in a warm live lid,

May be glad that their visions are hid.

I taught myself to rhyme; the trick will cling.

Ah, Damon, day-lit vision is more dread

Than those which suddenly replace the dark!

When the dawn filtered through our tent of boughs

I saw him closely wrapped in his grey cloak,

His head upon a pile of caked thin leaves

Whose life had dried up full two years ago.

Their flakes shook in the breath from those moist lips;

The vow his kiss would seal must prove, I knew

As friable as that pale ashen fritter;

It had more body than reason dare expect

From that so beautiful creature's best intent.

He waking found me no more there; and wanders

Through Ætna's woods to-day

Calling at times, or questioning charcoal burners,

Till he shall strike a road shall lead him home;

Yet all his life must be spent as he spends

This day in whistling, wondering, singing, chatting,

In the great wood, vacant and amiable.

Damon

Can it be possible that thou desertest

Thy love, thy ward, the work of three long years,

Because chance, on an April holiday

Has filled this boy's talk with another man,

And wonder at another way of life?

Worse than a woman's is such jealousy;

The lad must live!

Delphis

Live, live, to be sure, he must live!

I have lived, am a fool for my pains!

And yet, and yet,

This heart has ached to play the god for him: --

Mine eyes for his had sifted visible things;

Speech had been filtered ere it reached his ear;

Not in the world should he have lived, but breathed

Humanity's distilled quintessences;

The indiscriminate multitude sorted should yield him

Acquaintance and friend discerned, chosen by me: --

By me, who failed, wrecked, my youth's prime, and dragged

More wonderful than his gifts in the mire!

Damon

Yet if experience could not teach and save

Others from ignorance, why, towns would be

Ruins, and civil men like outlaws thieve,

Stab, riot, ere two generations passed.

Delphis

Where is the Athens that Pericles loved?

Where are the youths that were Socrates' friends?

There was a town where all learnt

What the wisest taught!

Why had crude Sparta such treasonous force?

Could Philip of Macedon

Breed a true Greek of his son?

What honour to conquer a world

Where Alcibiades had failed,

Lead half-drilled highland hordes

Whose lust would inherit the wise?

There is nothing art's industry shaped

But their idleness praising it mocked.

Thus Fate re-assumed her command

And laughed at experienced law.

What ails man to love with such pains?

Why toil to create in the mind

Of those who shall close in his grave

The best that he is and has hoped?

The longer permission he has,

The nobler the structure so raised,

The greater its downfall. Fools, fools,

Where is a town such as Pericles ruled?

Where youths to replace those whom Socrates loved?

Wise Damon, thou art silent; -- Mother, thou

Hast only arms to cling about they son. --

Who can descry the purpose of a god

With eyes wide-open? shut them, every fool

Can conjure up a world arriving somewhere,

Resulting in what he may call perfection.

Evil must soon or late succeed to good.

There well may once have been a golden age:

Why should we treat it as a poet's tale?

Yet, in those hills that hung o'er Arcady,

Some roving inebriate Daimon

Begat him fair children

On nymphs of the vineyard,

On nymphs of the rock: --

And in the heart of the forest

Lay bound in white arms,

In action creative a father

Without a thought for his child: --

A purposeless god,

The forbear of men

To corrupt, ape, inherit and spoil

That fine race before hand with doom!

No, Damon, what's an answer worth to one

Whose mind has been flung open?

Only last night,

The gates of my spirit gave entrace

Unto the great light;

And I saw how virtue seduceth,

Not ended today or tomorrow

Like the passion for love,

Like the passion for life --

But perennial pain

And age-long effort.

Dead deeds are the teeth that shine

In the mouth that repeateth praise,

That spurs men to do high things

Since their fathers did higher before --

To give more than they hope to receive,

To slave and to die in a secular cause!

The mouth that smiles over-praise

Eats out the heart of each fool

To feed the great dream of a race.

Yet wearied peoples each in turn awake

From virtue, as a man from his brief love,

And, roughtly shaken, face the useless truth;

No answer to brute fact has e'er been found.

Slaves of your slaves, caged in your furnished rooms,

Ushered to meals when reft of appetite --

Though hungry, bound to wait a stated hour --

Your dearest contemplation broken off

By the appointed summons to your bath;

Racked with more thought for those whom you may flog

Than for those dear; obsessed by your possessions

With a dull round of stale anxieties; --

Soon maintenance grows the extreme reach of hope

For those held in respect, as in a vice,

By citizens of whom they are the pick.

Of men the least bond is the roving seaman

Who hires himself to merchantman or pirate

For single voyages, stays where he may please,

Lives his purse empty in a dozen ports,

And ne'er obeys the ghost of what once was!

His laugh chimes readily; his kiss, no symbol

Of aught to come, but cordial, eager, hot,

Leaves his tomorrow free. With him for comrade

Each day shall be enough, and what is good

Enjoyed, and what is evil borne or cursed.

I go, because I will not have a friend

Lay claim upon my leisure this day week.

I will be melted by each smile that takes me;

What though a hundred lips should meet with mine!

A vagabond I shall be as the moon is.

The sun, the waves, the winds, all birds, all beasts,

Are ever on the move, and take what comes;

They are not parasites like plants and men

Rooted in that which fed them yesterday.

Not even Memory shall follow Delphis,

For I will yield to all impulse save hers,

Therein alone subject to prescient rigour;

Lest she should lure me back among the dying --

Pilfer the present for the beggar past.

Free minds must bargain with each greedy moment

And seize the most that lies to hand at once.

Ye are too old to understand my words;

I yet have youth enough, and can escape

From that which sucks each individual man

Into the common dream.

Cydilla

Stay, Delphis, hear what Damon has to say!

He is mad!

Damon

Mad -- yes -- mad as cruelty!

. . . . . .

Poor, poor Cydilla! was it then to this

That all my tale was prologue?

Think of Amyntas, think of that poor boy,

Bereaved as we are both bereaved! Come, come,

Find him, and say that Love himself has sent us

To offer our poor service in his stead.

Cydilla

Good Damon, help me find my wool; my eyes

Are blind with tears; then I will come at once!

We must be doing something, for I feel

We both shall drown our hearts with time to spare.

Back to Harold Monro
Forward to Ronald Ross