Yet when spring comes, and weary is the spirit, When love is here, but absent is the lover, And life is here, and only love is dying, Then turn we, longing, Singer, to thee! Through ages unforgotten; Where beats the heart of one who in her loving Sang, all for love, and gave herself in singing To the sea's bosom. [From The Last Contest of Eschylus.] YOUNG SOPHOCLES TAKING THE PRIZE FROM AGED ESCHYLUS. BUT now the games succeeded, then a pause, And after came the judges with the scrolls; Two scrolls, not one, as in departed years. And this saw none but the youth, Sophocles, Who stood with head erect and shining eyes, As if the beacon of some promised land Caught his strong vision and entranced it there. With stillness, calmly spake the Eschylus! The father of our mightiest judge: Athenian master of the tragic lyre song! Thou the incomparable! Swayer of Immortal minstrel of immortal deeds! strong hearts! The autumn grows apace, and all must die; Soon winter comes, and silence. Eschylus! After that silence laughs the tuneful spring! Read'st thou our meaning through Of this slender veil Behold Fame calls thee to her loftiest seat, And bids thee wear her crown. Stand forth, I say!" Then, like a fawn, the youthful poet sprang From the dark thicket of new crowding friends, And stood, a straight, lithe form with gentle mien, Crowned first with light of happiness and youth. But Eschylus, the old man, bending lower Under this new chief weight of all the years, Turned from that scene, turned from the shouting crowd, Whose every voice wounded his dying soul With arrows poison-dipped, and walked alone, Forgotten, under plane-trees, by the stream. "The last! The last! Have I no more to do With this sweet world! Is the bright morning now No longer fraught for me with crowding song? Will evening bring no unsought fruitage home? Must the days pass and these poor lips be dumb, While strewing leaves sing falling through the air, And autumn gathers in her richest fruit? Where is my spring departed? Where, O gods! Within my spirit still the building birds I hear, with voice more tender than when leaves Are budding and the happy earth is gay. Am I, indeed, grown dumb for evermore! Take me, O bark! Take me, thou flowing stream! Who knowest nought of death save when thy waves Rush to new life upon the ocean's breast. Bear thou me singing to the under world! [From Sophocles.] Ye shall be judges if the spring have brought Late unto me, the aged oak, a crown. Hear ye once more, ere yet the river of sleep Bear me away far on its darkening tide, The music breathed upon me from these fields. If to your ears, alas! the shattered strings No longer sing, but breathe a discord harsh, I will return and draw this mantle close About my head and lay me down to die. But if ye hear the wonted spirit call, Framing the natural song that fills this world To a diviner form, then shall ye all believe The love I bear to those most near to Athens, blooms fresh as violets in yon wood, AGED SOPHOCLES ADDRESSING THE Making new spring within this aged ATHENIANS BEFORE READING HIS EDIPUS COLONEUS. BOWED half with age and half with reverence, thus, I, Sophocles, now answer to your call; Questioned have I the cause and the reason learned. Lo, I am here that all the world may see These feeble limbs that signal of decay! But, know ye, ere the aged oak must die, Long after the strong years have bent his form, The spring still gently weaves a leafy crown, Fresh as of yore to deck his wintry head. And now, O people mine, who have loved my song, breast. AT THE FORGE. I AM Hephaistos, and forever here Stand at the forge and labor, while I dream Of those who labor not and are not lame. I hear the early and the late birds call, Hear winter whisper to the coming spring, And watch the feet of summer dancing light For joy across the bosom of the earth. Labor endures, but all of these must pass! And ye who love them best, nor are condemned |