The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 7

Admetus won Alcestis thus to wife, And these with mated hearts and mutual love Lived a life blameless, beautiful: the king Ordaining justice in the gates; the queen, With grateful offerings to the household G.o.ds, Wise with the wisdom of the pure in heart.

One child she bore,--Eumelus,--and he throve.

Yet none the less because they sacrificed The firstlings of their flocks and fruits and flowers, Did trouble come; for sickness seized the king.

Alcestis watched with many-handed love, But unavailing service, for he lay With languid limbs, despite his ancient strength Of sinew, and his skill with spear and sword.

His mother came, Clymene, and with her His father, Pheres: his unconscious child They brought him, while forlorn Alcestis sat Discouraged, with the face of desolation.

The jealous G.o.ds would bind his mouth from speech, And smite his vigorous frame with impotence; And ruin with bitter ashes, worms, and dust, The beauty of his crowned, exalted head.

He knew her presence,--soon he would not know, Nor feel her hand in his lie warm and close, Nor care if she were near him any more.

Exhausted with long vigils, thus the queen Held hard and grievous thoughts, till heavy sleep Possessed her weary sense, and she dreamed.

And even in her dream her trouble lived, For she was praying in a barren field To all the G.o.ds for help, when came across The waste of air and land, from distant skies, A spiritual voice divinely clear, Whose unimaginable sweetness thrilled Her aching heart with tremor of strange joy: "Arise, Alcestis, cast away white fear.

A G.o.d dwells with you: seek, and you shall find."

Then quiet satisfaction filled her soul Almost akin to gladness, and she woke.

Weak as the dead, Admetus lay there still; But she, superb with confidence, arose, And pa.s.sed beyond the mourners' curious eyes, Seeking Amphryssius in the meadow-lands.

She found him with the G.o.dlike mien of one Who, roused, awakens unto deeds divine: "I come, Hyperion, with incessant tears, To crave the life of my dear lord the king.

Pity me, for I see the future years Widowed and laden with disastrous days.

And ye, the G.o.ds, will miss him when the fires Upon your shrines, unfed, neglected die.

Who will pour large libations in your names, And sacrifice with generous piety?

Silence and apathy will greet you there Where once a splendid spirit offered praise.

Grant me this boon divine, and I will beat With prayer at morning's gates, before they ope Unto thy silver-hoofed and flame-eyed steeds.

Answer ere yet the irremeable stream Be crossed: answer, O G.o.d, and save!"

She ceased, With full throat salt with tears, and looked on him, And with a sudden cry of awe fell p.r.o.ne, For, lo! he was trans.m.u.ted to a G.o.d; The supreme aureole radiant round his brow, Divine refulgences on his face,--his eyes Awful with splendor, and his august head With blinding brilliance crowned by vivid flame.

Then in a voice that charmed the listening air: "Woman, arise! I have no influence On Death, who is the servant of the Fates.

Howbeit for thy pa.s.sion and thy prayer, The grace of thy fair womanhood and youth, Thus G.o.dlike will I intercede for thee, And sue the insatiate sisters for this life.

Yet hope not blindly: loth are these to change Their purpose; neither will they freely give, But haggling lend or sell: perchance the price Will counterveil the boon. Consider this.

Now rise and look upon me." And she rose, But by her stood no G.o.dhead bathed in light, But young Amphryssius, herdsman to the king, Benignly smiling.

Fleet as thought, the G.o.d Fled from the glittering earth to blackest depths Of Tartarus; and none might say he sped On wings ambrosial, or with feet as swift As scouring hail, or airy chariot Borne by the flame-breathing steeds ethereal; But with a motion inconceivable Departed and was there. Before the throne Of Ades, first he hailed the long-sought queen, Stolen with violent hands from gra.s.sy fields And delicate airs of sunlit Sicily, Pensive, gold-haired, but innocent-eyed no more As when she laughing plucked the daffodils, But grave as on fulfilling a strange doom.

And low at Ades' feet, wrapped in grim murk And darkness thick, the three gray women sat, Loose-robed and chapleted with wool and flowers, Purple narcissi round their horrid hair.

Intent upon her task, the first one held The tender thread that at a touch would snap; The second weaving it with warp and woof Into strange textures, some stained dark and foul, Some sanguine-colored, and some black as night, And rare ones white, or with a golden thread Running throughout the web: the farthest hag With glistening scissors cut her sisters' work.

To these Hyperion, but they never ceased, Nor raised their eyes, till with soft, moderate tones, But by their powerful persuasiveness Commanding all to listen and obey, He spoke, and all h.e.l.l heard, and these three looked And waited his request: I come, a G.o.d, At pure mortal queen's request, who sues For life renewed unto her dying lord, Admetus; and I also pray this prayer."

"Then cease, for when hath Fate been moved by prayer?"

"But strength and upright heart should serve with you."

"I ask ye not forever to forbear, But spare a while,--a moment unto us, A lifetime unto men." "The Fates swerve not For supplications, like the pliant G.o.ds.

Have they not willed a life's thread should be cut?

With them the will is changeless as the deed.

O men! ye have not learned in all the past, Desires are barren and tears yield no fruit.

How long will ye besiege the thrones of G.o.ds With lamentations? When lagged Death for all Your timorous s.h.i.+rking? We work not like you, Delaying and relenting, purposeless, With unenduring issues; but our deeds, Forever interchained and interlocked, Complete each other and explain themselves."

"Ye will a life: then why not any life?"

"What care we for the king? He is not worth These many words; indeed, we love not speech.

We care not if he live, or lose such life As men are greedy for,--filled full with hate, Sins beneath scorn, and only lit by dreams, Or one sane moment, or a useless hope,-- Lasting how long?--the s.p.a.ce between the green And fading yellow of the gra.s.s they tread."

But he withdrawing not: "Will any life Suffice ye for Admetus?" "Yea," the crones Three times repeated. "We know no such names As king or queen or slave: we want but life.

Begone, and vex us in our work no more."

With broken blessings, inarticulate joy And tears, Alcestis thanked Hyperion, And wors.h.i.+pped. Then he gently: "Who will die, So that the king may live?" And she: "You ask?

Nay, who will live when life clasps hands with shame, And death with honor? Lo, you are a G.o.d; You cannot know the highest joy of life,-- To leave it when 't is worthier to die.

His parents, kinsmen, courtiers, subjects, slaves,-- For love of him myself would die, were none Found ready; but what Greek would stand to see A woman glorified, and falter? Once, And only once, the G.o.ds will do this thing In all the ages: such a man themselves Delight to honor,--holy, temperate, chaste, With reverence for his daemon and his G.o.d."

Thus she triumphant to they very door Of King Admetus' chamber. All there saw Her ill-timed gladness with much wonderment.

But she: "No longer mourn! The king is saved: The Fates will spare him. Lift your voice in praise; Sing paeans to Apollo; crown your brows With laurel; offer thankful sacrifice!"

"O Queen, what mean these foolish words misplaced?

And what an hour is this to thank the Fates?"

"Thrice blessed be the G.o.ds!--for G.o.d himself Has sued for me,--they are not stern and deaf.

Cry, and they answer: commune with your soul, And they send counsel: weep with rainy grief, And these will sweeten you your bitterest tears.

On one condition King Admetus lives, And ye, on hearing, will lament no more, Each emulous to save." Then--for she spake a.s.sured, as having heard an oracle-- They asked: "What deed of ours may serve the king?"

"The Fates accept another life for his, And one of you may die." Smiling, she ceased.

But silence answered her. "What! do ye thrust Your arrows in your hearts beneath your cloaks, Dying like Greeks, too proud to own the pang?

This ask I not. In all the populous land But one need suffer for immortal praise.

The generous Fates have sent no pestilence, Famine, nor war: it is as though they gave Freely, and only make the boon more rich By such slight payment. Now a people mourns, And ye may change the grief to jubilee, Filling the cities with a pleasant sound.

But as for me, what faltering words can tell My joy, in extreme sharpness kin to pain?

A monument you have within my heart, Wreathed with kind love and dear remembrances; And I will pray for you before I crave Pardon and pity for myself from G.o.d.

Your name will be the highest in the land, Oftenest, fondest on my grateful lips, After the name of him you die to save.

What! silent still? Since when has virtue grown Less beautiful than indolence and ease?

Is death more terrible, more hateworthy, More bitter than dishonor? Will ye live On shame? Chew and find sweet its poisoned fruits?

What sons will ye bring forth--mean-souled like you, Or, like your parents, brave--to blush like girls, And say,'Our fathers were afraid to die!'

Ye will not dare to raise heroic eyes Unto the eyes of aliens. In the streets Will women and young children point at you Scornfully, and the sun will find you shamed, And night refuse to s.h.i.+eld you. What a life Is this ye spin and fas.h.i.+on for yourselves!

And what new tortures of suspense and doubt Will death invent for such as are afraid!

Acastus, thou my brother, in the field Foremost, who greeted me with sanguine hands From ruddy battle with a conqueror's face,-- These honors wilt thou blot with infamy?

Nay, thou hast won no honors: a mere girl Would do as much as thou at such a time, In clamorous battle,'midst tumultuous sounds, Neighing of war-steeds, shouts of sharp command, Snapping of s.h.i.+vered spears; for all are brave When all men look to them expectantly; But he is truly brave who faces death Within his chamber, at a sudden call, At night, when no man sees,--content to die When life can serve no longer those he loves."

Then thus Acastus: "Sister, I fear not Death, nor the empty darkness of the grave, And hold my life but as a little thing, Subject unto my people's call, and Fate.

But if 't is little, no greater is the king's; And though my heart bleeds sorely, I recall Astydamia, who thus would mourn for me.

We are not cowards, we youth of Thessaly, And Thessaly--yea, all Greece--knoweth it; Nor will we brook the name from even you, Albeit a queen, and uttering these wild words Through your umwonted sorrow." Then she knew That he stood firm, and turning from him, cried To the king's parents: "Are ye deaf with grief, Pheres, Clymene? Ye can save your son, Yet rather stand and weep with barren tears.

O, shame! to think that such gray, reverend hairs Should cover such unvenerable heads!

What would ye lose?--a remnant of mere life, A few slight raveled threads, and give him years To fill with glory. Who, when he is gone, Will call you gentlest names this side of heaven,-- Father and mother? Knew ye not this man Ere he was royal,--a poor, helpless child, Crownless and kingdomless? One birth alone Sufficeth not, Clymene: once again You must give life with travail and strong pain.

Has he not lived to outstrip your swift hopes?

What mother can refuse a second birth To such a son? But ye denying him, What after-offering may appease the G.o.ds?

What joy outweigh the grief of this one day?

What clamor drown the hours' myriad tongues, Crying, 'Your son, your son? where is your son, Unnatural mother, timid foolish man?"

Then Pheres gravely: "These are graceless words From you our daughter. Life is always life, And death comes soon enough to such as we.

We twain are old and weak, have served our time, And made our sacrifices. Let the young Arise now in their turn and save the king."

"O G.o.ds! look on your creatures! do ye see?

And seeing, have ye patience? Smite them all, Unsparing, with dishonorable death.

Vile slaves! a woman teaches you to die.

Intrepid, with exalted steadfast soul, Scorn in my heart, and love unutterable, I yield the Fates my life, and like a G.o.d Command them to revere that sacred head.

Thus kiss I thrice the dear, blind, holy eyes, And bid them see; and thrice I kiss this brow, And thus unfasten I the pale, proud lips With fruitful kissings, bringing love and life, And without fear or any pang, I breathe My soul in him."

"Alcestis, I awake.

I hear, I hear--unspeak thy reckless words!

For, lo! thy life-blood tingles in my veins, And streameth through my body like new wine.

Behold! thy spirit dedicate revives My pulse, and through thy sacrifice I breathe.

Thy lips are bloodless: kiss me not again.

Ashen thy cheeks, faded thy flower-like hands.

O woman! perfect in thy womanhood And in thy wifehood, I adjure thee now As mother, by the love thou bearest our child, In this thy hour of pa.s.sion and of love, Of sacrifice and sorrow, to unsay Thy words sublime!" "I die that thou mayest live."

"And deemest thou that I accept the boon, Craven, like these my subjects? Lo, my queen, Is life itself a lovely thing,--bare life?

And empty breath a thing desirable?

Or is it rather happiness and love That make it precious to its inmost core?

When these are lost, are there not swords in Greece, And flame and poison, deadly waves and plagues?

No man has ever lacked these things and gone Unsatisfied. It is not these the G.o.ds refuse (Nay, never clutch my sleeve and raise thy lip),-- Not these I seek; but I will stab myself, Poison my life and burn my flesh, with words, And save or follow thee. Lo! hearken now: I bid the G.o.ds take back their loathsome gifts: O spurn them, and I scorn them, and I hate.

Will they prove deaf to this as to my prayers?

With tongue reviling, blasphemous, I curse, With mouth polluted from deliberate heart.

Dishonored be their names, scorned be their priests, Ruined their altars, mocked their oracles!

It is Admetus, King of Thessaly, Defaming thus: annihilate him, G.o.ds!

So that his queen, who wors.h.i.+ps you, may live."

He paused as one expectant; but no bolt From the insulted heavens answered him, But awful silence followed. Then a hand, A boyish hand, upon his shoulder fell, And turning, he beheld his shepherd boy, Not wrathful, but divinely pitiful, Who spake in tender, thrilling tones: "The G.o.ds Cannot recall their gifts. Blaspheme them not: Bow down and wors.h.i.+p rather. Shall he curse Who sees not, and who hears not,--neither knows Nor understands? Nay, thou shalt bless and pray,-- Pray, for the pure heart purged by prayer, divines And seeth when the bolder eyes are blind.