The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03. Коллектив авторов

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        From Rhegium to the Isthmus, long

        Hallow'd to steeds and glorious song,

        Where, link'd awhile in holy peace,

        Meet all the sons of martial Greece—

        Wends Ibycus-whose lips the sweet

          And ever-young Apollo fires;

        The staff supports the wanderer's feet—

        The God the Poet's soul inspires!

        Soon from the mountain-ridges high,

        The tower-crown'd Corinth greets his eye;

        In Neptune's groves of darksome pine,

        He treads with shuddering awe divine;

        Nought lives around him, save a swarm

          Of CRANES, that still pursued his way.

        Lured by the South, they wheel and form

        In ominous groups their wild array.

        And "Hail! beloved Birds!" he cried;

        "My comrades on the ocean tide,

        Sure signs of good ye bode to me;

        Our lots alike would seem to be;

        From far, together borne, we greet

          A shelter now from toil and danger;

        And may the friendly hearts we meet

        Preserve from every ill—the Stranger!"

        His step more light, his heart more gay,

        Along the mid-wood winds his way,

        When, where the path the thickets close,

        Burst sudden forth two ruffian foes;

        Now strife to strife, and foot to foot!

          Ah! weary sinks the gentle hand;

        The gentle hand that wakes the lute

          Has learn'd no lore that guides the brand.

        He calls on men and Gods—in vain!

        His cries no blest deliverer gain;

        Feebler and fainter grows the sound,

        And still the deaf life slumbers round—

        "In the far land I fall forsaken,

          Unwept and unregarded, here;

        By death from caitiff hands o'ertaken,

          Nor ev'n one late avenger near!"

        Down to the earth the death-stroke bore him—

        Hark, where the Cranes wheel dismal o'er him!

        He hears, as darkness veils his eyes,

        Near, in hoarse croak, their dirge-like cries.

        "Ye whose wild wings above me hover,

          (Since never voice, save yours alone,

        The deed can tell)—the hand discover—

          Avenge!"—He spoke, and life was gone.

        Naked and maim'd the corpse was found—

        And, still through many a mangling wound,

        The sad Corinthian Host could trace

        The loved—too well-remember'd face.

        "And must I meet thee thus once more?

          Who hoped with wreaths of holy pine,

        Bright with new fame—the victory o'er—

          The Singer's temples to entwine!"

        And loud lamented every guest

        Who held the Sea-God's solemn feast—

        As in a single heart prevailing,

        Throughout all Hellas went the wailing.

        Wild to the Council Hall they ran—

          In thunder rush'd the threat'ning Flood—

        "Revenge shall right the murder'd man,

          The last atonement-blood for blood!"

        Yet 'mid the throng the Isthmus claims,

        Lured by the Sea-God's glorious games—

        The mighty many-nation'd throng—

        How track the hand that wrought the wrong?—

        How guess if that dread deed were done,

          By ruffian hands, or secret foes?

        He who sees all on earth—the SUN—

          Alone the gloomy secret knows.

        Perchance he treads in careless peace,

        Amidst your Sons, assembled Greece;

        Hears with a smile revenge decreed;

        Gloats with fell joy upon the deed.

        His steps the avenging gods may mock

          Within the very Temple's wall,

        Or mingle with the crowds that flock

          To yonder solemn scenic[9] hall.

        Wedg'd close, and serried, swarms the crowd—

        Beneath the weight the walls are bow'd—

        Thitherwards streaming far, and wide,

        Broad Hellas flows in mingled tide tide—

        A tide like that which heaves the deep

          When hollow-sounding, shoreward driven;

        On, wave on wave, the thousands sweep

          Till arching, row on row, to heaven!

        The tribes, the nations, who shall name,

        That guest-like, there assembled came?

        From Theseus' town, from Aulis' strand—

        From Phocis, from the Spartans' land—

        From Asia's wave-divided clime,

          The Isles that gem the Ægean Sea,

        To hearken on that Stage Sublime,

          The Dark Choir's mournful melody!

        True to the awful rites of old,

        In long and measured strides, behold

        The Chorus from the hinder ground,

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