charmides and other-第5部分

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bind。



Dear　bride　of　Nature　and　most　bounteous　spring；

That　canst　give　increase　to　the　sweet…breath'd　kine；

And　to　the　kid　its　little　horns；　and　bring

The　soft　and　silky　blossoms　to　the　vine；

Where　is　that　old　nepenthe　which　of　yore

Man　got　from　poppy　root　and　glossy…berried　mandragore！



There　was　a　time　when　any　common　bird

Could　make　me　sing　in　unison；　a　time

When　all　the　strings　of　boyish　life　were　stirred

To　quick　response　or　more　melodious　rhyme

By　every　forest　idyll；　…　do　I　change？

Or　rather　doth　some　evil　thing　through　thy　fair　pleasaunce　range？



Nay；　nay；　thou　art　the　same：　　'tis　I　who　seek

To　vex　with　sighs　thy　simple　solitude；

And　because　fruitless　tears　bedew　my　cheek

Would　have　thee　weep　with　me　in　brotherhood；

Fool！　shall　each　wronged　and　restless　spirit　dare

To　taint　such　wine　with　the　salt　poison　of　own　despair！



Thou　art　the　same：　　'tis　I　whose　wretched　soul

Takes　discontent　to　be　its　paramour；

And　gives　its　kingdom　to　the　rude　control

Of　what　should　be　its　servitor；　…　for　sure

Wisdom　is　somewhere；　though　the　stormy　sea

Contain　it　not；　and　the　huge　deep　answer　''Tis　not　in　me。'



To　burn　with　one　clear　flame；　to　stand　erect

In　natural　honour；　not　to　bend　the　knee

In　profitless　prostrations　whose　effect

Is　by　itself　condemned；　what　alchemy

Can　teach　me　this？　what　herb　Medea　brewed

Will　bring　the　unexultant　peace　of　essence　not　subdued？



The　minor　chord　which　ends　the　harmony；

And　for　its　answering　brother　waits　in　vain

Sobbing　for　incompleted　melody；

Dies　a　swan's　death；　but　I　the　heir　of　pain；

A　silent　Memnon　with　blank　lidless　eyes；

Wait　for　the　light　and　music　of　those　suns　which　never　rise。



The　quenched…out　torch；　the　lonely　cypress…gloom；

The　little　dust　stored　in　the　narrow　urn；

The　gentle　XAIPE　of　the　Attic　tomb；　…

Were　not　these　better　far　than　to　return

To　my　old　fitful　restless　malady；

Or　spend　my　days　within　the　voiceless　cave　of　misery？



Nay！　for　perchance　that　poppy…crowned　god

Is　like　the　watcher　by　a　sick　man's　bed

Who　talks　of　sleep　but　gives　it　not；　his　rod

Hath　lost　its　virtue；　and；　when　all　is　said；

Death　is　too　rude；　too　obvious　a　key

To　solve　one　single　secret　in　a　life's　philosophy。



And　Love！　that　noble　madness；　whose　august

And　inextinguishable　might　can　slay

The　soul　with　honeyed　drugs；　…　alas！　I　must

From　such　sweet　ruin　play　the　runaway；

Although　too　constant　memory　never　can

Forget　the　arched　splendour　of　those　brows　Olympian



Which　for　a　little　season　made　my　youth

So　soft　a　swoon　of　exquisite　indolence

That　all　the　chiding　of　more　prudent　Truth

Seemed　the　thin　voice　of　jealousy；　…　O　hence

Thou　huntress　deadlier　than　Artemis！

Go　seek　some　other　quarry！　for　of　thy　too　perilous　bliss。



My　lips　have　drunk　enough；　…　no　more；　no　more；　…

Though　Love　himself　should　turn　his　gilded　prow

Back　to　the　troubled　waters　of　this　shore

Where　I　am　wrecked　and　stranded；　even　now

The　chariot　wheels　of　passion　sweep　too　near；

Hence！　　Hence！　　I　pass　unto　a　life　more　barren；　more　austere。



More　barren　…　ay；　those　arms　will　never　lean

Down　through　the　trellised　vines　and　draw　my　soul

In　sweet　reluctance　through　the　tangled　green；

Some　other　head　must　wear　that　aureole；

For　I　am　hers　who　loves　not　any　man

Whose　white　and　stainless　bosom　bears　the　sign　Gorgonian。



Let　Venus　go　and　chuck　her　dainty　page；

And　kiss　his　mouth；　and　toss　his　curly　hair；

With　net　and　spear　and　hunting　equipage

Let　young　Adonis　to　his　tryst　repair；

But　me　her　fond　and　subtle…fashioned　spell

Delights　no　more；　though　I　could　win　her　dearest　citadel。



Ay；　though　I　were　that　laughing　shepherd　boy

Who　from　Mount　Ida　saw　the　little　cloud

Pass　over　Tenedos　and　lofty　Troy

And　knew　the　coming　of　the　Queen；　and　bowed

In　wonder　at　her　feet；　not　for　the　sake

Of　a　new　Helen　would　I　bid　her　hand　the　apple　take。



Then　rise　supreme　Athena　argent…limbed！

And；　if　my　lips　be　musicless；　inspire

At　least　my　life：　　was　not　thy　glory　hymned

By　One　who　gave　to　thee　his　sword　and　lyre

Like　AEschylos　at　well…fought　Marathon；

And　died　to　show　that　Milton's　England　still　could　bear　a　son！



And　yet　I　cannot　tread　the　Portico

And　live　without　desire；　fear　and　pain；

Or　nurture　that　wise　calm　which　long　ago

The　grave　Athenian　master　taught　to　men；

Self…poised；　self…centred；　and　self…comforted；

To　watch　the　world's　vain　phantasies　go　by　with　unbowed　head。



Alas！　that　serene　brow；　those　eloquent　lips；

Those　eyes　that　mirrored　all　eternity；

Rest　in　their　own　Colonos；　an　eclipse

Hath　come　on　Wisdom；　and　Mnemosyne

Is　childless；　in　the　night　which　she　had　made

For　lofty　secure　flight　Athena's　owl　itself　hath　strayed。



Nor　much　with　Science　do　I　care　to　climb；

Although　by　strange　and　subtle　witchery

She　drew　the　moon　from　heaven：　　the　Muse　Time

Unrolls　her　gorgeous…coloured　tapestry

To　no　less　eager　eyes；　often　indeed

In　the　great　epic　of　Polymnia's　scroll　I　love　to　read



How　Asia　sent　her　myriad　hosts　to　war

Against　a　little　town；　and　panoplied

In　gilded　mail　with　jewelled　scimitar；

White…shielded；　purple…crested；　rode　the　Mede

Between　the　waving　poplars　and　the　sea

Which　men　call　Artemisium；　till　he　saw　Thermopylae



Its　steep　ravine　spanned　by　a　narrow　wall；

And　on　the　nearer　side　a　little　brood

Of　careless　lions　holding　festival！

And　stood　amazed　at　such　hardihood；

And　pitched　his　tent　upon　the　reedy　shore；

And　stayed　two　days　to　wonder；　and　then　crept　at　midnight　o'er



Some　unfrequented　height；　and　coming　down

The　autumn　forests　treacherously　slew

What　Sparta　held　most　dear　and　was　the　crown

Of　far　Eurotas；　and　passed　on；　nor　knew

How　God　had　staked　an　evil　net　for　him

In　the　small　bay　at　Salamis；　…　and　yet；　the　page　grows　dim；



Its　cadenced　Greek　delights　me　not；　I　feel

With　such　a　goodly　time　too　out　of　tune

To　love　it　much：　　for　like　the　Dial's　wheel

That　from　its　blinded　darkness　strikes　the　noon

Yet　never　sees　the　sun；　so　do　my　eyes

Restlessly　follow　that　which　from　my　cheated　vision　flies。



O　for　one　grand　unselfish　simple　life

To　teach　us　what　is　Wisdom！　speak　ye　hills

Of　lone　Helvellyn；　for　this　note　of　strife

Shunned　your　untroubled　crags　and　crystal　rills；

Where　is　that　Spirit　which　living　blamelessly

Yet　dared　to　kiss　the　smitten　mouth　of　his　own　century！



Speak　ye　Rydalian　laurels！　where　is　he

Whose　gentle　head　ye　sheltered；　that　pure　soul

Whose　gracious　days　of　uncrowned　majesty

Through　lowliest　conduct　touched　the　lofty　goal

Where　love　and　duty　mingle！　　Him　at　least

The　most　high　Laws　were　glad　of；　he　had　sat　at　Wisdom's　feast；



But　we　are　Learning's　changelings；　know　by　rote

The　clarion　watchword　of　each　Grecian　school

And　follow　none；　the　flawless　sword　which　smote

The　pagan　Hydra　is　an　effete　tool

Which　we　ourselves　have　blunted；　what　man　now

Shall　scale　the　august　ancient　heights　and　to　old　Reverence　bow？



One　such　indeed　I　saw；　but；　Ichabod！

Gone　is　that　last　dear　son　of　Italy；

Who　being　man　died　for　the　sake　of　God；

And　whose　unrisen　bones　sleep　peacefully；

O　guard　him；　guard　him　well；　my　Giotto's　tower；

Thou　marble　lily　of　the　lily　town！　let　not　the　lour



Of　the　rude　tempest　vex　his　slumber；　or

The　Arno　with　its　tawny　troubled　gold

O'er…leap　its　marge；　no　mightier　conqueror

Clomb　the　high　Capitol　in　the　days　of　old

When　Rome　was　indeed　Rome；　for　Liberty

Walked　like　a　bride　beside　him；　at　which　sight　pale　Mystery



Fled　shrieking　to　her　farthest　sombrest　cell

With　an　old　man　who　grabbled　rusty　keys；

Fled　shuddering；　for　that　immemorial　knell

With　which　oblivion　buries　dynasties

Swept　like　a　wounded　eagle　on　the　blast；

As　to　the　holy　heart　of　Rome　the　great　triumvir　passed。



He　knew　the　holiest　heart　and　heights　of　Rome；

He　drave　the　base　wolf　from　the　lion's　lair；

And　now　lies　dead　by　that　empyreal　dome

Which　overtops　Valdarno　hung　in　air

By　Brunelleschi　…　O　Melpomene

Breathe　through　thy　melancholy　pipe　thy　sweetest　threnody！



Breathe　through　the　tragic　stops　such　melodies

That　Joy's　self　may　grow　jealous；　and　the　Nine

Forget　awhile　their　discreet　emperies；

Mourning　for　him　who　on　Rome's　lordliest　shrine

Lit　for　men's　lives　the　light　of　Marathon；

And　bare　to　sun…forgotten　fields　the　fire　of　the　sun！



O　guard　him；　guard　him　well；　my　Giotto's　tower！

Let　some　young　Florentine　each　eventide

Bring　coronals　of　that　enchanted　flower

Which　the　dim　woods　of　Vallombrosa　hide；

And　deck　the　marble　tomb　wherein　he　lies

Whose　soul　is　as　some　mighty　orb　unseen　of　mortal　eyes；



Some　mighty　orb　whose　cycled　wanderings；

Being　tempest…driven　to　the　farthest　rim

Where　Chaos　meets　Creation　and　the　wings

Of　the　eternal　chanting　Cherubim

Are　pavilioned　on　Nothing；　passed　away

Into　a　moonless　void；　…　and　yet；　though　he　is　dust　and　clay；



He　is　not　dead；　the　immemorial　Fates

Forbid　it；　and　the　closing　shears　refrain。

Lift　up　your　heads　ye　everlasting　gates！

Ye　argent　clarions；　sound　a　loftier　strain

For　the　vile　thing　he　hated　lurks　within

Its　sombre　house；　alone　with　God　and　memories　of　sin。



Still　what　avails　it　that　she　sought　her　cave

That　murderous　mother　of　red　harlotries？

At　Munich　on　the　marble　architrave

The　Grecian　boys　die　smiling；　but　the　seas

Which　wash　AEgina　fret　in　loneliness

Not　mirroring　their　beauty；　so　our　lives　grow　colourless



For　lack　of　our　ideals；　if　one　star

Flame　torch…like　in　the　heavens　the　unjust

Swift　daylight　kills　it；　and　no　trump　of　war

Can　wake　to　passionate　voice　the　silent　dust

Which　was　Mazzini　once！　rich　Niobe

For　all　her　stony　sorrows　hath　her　sons；　but　Italy；



What　Easter　Day　shall　make　her　children　rise；

Who　were　not　Gods　yet　suffered？　what　sure　feet

Shall　find　their　grave…clothes　folded？　what　clear　eyes

Shall　see　them　bodily？　　O　it　were　meet

To　roll　the　stone　from　off　the　sepulchre

And　kiss　the　bleeding