ÀҾ˹éÒ˹ѧÊ×Í
PDF
ePub

TIMASITHEOS.

Oh for the gift to rise in full degree,
Not like the showy fungus of a night,
But fed with soft delays, a branching tree!

When now Olympia struggles to the light
All ruin, a sacred city long profaned,
Pausanias found amid the shining flight

Of brilliant statues, all unspecked, unstained,

One hewed about the face, and marred with mire,
Still standing as by right, but deep disdained;

And when the curious wanderer would inquire

Whose beauteous antique shape was soiled and shamed, None there could tell, save one white-bearded sire,

Who answered: "This was one who, never tamed,
With his swift thews won race on flashing race,
Lightly, and Timasitheos was he named,

"The Delphian, and from Phoebus so much grace
He had, that all the Arcadian world extolled
His manhood and the glory of his face;

"And from the lips of Phrynichus out-rolled Madness of song, praising his brazen feet, And tight curls closing like the marigold;

"And Argive Ageladas, as was meet,

Master of Pheidias, sculptured him, and set
His statue in the ranks of strong and fleet;

"And three times at the Pythian games he met The athletes in the sinewy lists and won, And through the dewy streets and meadows wet,

"Went singing crowned from the pancration, To Delphi, in a long procession borne,

[ocr errors]
[merged small][ocr errors]

And met with songs, his city's dearest son."

'Then why," Pausanias cried, "this mien forlorn, These injured garments, this dishonored head, Of all its light and carven beauty shorn?"

To whom the old indifferent gray-beard said: 'Twas long ago, before my grandsire's days, And he who knew our history best is dead.

But see this dim and gray inscription says:

That Timasitheos, traitor to the state;

Lift up with pride and fallen on godless ways,

"By his fond physical strength intoxicate, Plotted with Kylon, and so meanly fell, Unstable and the prey of envious fate.'”

Too soon, too much adored! Ah! much too well
He cleft the winds and left the world behind!
Too fatal all the shapely miracle!

Of his great limbs in faultless form combined!
Better, ah! better far to have been less swift,
More kindred to the earth, less to the wind!

For the gods hate not excellence, but lift
The strong soul slowly on a great endeavor,
And grace their own beloved, gift by gift,

And with their sleepless eyes have wit to sever
Man's lawful joy in power from pride of power,
And hover round the loyal soul forever;

But the hot insolent head they hold one hour
High over the ranks of men, then dash it down,
And laugh to see it kiss the dust and cower.

Let others leap straight to the forest-crown!
Slow growth, cool saps and temperate airs for me,
And strength to stand when all the woods are brown.

Drike D. Gainey

A BALLAD OF METZ.

Léon went to the wars, true soul without a stain;
First at the trumpet-call; thy son, Lorraine !

Never a mighty host thrilled so with one desire;
Never a past crusade lit nobler fire.

And he, among the rest, marched gaily in the van:
No braver blood than his since time began.

And mild and fond was he, and sensitive as a leaf.
Just Heaven! that he was this is half my grief.

We followed where the last detachment led away,
At Metz, an evil-starred and bitter day;

Some of us had been hurt in the first hot assault,

Yet will was shaken not, nor zeal at fault;

We hurried on to the front; our banners were soiled and rent; Grim riflemen, gallants all, our captain sent.

A Prussian lay by a tree, rigid as ice, and pale;
Crawled thither, out of the reach of battle-hail.

His cheek was hollow and white; parched was his swollen lip; Tho' bullets had fastened on their leaden grip,

Tho' ever he gasped and called, called faintly from the rear, What of it? And all in scorn I closed mine ear.

The very colors he wore, they burnt and bruised my sight; The greater his anguish, so was my delight.

We laughed a savage laugh, who loved our land too well! Giving its enemies hate unspeakable.

But Léon, kind heart, poor heart, clutched me around the arm: He faints for water!" he said; "it were no harm

"To soothe a wounded man, already on death's rack." He seized his brimming gourd, and hurried back.

The foeman grasped it fiercely. 'Neath his wild eye's lid
Something coiled like a snake glittered and hid.

He raised his shattered frame up from the grassy ground,
And drank with the loud, mad haste of a thirsty hound.

Léon knelt by his side, one hand beneath his head;
Scarce kinder the water than the words he said.

He rose and left him, stretched at length on the grassy plot,

The viper-like flame in his eyes remembered not.

Léon with easy gait strode on; he bared his hair,
Swinging his army cap, humming an air.

Just as he neared the troops, there by the purpled stream
Good God! a sudden snap, and a lurid gleam.

« ¡è͹˹éÒ´Óà¹Ô¹¡ÒõèÍ
 »