A ballad.
Once to the song and chariot-fight,
Where all the tribes of Greece unite
On Corinths isthmus joyously,
The god-loved Ibycus drew nigh.
On him Apollo had bestowed
The gift of song and strains inspired;
So, with light staff, he took his road
From Rhegium, by the godhead fired.
Acrocorinth, on mountain high,
Now burns upon the wanderers
eye,
And he begins, with pious dread,
Poseidons grove of firs to
tread.
Naught moves around him, save a
swarm
Of cranes, who guide him on
his way;
Who from far southern regions warm
Have hither come in squadron
gray.
Thou friendly band, all hail
to thee!
Who ledst me safely oer
the sea!
I deem thee as a favoring sign,-
My destiny resembles thine.
Both come from a far distant coast,
Both pray for some kind sheltering
place;-
Propitious toward us be the host
Who from the stranger wards
disgrace!
And on he hastes, in joyous wood,
And reaches soon the middle wood
When, on a narrow bridge, by force
Two murderers sudden bar his course.
He must prepare him for the fray,
But soon his wearied hand
sinks low;
Inured the gentle lyre to play,
It neer has strung
the deadly bow.
On gods and men for aid he cries,-
No savior to his prayer replies;
However far his voice he sends,
Naught living to his cry attends.
And must I in a foreign land,
Unwept, deserted, perish here,
Falling beneath a murderous hand,
Where no avenger can appear?
Deep-wounded, down he sinks at last,
When, lo! the cranes wings
rustle past.
He hears,-though he no
more can see,-
Their voices screaming fearfully.
By you, ye cranes, that soar
on high,
If not another voice is heard,
Be borne to heaven my murder-cry!
He speaks, and dies, too,
with the word.
The naked corpse, ere long, is found,
And, though defaced by many a wound,
His host in Corinth soon could tell
The features that he loved so well.
And is it thus I find thee
now,
Who hoped the pines
victorious crown
To place upon the singers
brow,
Illumined by his bright renown?
The news is heard with grief by
all
Met at Poseidons festival;
All Greece is conscious of the smart,
He leaves a void in every heart;
And to the Prytanis swift
hie
The people, and they urge
him on
The dead mans manes to pacify
And with the murderers
blood atone.
But wheres the trace that
from the throng
The peoples streaming crowds
among,
Allured there by the sports so bright,
Can bring the villain back to light?
By craven robbers was he slain?
Or by some envious hidden
foe?
That Helios only can explain,
Whose rays illume all things
below.
Perchance, with shameless step and
proud,
He threads een now the Grecian
crowd-
Whilst vengeance follows in pursuit,
Gloats over his transgressions
fruit.
The very gods perchance he braves
Upon the threshold of their
fane,-
Joins boldly in the human waves
That haste yon theatre to
gain.
For there the Grecian tribes appear,
Fast pouring in from far and near;
On close-packed benches sit they
there,-
The stage the weight can scarcely
bear.
Like ocean-billows hollow
roar,
The teaming crowds of living
man
Toward the cerulean heavens upsoar,
In bow of ever-widening span.
Who knows the nation, who the name,
Of all who there together came?
From Theseus town, from Aulis
strand
From Phocis, from the Spartan land,
From Asias distant coast,
they wend,
From every island of the sea,
And from the stage they hear ascend
The choruss dread melody.
Who, sad and solemn, as of old,
With footsteps measured and controlled,
Advancing from the far background,
Circle the theatres wide
round.
Thus, mortal women never move!
No mortal home to them gave
birth!
Their giant-bodies tower above,
High oer the puny sons
of earth.
With loins in mantle black concealed,
Within their fleshless bands they
wield
The torch, that with a dull red
glows,-
While in their cheek no life-blood
flows;
And where the hair is floating wide
And loving, round a mortal
brow,
Here snakes and adders are descried,
Whose bellies swell with poison
now.
And, standing in a fearful ring,
The dread and solemn chant they
sing,
That through the bosom thrilling
goes,
And round the sinner fetters throws.
Sense-robbing, of heart-maddening
power,
The furies strains
resound through air
The listeners marrow they
devour,-
The lyre can yield such numbers
neer.
Happy the man who, blemish-free,
Preserves a soul of purity!
Near him we neer avenging
come,
He freely oer lifes
path may roam.
But woe to him who, hid from view,
Hath done the deed of murder
base!
Upon his heels we close pursue,-
We, who belong to nights
dark race!
And if he thinks to scape
by flight,
Winged we appear, our snare of might
Around his flying feet to cast,
So that he needs must fall at last.
Thus we pursue him, tiring neer,-
Our wrath repentance cannot
quell,-
On to the shadows, and een
there
We leave him not in peace
to dwell!
Thus singing, they the dance resume,
And silence, like that of the tomb,
Oer the whole house lies
heavily,
As if the deity were nigh.
And staid and solemn, as of old,
Circling the theatres
wide round,
With footsteps measured and controlled,
They vanish in the far background.
Between deceit and truth each breast.
Now doubting hangs, by awe possessed,
And homage pays to that dread might,
That judges what is hid from sight,-
That, fathomless, inscrutable,
The gloomy skein of fate entwines,
That reads the bosoms depths
full well,
Yet flies away where sunlight
shines.
When sudden, from the tier most
high,
A voice is heard by all to cry:
See there, see there, Timotheus!
Behold the cranes of Ibycus!
The heavens become as black as night,
And oer the theatre
they see,
Far over-head, a dusky flight
Of cranes, approaching hastily.
Of Ibycus!-That
name so blest
With new-born sorrow fills each
breast.
As waves on waves in ocean rise,
From mouth to mouth it swiftly flies:
Of Ibycus, whom we lament?
Who fell beneath the murderers
hand?
What mean those words that from
him went?
What means this cranes
advancing band?
And louder still become the cries,
And soon this thought foreboding
flies
Through every heart, with speed
of light-
Observe in this the furies
might!
The poets manes are now appeased
The murderer seeks his own
arrest!
Let him who spoke the word be seized,
And him to whom it was addressed!
That word he had no sooner spoke,
Than he its sound would fain invoke;
In vain! his mouth, with terror
pale,
Tells of his guilt the fearful tale.
Before the judge they drag them
now
The scene becomes the tribunal;
Their crimes the villains both avow,
When neath the vengeance-stroke
they fall.
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