I WISH I were as in the years of oldWhile yet the blessed daylight made itselfRuddy thro’

I WISH I were as in the years of oldWhile yet the blessed daylight made itselfRuddy thro’ both the roofs of sight, and woke These eyes, now dull, but then so keen to seek The meanings ambush’d under all they saw, The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice, What omens may foreshadow fate to man And woman, and the secret of the Gods.My son, the Gods, despite of human prayer,Are slower to forgive than human kings.The great God Ares burns in anger still Against the guiltless heirs of him from TyreOur Cadmus, out of whom thou art, who foundBeside the springs of Dirce, smote, and still’dThro’ all its folds the multitudinous beastThe dragon, which our trembling fathers call’dThe God’s own son.A tale, that told to me,When but thine age, by age as winter-whiteAs mine is now, amazed, but made me yearnFor larger glimpses of that more than manWhich rolls the heavens, and lifts and lays the deep,Yet loves and hates with mortal hates and loves,And moves unseen among the ways of men.Then, in my wanderings all the lands that lieSubjected to the Heliconian ridgeHave heard this footstep fall, altho’ my wontWas more to scale the highest of the heightsWith some strange hope to see the nearer God.One naked peak‹the sister of the SunWould climb from out the dark, and linger there To silver all the valleys with her shafts‹There once, but long ago, five-fold thy termOf years, I lay; the winds were dead for heat-The noonday crag made the hand burn; and sickFor shadow‹not one bush was near‹I roseFollowing a torrent till its myriad fallsFound silence in the hollows underneath.There in a secret olive-glade I sawPallas Athene climbing from the bathIn anger; yet one glittering foot disturb’dThe lucid well; one snowy knee was prestAgainst the margin flowers; a dreadful lightCame from her golden hair, her golden helmAnd all her golden armor on the grass,And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyesRemaining fixt on mine, till mine grew darkFor ever, and I heard a voice that said“Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much,And speak the truth that no man may believe.”Son, in the hidden world of sight that livesBehind this darkness, I behold her stillBeyond all work of those who carve the stoneBeyond all dreams of Godlike womanhood,Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a glanceAnd as it were, perforce, upon me flash’dThe power of prophesying‹but to meNo power so chain’d and coupled with the curseOf blindness and their unbelief who heardAnd heard not, when I spake of famine, plagueShrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, thunderbolt,And angers of the Gods for evil doneAnd expiation lack'd‹no power on FateTheirs, or mine own! for when the crowd would roarFor blood, for war, whose issue was their doom,To cast wise words among the multitudeWas fiinging fruit to lions; nor, in hoursOf civil outbreak, when I knew the twainWould each waste each, and bring on both the yokeOf stronger states, was mine the voice to curbThe madness of our cities and their kings. Who ever turn’d upon his heel to hearMy warning that the tyranny of oneWas prelude to the tyranny of all?My counsel that the tyranny of allLed backward to the tyranny of one?This power hath work’d no good to aught that livesAnd these blind hands were useless in their wars.O. therefore, that the unfulfill’d desire,The grief for ever born from griefs to beThe boundless yearning of the prophet’s heart‹Could that stand forth, and like a statue, rear’dTo some great citizen, wim all praise from allWho past it, saying, “That was he!”In vain!Virtue must shape itself im deed, and thoseWhom weakness or necessity have cramp’dWithm themselves, immerging, each, his urnIn his own well, draws solace as he may.Menceceus, thou hast eyes, and I can hearToo plainly what full tides of onset sapOur seven high gates, and what a weight of warRides on those ringing axlesl jingle of bits,Shouts, arrows, tramp of the horn-footed horseThat grind the glebe to powder! Stony showersOf that ear-stunning hail of Ares crashAlong the sounding walls. Above, belowShock after shock, the song-built towers and gatesReel, bruised and butted with the shudderingWar-thunder of iron rams; and from withinThe city comes a murmur void of joy,Lest she be taken captive‹maidens, wives,And mothers with their babblers of the dawn, And oldest age in shadow from the night, Falling about their shrines before their Gods, And wailing, “Save us.”And they wail to thee!These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine own,See this, that only in thy virtue liesThe saving of our Thebes; for, yesternight,To me, the great God Ares, whose one blissIs war and human sacrifice‹himselfBlood-red from battle, spear and helmet tiptWith stormy light as on a mast at sea,Stood out before a darkness, crying, “Thebes,Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I loatheThe seed of Cadmus‹yet if one of theseBy his own hand‹if one of these‹”My son, No sound is breathed so potent to coerce, And to conciliate, as their names who dare For that sweet mother land which gave them birth Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names, Graven on memorial columns, are a song Heard in the future; few, but more than wall And rampart, their examples reach a hand Far thro’ all years, and everywhere they meet And kindle generous purpose, and the strength To mould it into action pure as theirs.Fairer thy fate than mine, if life’s best end Be to end well! and thou refusing this, Unvenerable will thy memory be While men shall move the lips; but if thou dare‹ Thou, one of these, the race of Cadmus‹then No stone is fitted in yon marble girth Whose echo shall not tongue thy glorious doom, Nor in this pavement but shall ring thy name To every hoof that clangs it, and the springs Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain, Heard from the roofs by night, will murmur thee To thine own Thebes, while Thebes thro’ thee shall stand Firm-based with all her Gods.The Dragon’s caveHalf hid, they tell me, now in flowing vines‹Where once he dwelt and whence he roll’d himselfAt dead of night‹thou knowest, and that smooth rockBefore it, altar-fashion’d, where of late The woman-breasted Sphinx, with wings drawn back Folded her lion paws, and look’d to Thebes. There blanch the bones of whom she slew, and theseMixt with her own, because the fierce beast found A wiser than herself, and dash’d herselfDead in her rage; but thou art wise enough Tho’ young, to love thy wiser, blunt the curse Of Pallas, bear, and tho’ I speak the truthBelieve I speak it, let thine own hand strike Thy youthful pulses into rest and quench The red God’s anger, fearing not to plunge Thy torch of life in darkness, rather thou Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the stars Send no such light upon the ways of men As one great deed.Thither, my son, and there Thou, that hast never known the embrace of love Offer thy maiden life.This useless hand! I felt one warm tear fall upon it. Gone! He will achieve his greatness.But for me I would that I were gather’d to my rest, And mingled with the famous kings of old On whom about their ocean-islets flash The faces of the Gods‹the wise man’s word Here trampled by the populace underfoot There crown’d with worship and these eyes will findThe men I knew, and watch the chariot whirl About the goal again, and hunters race The shadowy lion, and the warrior-kings In height and prowess more than human, strive Again for glory, while the golden lyre Is ever sounding in heroic ears Heroic hymns, and every way the vales Wind, clouded with the grateful incense-fume Of those who mix all odor to the GodsOn one far height in one far-shining fire. Tiresias by Alfred Lord Tennyson -- source link
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