Poems (Sackville)/Themistocles
THEMISTOCLES
Beneath the languid Eastern sun— Where, from excess of perfumed heatThe sick air faints, and the hours run From morn to night on fiery feet— Exiled by impious decrees I, far from Grecian lands and seas, Move, who am called Themistocles.
I, who have conquered, find it good To crave from those I overcameShelter—behold my lips have sued For Persian kindness—and my fame Polluted sinks, soiled by the breath Of those whose peace is worse than death— Whose speech all good deeds gainsayeth.
Prostrate lay Athens, cast aside Her joy—as on a thing forlornMen gazed upon her failing pride, Her visage pale—her raiment torn— Yet, though the flowers drooped and shed Their petals, still her sacred head With violets was garlanded.
Yea, though the Persian from far lands, With ships and armies manifold,Came and his hosts and mighty bands She saw—his horses and his gold— His flaming jewels, his splendid state, His swords and spears importunate She seeing—left him desolate.
Yet I for Greece performed this thing— My will made strong her will—the fireOf my own spirit triumphing Kindled with resolute desire Her mutable and supple thought, And from men's fear strong victory wrought, Bringing their cowardice to nought.
Within the Bay of Salamis, Most insolent the foeman lay;Now the cold sea waves curve and hiss Over their heads, and alien spray Gleams where their captains sleep—and where Their cries triumphant stabbed the air The shrill winds wail of their despair.
Yet, Athens, though the gods have heard Thy anguish, now thy plaints are dumb And fruitless, and thy voice which stirred Their wrath has grown most wearisome. They hear no more thy prayers—to them Thy love is but a fruitless stem— Ingratitude thy diadem.
I was their instrument and thus I, who their will accomplishédIn moments deep and dangerous— When the short love of men is fled, Shall not be utterly forthcast, Nor seek in vain, but strong at last Reap passionate vengeance for the past.
Fear me, oh! Athens—you are full Of beauty, and against the skiesGreat columns, white and wonderful— Fair shapes of men and gods arise. These I have loved—these touched—these known, Think, if my anger backward blown Shall not for wasted love atone.
Your strong blood leaps—loud is the cry Of victory. A mighty flood—Century on mighty century— Pours round your feet—oh! calm your mood. Fear—lest your fearless gaze shall scan No longer stones Republican, But strongholds of the Persian.
Think you your weapons cast aside No hands shall gather, that the fire,Hungry and still unsatisfied, Fails and is quenched at your desire? I tell you nay—by others lit The flame yet burns, and other wit Shall mend the weapon, claiming it.
He who is wronged and bears his wrong As though a crown were given him,Within his soul is no life strong, His lamp is quenched, his strength is dim— Have the gods given for evil good, Or unrevengefully pursued Blasphemy with beatitude?
Oh! Greece, remember Marathon— Behold again the mighty hostDispelled—the immeasurable won— The giant army crushed and lost— Still wild, despairing on your ears Falls their last cry—and lo! your spears Shall speed your glory through all years!
Yea, Greece, remember Marathon; For now the Persian hosts advance.Fallen you lie—disused, undone, With none to work deliverance; Now like a bleak wind from the North, The gods' vast anger rageth forth! Shall ye then stand against their wrath?
Ah, conquerors, muse a little while! Your slaves, your soldiers, what are theyBut blunted tools your hands beguile To serve, to perish, or to slay? How shall they serve you—ignorant, blind, If some complete and mastering mind Sways not their fickle ranks behind?
Cherish your leaders! What of them, Your cherished leaders?—one there is Who urged the waves' loud requiem Over the foe in Salamis. Now from the foemen's hands he takes Bread—and his thirst their water slakes— He sleeps among them and awakes.
Deem ye my eloquence so weak? Have I so passionless a voiceI fail to gather what I seek— Nor will men tremble or rejoice At my words' will? Nay, ye know well, How mighty is the living spell When the soul's speech rings audible.
I, exiled, at the Persian Court Find refuge; shall my woes engageAlone a friendship of such sort Its strength may the great wrath assuage Of those defeated and undone When the Greek arms stern victory won At Salamis and Marathon?
Nay, that their ignorant feet may speed Securely on those secret roadsPerverse and tortuous ways which lead Towards the Greeks' desired abodes, They work upon my exile, throw Love on their hate till I shall show Their eyes the hidden things I know.
I hold the keys of war and peace— Think not, oh, Athens! scorn of me;Lest on the unthinking fields of Greece I set the wolves of slaughter free— Lest the dread serpent in my soul Its sleepy coils at length unroll Anhungered, and devour you whole.
Yet still within my restless blood The living blood of Marathon—Of Salamis yet stirs—ah! good It were to see the past undone That freely I might strike—there lies Such pain on me—hate's flames arise To burn the sorrow from my eyes.
My flickering life unfed with hate Would surely perish—I must live—Nor shall in any wise abate My spirit. Shall not the gods give In guerdon sight of Athens yet? Till my feet on her stones are set I dare not waver or forget.
Alien and silent where strange eyes Gaze on me marvelling, I move,Stern, obdurate—my keen replies Earn me some fear, but little love. I am as one who wakes and dares Scarce sleep, lest caught in the night's snares Death shall come on him unawares.
The king has stooped to call me friend— We hold long converse, warily—His balanced questions strive to rend The veil that lies 'twixt him and me. With half-distrustful confidence He probes with hands nervous and tense The inner workings of my sense.
I scheme; yet only is this thing Clear to my understanding—strength To live, that my death, conquering, My exiled life may cure at length— Ah, gods! entombed in Grecian seas, Or Grecian lands, grant me Death's ease Though men forget Themistocles.