Part 1
Greek Wayfarers
and
Other Poems
By
Edwina Stanton Babcock
G. P. Putnam’s Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916 BY EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
To
MARIÁNTHE
The author believes that Greece today--largely because of her people’s opportunity in America--knows conscious renewal of her endless spirit while she still keeps wonder and glory for all who approach her.
Whatever her destiny, her natural beauties have not betrayed her, and through her glorious wildness and barrens her people are looking outward and forward. Therefore, if these verse-pictures of ancient and modern Greek life bring to those familiar with Greece any refreshing memory and to those who do not know this beautiful country an awakened interest, they will justify their existence.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE AMAZONS AT EPÍDAUROS 3
THE BLACK SAIL 5
WIDOWED ANDROMACHE 6
THE SACRED SHIP FROM DELOS 7
THE LITTLE SHADE 9
THE CONTRAST--VOLO 10
“SHE HAD REVERENCE”--VOLO 11
THE GLORY--GOOD-FRIDAY NIGHT, ATHENS, 1914 12
SUNSET ON THE ACROPOLIS 15
THE STREET OF SHOES (ATHENS) 16
ON THE ELEUSINIAN WAY--SPRING 18
IN THE ROOM OF THE FUNERAL STELÆ (ATHENS MUSEUM) 20
“THE SEVEN-STRINGED MOUNTAIN LUTE” 22
GREEK WAYFARERS 23
THE THRESHING-FLOOR 30
BY THE WALLACHIAN TENTS--THESSALY 32
THE VALE OF TEMPÉ 35
THE ENCOUNTER 37
EASTER DANCE AT MEGARA--FIRST PICTURE 40
EASTER DANCE AT MEGARA--SECOND PICTURE 41
PEACE, 1914 44
DELPHI 46
THE DESCENT FROM DELPHI 49
TWILIGHT ON ACRO-CORINTH 51
ROMANCE 53
NIGHT IN OLD CORINTH 55
AQUAMARINE 57
THE SHEPHERDESS 60
MAY-DAY IN KALAMATA 63
FROM THE ARCADIAN GATE 66
THE ABBESS 68
GREEK FARMERS 70
SONG 73
TO THE OLYMPIAN HERMES 75
GREECE--1915-1916 78
THE SINGING STONES 80
THE OLD QUEST 83
THE GODS ARE NOT GONE, BUT MAN IS BLIND 86
THE SEA OF TIME 87
ON THE THOROUGHFARE 89
AT PÆSTUM 90
PHIDIAS--A DRAMATIC EPISODE 95
EPILOGUE 118
GREEK WAYFARERS
TO THE AMAZONS AT EPÍDAUROS
Ride, Amazons, ride! Militant women, careless of tunic and limb; Sinuous torsos, naked legs boy-like and pressed Close to the warm horse’s flank, while the wild battle-hymn Fixes the eyes with the far-reaching look of the quest; Caring no more for the places of mother and bride; Ride, Amazons, ride!
Ride, Amazons, ride! Arrow-swift warriors galloping over the plain, Feverish, urged ever onward with furious rage; War-fretted golden-hair tangled with wind-fretted mane; One-breasted heroines, vigorous, quick to engage, Hot with the vigor of pulsating, vehement pride-- Ride, Amazons, ride!
Ride, Amazons, ride! Penthesilèa falls by Achilles’ drawn bow. Fell she, the Queen, by the white tents of bold Priam’s side? Leaderless women, on to the battle ye go-- Plunging on, speeding on; galloping Vengeance, astride Horses that feel ye victorious, with gods allied-- Ride, Amazons, ride!
Ride, Amazons, ride! Fearless stone-women, ardent and flushed with the race, Gleaming like swords, ruthless of body and breast; Nothing shall utterly quell ye, nor wholly deface, Ye shall ride onward forever, on ultimate quest. Spirited! Splendid! Time shall not turn ye aside. Ride, Amazons, ride!
THE BLACK SAIL
How did it seem, that warm thyme-scented day When emerald figs hung swelling in the dark Rose-nippled glooms of laurel and of bay, And pomegranate flowers burned their spark Through cypresses, to wait ’neath temple frieze, Scanning the hermless highways of the seas,
Watching for one white canvas far away, And when the morning seemed to grow so late, Going, amaracus and grapes to lay With reeds and gums on Nike’s stylobate, Muttering: “’Tis the Day--he cannot fail!” Then on a sudden, seeing--the black sail!
WIDOWED ANDROMACHE
“Full in the morning sun I saw him first And followed him through meadows, flower-massed, All his steep, toilsome ways, I, too, traversed; After his battles all his wounds I nursed, From our tent gazing to the cities passed.
“Then, to the Trojan walls, where battle burned And every altar had a bloody rim, I trod his ardent footsteps, though I yearned For fields so free; but until back he turned My only way was onward, after him.
“The summons came while I was following, true, Eager, alert, though bruised by thorn and stone. Had he but paused to tell me, ere he drew His cloak about him, what I was to do, I would have kept the path, yea, all alone!
“But he was silent, answering not my woe. He muffled him against my prayers and tears. I raise my arms, hung with the links of years, Hung with his broken chains, my right to show But--o’er his Unknown Paths, I may not go!”
THE SACRED SHIP FROM DELOS
(The Pilot speaks)
“Strange, how I felt the homeward voyage long; As I looked back to Delos o’er our wake, And heard the priest’s song, saw our sails out-shake Under the round sun hanging like a gong Mid-heaven. All night long I lay on deck Remembering how he taught us in the Porch; Yet, the black waters’ phosphorescent torch Gave me no Sign, no word in white foam-fleck.
“When we passed Sunion, methought I saw Red fires burning ’mid the holy white Of sacred columns; but the Athenian law I did not know! And then, the reef’s long jaw Foamed at us. Through the hollow night We fared, unwitting; putting forth our might; Speeding with oars our fated way upon, Till the white Dawn ensilvered Phaleron.
“At the Piræus, when I saw the throng,-- Crito and Phædo, there, to meet us,--I Gave myself no portentous reason why, But thought: ‘He’s free!’ (Forsooth he did no wrong) Then I remembered lofty words he said Of freedom as its dangerous truth he read,-- Great Zeus! The cowards might as well indict Sea-circled priest or mountain anchorite!
“Crito it was who told me, voice all raw With grief, and on my shoulder his kind hand: He saw me flinch,--‘Tremblest?’ he said, ‘Nay, stand Here in the shadow. ’Twas _thy_ ship they saw, _The Sacred ship from Delos_, ere they gave The signal for the hemlock--and his grave! He drank the cup: the while, methought, thy prow Would have steered Hades-ward, didst thou but know.’
“I made no sign. No trite word left my lip. I turned from Crito, and saw Phædo, grave, Join him. Alone, I went back to my ship, Sails furled with garlands riding harbor-wave; I looked at her, rehearsed the sacred rite, And purified me; set my torch alight: ‘Socrates! Master!’ I sobbed once; set then Aflame the Sacred Ship of Ill-Omen!”
THE LITTLE SHADE
No longer that grey visage fix, Charon, Asking me how I come to mix With this pale boat-load on the Styx, Charon.
I am so very small a Shade, Charon, Holding the vase my father made And toys of silver all inlaid, Charon.
Ferry me to the golden trees, Charon, To isles of childish play and ease And baths of dove-like Pleiades, Charon.
Ferry me to the azure lands, Charon, Where some dead mother understands The lifting of my baby hands, Charon.
THE CONTRAST
“Neither my Magnesian home, nor Demetrias, my happy country mourned for me, the son of Sotimos; nor did my mother Soso lament me,--for no weakling did I march against my foes.”--_From a painted stele at Volo, Thessaly._
’Tis said, when young Greeks went to die, Greek mothers would not weep; And steadfast mien and tearless eye Controlled themselves to keep.
Ah!--they were trained to bloody deed; We--in this time so late That life seemed gentle, know our breed More tragically great!
Had we foreseen, no tear would fall. Now mothers, too, could smile ... Only, we proved men brave ... and dead In such a little while!
“SHE HAD REVERENCE”
“O Rhadamanthos, or O Minos, if you have judged any other woman as of surpassing worth, so also judge this young wife of Aristomachos and take her to the Islands of the Blessèd. For she had reverence for the gods and a sense of justice sitting in council with her. Talisos, a Cretan city, reared her and this same earth enfolds her dead; thy fate, O Archidíke!”--_From a painted stele in the Museum at Volo._
The dear dead women Browning drew Lean forth in happy watchfulness; With them Rossetti’s Starry-tress: And Tennyson’s royal maidens press To bring you to their Sacred Few. Lovely companions wait for you, Dear _Archidíke_, wife divine, With asphodels your locks to twine; Thus crowning with celestial vine That noble reverence you knew!
THE GLORY
Good Friday Night, Athens, 1914.
Myriad candles windy flaring Over faces stilled in prayer; Silken banners, icon-bearing, Jewelled vestments, laces rare-- All the people in a daze, Walking in a candle-haze, Of uplifted pure amaze. All the people in a stream, Crowding in an Easter dream; While choragic song Pours from out the throng-- “It is the Glory--holy holiday.” So, smiling, good Athenians say.
Priests in choir, softly singing, Carry the Pantokrator, While the city-bells are ringing In their wild two-toned uproar; All the people, in a mass, With the purple-robed Papas, Bearing crosses made of brass, Scarlet cap, and fustanelle, Turkish fez, and bead, and bell, While choragic song Leads the trancèd throng. “It is the Glory--holy holiday,” So, smiling, good Athenians say.
Colored lights, and dripping torches, Burn on Lykabettos crags; In the narrow streets and porches Whole-sheep roasting never flags. Bonfires all the country light, Up to dark Hymettus’ height, Making all the hillsides bright. Still the surging crowds advance, Moving, moving in a trance; While choragic song Leads the trancèd throng. “It is the Glory--holy holiday,” So, smiling, good Athenians say.
In their wistful majesty, See them waiting for a sign, Of religious unity From the human or divine; Faithful, yearning, poor, uncouth, Pagan-born, yet craving truth-- Old grey-heads and stripling youth. All the people in a stream, Holding candles in a dream, While choragic song Swells throughout the throng. “It is the Glory--holy holiday,” This, smiling, good Athenians say.
SUNSET ON THE ACROPOLIS
If ever I have freed me of all time, Let me so free me now, that I have brought me Near to these hill-top temples, which have caught me Up to their soaring heights and Vision wrought me Of things serene, and stricken, and sublime.
Let me, the titled, spurious Christian, face This solemn wistfulness of Pagan yearning-- This aspiration of white columns, burning With golden fires, their pillars deep inurning The tragic, sunset beauty of the place.
Let me stand silent, under evening skies, Watching this radiance grown cold and hoary; In death-white, black-stained ruins, read the story The Parthenon tells of ancient Grecian glory, Reiterating beauty as it dies.
Let me stand silently and humbly, there, Seeking that Unknown God Greeks apprehended; That, as the temples fade, and day is ended, My own hope with this ancient faith be blended, And I be part of this eternal prayer!
THE STREET OF SHOES
(Athens)
Now, while the Bulgars creep in stealthy crews To Macedonian borders, do they stay In Athens as they were one April day-- The busy cobblers in “The Street of Shoes”?
I wonder: for the faces leaning there, Had Oriental heat, the hands that sewed Had look of readiness; some skillful code The hammers rapped on leather-scented air.
The old shoemakers, hung about with hide In cave-like booths, with beads and fringe adrip, Muttered their restless words beneath the clip Of shoe-laces, or hammered, sombre-eyed;
Red-capped, white-bearded, keen for petty strife, They hammered and they stitched; while, might and main Down their small, narrow, red-morocco lane, They cut the scarlet shoes with gleaming knife.
How would it go, if mad Bulgarian hordes Invaded here with pillage and abuse? I like to think that in the Street of Shoes Those old, gnarled hands would fiercely leap to swords!
I love to think how fiery faces there Would light like lurid skies before the storm, And that Athenian shoemakers would swarm To guard the city with ferocious care.
Then, if the foe to trample Athens choose, I pity them if those Greek cobblers still Stick to their lasts. These would not wait to spill A brighter red than red-morocco shoes!
Bulgars would know how nimble fingers use Flayed skin to keep the needles very bright; They would learn much before they took their flight Forever from the valiant Street of Shoes!
ON THE ELEUSINIAN WAY--SPRING
Hush! Walk slowly; All this winding road is holy; Place your votive image in a niche By Pass of Daphne, where rocks forward pitch. Now, sit lowly-- Under dim firs that cool the dust-white way Curving from Athens to Eleusis Bay.
Soft! Speak lightly! See’st this myriad Concourse? all the sprightly Luminous Mystæ? Naked flower forms Dancing in close commingled color-swarms So brightly? Follow them in their green-hot Mænad flame, Their sweet mysterious rapture of no name.
Watch! Far-seeing Demeter’s yellow torches fitful fleeing. And seed processions moving towards the shrine Where motion, moisture, act in soft sunshine; And being Earth-taught, flower-figures of desire Sway toward white Oreads quick with fire.
Take, unceasing Joy of powers these Mystæ are releasing Eternal, they, who seem so lovely-brief. Soft luminous shapes of petal and of leaf Increasing, They sweep across Semele’s ancient fields Handing the torch the calm Earth-mother yields.
Yea--the senses Have their holy truths and recompenses Sweetly simple may their teachings be “Wine flashing clusters from a sacred tree”; Defences From all our sorry wisdoms have these flowers Who teach deep truths with Dionysiac powers!
IN THE ROOM OF THE FUNERAL STELÆ
(Athens Museum)
O’er all the world I wandered with my grief, My human grief, that would not be forgot, Finding no face, no word, nor any spot Where haunted heart and brain could find relief.
Until the morning I unwitting stept Into the stelæ-halls and the great peace Of the Greek sorrow over Life’s surcease Enveloped me, even in woe inept.
Here, marble love in simple human sense To nearest friend gives earthly treasure up, A matron handing maid a box or cup; A man from dog and slave turning him hence;
A soldier springing out into the dark; A wife slow fading in her husband’s arms; The inexorable Fact, its vague alarms And Love grown suddenly aloof and stark!
Yet no breast-beating here, nor frantic woe, Nor bitter tears, nor loud outcry of pain. Only the question: “Will they live again? Go they forever from us, when they go?”
Majestic sorrowers the figures stand, Absorbed in contemplation of One Thing ... No promises, nor priestly counselling, Only the longing eyes and clasping hand!
Down the long halls I wandered; Athens’ Spring Radiant without, with almonds’ rosy spray, And violets crowding on the hills. That day My dead heart stirred to marble comforting!
For the Greeks _knew_! Death is the only thing That keeps its dignity. So Death they met Ready to pay to him a subject’s debt; Going out awe-struck as to meet a King.
The Greeks _knew_! nothing any more can heal The heart Death once despoils of sorrowing. With proud simplicity they felt the sting, Then wore the mystery like sacred seal!
Calm-eyed, controlled, those marble figures gaze Into the depths no mortal eyes have known, Then, Grecian head thrown back, the world is shown Sorrow’s transfigured face, immortal ways!
“THE SEVEN-STRINGED MOUNTAIN LUTE”
“Homer, Sappho, Anacreon, Pindar, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, the very names are a song.”--M. C. M.
I knew, no matter how they plucked at me Like golden fingers--all those cadenced names-- That never could I answer; for the power Of their majestic harmonies was perfect flower. No greater song, nor lovelier verse could be Unless Greece lived another golden hour. I tried to echo them. I vainly sought Timid expression of their rhythmic fire; My melodies with halting effort caught Faintly their classic motive and desire. Yet, while I failed, a miracle was wrought, Themselves did sing! Thus, humble, I was taught These names that are the plectrum and the lyre.
GREEK WAYFARERS
I
Around the Hellenic coast the dark-blue bands Of circling waters, like a loin-cloth, wind The stalwart nakedness of seaward lands; Bronze crag, and beach, and rock and terrace bind As foreground for the somber swelling tent Of purple mountain. On the morning sky Pale azure summits, with their sides snow-rent, Loom in the distance; slowly, solemnly, The coasts of Greece define; their misty chains Backed by soft clouds and silver sky-moraines. While we sail on, reverent vision-sharers, To read the romance of the Greek Wayfarers!
II
Those serrate ridges toward the southward brew Grape-colored mist, snow-frothed; the foamy crest Of Mount Taÿgetos bursts on the blue Peloponnesian pinnacles, repressed Back of fair bays and coasts. Rich lands of corn, “Slopes that the Spartans loved,” the Headlands Three Hide from the eye; but nearer shores forlorn Wounded and Ancient, scarred of rock and tree Looming beyond the starry-clustered Isles, Where fire-blue waters surge on circled strand, Lead to far cliffs, which once were beacon-bearers In early wars, for early Greek Wayfarers.
III
Each azure-rippled, rock-encrusted beach Tells of the dusky, strong Phœnician sails That came from Sidon, passed the stormy reach, And touched at islands, dark as wave-tossed bales Left floating in the murex-stainèd sea Where restless fishers, full of dawning schemes Cruised in the tunny waters; sailing free, Drawn by the Tyrian Purple to new dreams. Adventurers, traders, heard the sailor-boasts Of civilized beginnings on the coasts, And in black vessels brought the new Space-Darers Whose reckless sea-paths made them Greek Wayfarers!
IV
Thus rovers came, and dark-skinned traders planned New villages by fertile pasture lures In lonely valleys; by succeeding hands Minoan vases, Mycenean ewers Were fashioned; then the tribes fought hill by hill, And coast by coast, for wealth, till Knossos’ tombs And Tiryns’ palaces had dawning skill Of goldsmith and of craftsman in their glooms. The legends grew, the wooden statues raised New, mystic Cults. Where rams and young kids grazed Distaffs sprang up, and primitive sheep-shearers Brought snowy fleece to clothe the Greek Wayfarers.
V
Delphi, Eleusis, guided human awe By mystic voices and by legend thrill; Then, one by one, came templed porch and floor Gleaming by sea or on some fir-crowned hill. Far back in forest, or on Islands, rose Transcendent loveliness of chiselled stone, And in the secret shrine Artemis chose To hear, or not to hear, the victim’s moan. The entrails burned; worshippers at the feet Of Gold-Apollo knew the saving-sweet Comfort of God-in-life, evolved from terrors Of Nature-forces by the Greek Wayfarers.
VI
And then the restless ichor in Greek veins Created dreams of new posterity, And mother-cities planning greater gains Sent emigrants exploring on the sea. Before Ionians, strange Æolians went. To Chalcedon came “œkist” altar-fire; Silver, and iron, and flax, for commerce sent Dorians roving with renewed desire; And coins and woolens, pottery and dyes, Marked with age-seal each eager new emprise; And shrines and temples followed all the eras Of settled colonies of Greek Wayfarers.
VII
To vale and coppice, every forest place, Came note of Syrinx and the sound of flutes; And golden ball and pomegranate trace On priestly robes; and ’mid the cool volutes Were public treasures heaped; the Councils met; Athens and Corinth grew to haughty names, And glorious youths and lovely boys were set To daring deeds at the Olympic Games. By mountain paths and solitudes they trod, They set the votive offerings to their god Invoking glory--happy olive-wearers-- Consciously beautiful, as Greek Wayfarers.
VIII
Then sculptors wrought and painters ground the crude Colors, and potters found the yellowish glaze; And out of Cretan bowls and bottles rude Came polychrome and monographic vase. The echoing, marble theatres curved in hills, Where master-voices, with dramatic art, Chorused all joys and passions, and all ills-- And touched with deep emotion every heart, Till poet-minds flowered to richer truth; Forsaking earlier thoughts and laws uncouth, With nobler aim to be the way-preparers Of philosophic thought for Greek Wayfarers.
IX
While every river mothered daughters fair, And clouds conceived, and ancient trees enslaved Satyr and hama-dryad ... then the flare Of the Greek torch too happy-high was waved-- The jealous East was plotting, Persians lay In plundering splendor, with their blazing hosts, Till Marathon and grim Thermopylæ.... Then, envious cities, roused at Athens’ boasts Of glittering power, crushed the Golden Age. Under the Spartan and Bœotian rage; “Leagues” and sea-struggles, Macedonian terrors, Dragged to a desperate pass the Greek Wayfarers.
X
Yet after Byzantine and Ottoman Settled despotic heel upon the land, No cruel Venetian yoke nor Turkish ban Forced the brave Greeks’ unconquerable stand. Outsiders saw the Cause inviolate, Byron’s hot poet’s heart and cosmic brain Urged on the struggle, to once more create An independent Greece, unchained again. The whole world watched the piteous battle fought, And hailed small triumphs, passionately bought With faith, until, from wild, despairing errors, The struggling Greeks once more were Greek Wayfarers.
XI
Now on Greek highways, where the wagons roll, Piled high with wineskins, or with bags of flour, Past schools and churches and the fountain bowl, New hope springs in the peasants hour by hour. Greeks know that through their sordid modern strife They walk in poetry, believing well They are the children of enchanted life, That sends them forward messages to tell Of Greek restraint and hospitality, Greek love of beauty, and Greek dignity, Making them, in their toil, devoted carers For new and better goals for Greek Wayfarers.
XII
What are the goals to be, and what the gain? As soldiers camp in valley and on hill Do Spartan youths leap on the dusty plain? Does spirit of Leonidas keep still One death-defying purpose? Will the blood Leap of a sudden out of the Soros, And Marathon with bright phalanxes flood? Do all Greeks bear the title _agathos_? Ah, Greece! Ah, Greece! dare for the precious Past, And throw your lot with gallant men that cast Eternal die, to be the Spirit-Bearers For all the world and all the Greek Wayfarers.
THE THRESHING-FLOOR
“This mess of hard-kneaded barley-bread and a libation mixed in a little cup.”--_Greek Anthology._
There’s a white stone-paven floor Set in a jade-green field Where the spiked acacias yield A shadow, and the four Earthen pots on a round well-wheel Come up drippingly full and spill Where the white horse runs his circle round Drawing water for garden ground.
The white foundation here Has ne’er held temple-plinth, But mint and terebinth Perfume is in the air. And here, at the harvest-time the wains Rattle along the sunburnt plains, And the peasant’s arms are bared to thresh Food from the golden barley mesh.
Before the morning’s long Comes drowsy, sliding snatch Of primitive threshing-song; Down in the garden patch The murmurous sleepy drone of bees Blends with the stir of the poplar-trees, And the rustle of bundled grain Tossed from the wagon train.
Ah! the _Mavrodaphne_ wine Is fruity and sweet to taste, And the oranges are fine And the blocked Loukoúmi paste. But I long for a crust of peasant bread Eaten with honey from Parnes’ head, And I hunger the more and more At sight of the threshing-floor!
BY THE WALLACHIAN TENTS
THE BOY
Over dripping washing-trough Bends my mother busy drubbing, Father’s fustanella rubbing With the dark soap, smeary--rough. There my goats go, wild careering From the sound of wagons, nearing. Oootz--Ella--Whooff--! Out of there, you silly kid, By the old soup-kettle hid.
THE MOTHER
That boy, lying in the thyme, Sheepskinned loafer in the grasses, He is carelessness sublime, Sunned in yellow iris masses. Thinks he of the dead men sleeping Far away from flocks he’s keeping, Piled in bloody mountain-passes? With the brutal guns again Booming: “Give us men! More men!”
THE BOY
Baby hanging from the tree, Peeps from out his bright bag-hollows, While the white dog rolls and wallows Bitten by an angry bee. Forth for those sheep he must sally, Where they by the cold brook dally. Oootz--Ella--Deee!-- Now the fools, in silly mass, Scamper toward the mountain-pass.
THE MOTHER