Literary and General Lectures and Essays | Page 4

my city's warders-- Fraught with blessings, she
prevaileth With Olympians and Infernals, Dread Erinnys much revered.
Mortal faith she guideth plainly To what goal she pleaseth, sending
Songs to some, to others days With tearful sorrows dulled.
Furies.
Far from thy border The lawless disorder That sateless of evil shall
reign; Far from thy dwelling, The dear blood welling, That taints thine
own hearth with the slain. When slaughter from slaughter Shall flow
like the water, And rancour from rancour shall grow But joy with joy
blending, Live, each to all lending; And hating one-hearted the foe.
When bliss hath departed; From love single-hearted, A fountain of
healing shall flow.
Athene.
Wisely now the tongue of kindness Thou hast found, the way of love.
And these terror-speaking faces Now look wealth to me and mine. Her
so willing, ye more willing, Now receive. This land and city, On
ancient right securely throned, Shall shine for evermore.
Furies.
Hail, and all hail, mighty people, be greeted, On the sons of Athena
shines sunshine the clearest. Blest people, near Jove the Olympian
seated. And dear to the maiden his daughter the dearest. Timely wise
'neath the wings of the daughter ye gather, And mildly looks down on
her children the Father.

Those of you here who love your country as well as the old Athenians
loved theirs, will feel at once the grand political significance of such a
scene, in which patriotism and religion become one--and feel, too, the
exquisite dramatic effect of the innocent, the weak, the unwarlike,
welcoming among them, without fear, because without guilt, those
ancient snaky-haired sisters, emblems of all that is most terrible and
most inscrutable, in the destiny of nations, of families, and of men:
To their hallowed habitations 'Neath Ogygian earth's foundations In
that darksome hall Sacrifice and supplication Shall not fail. In
adoration Silent worship all.
Listen again, to the gentler patriotism of a gentler poet, Sophocles
himself. The village of Colonos, a mile from Athens, was his birthplace;
and in his "OEdipus Coloneus," he makes his Chorus of village
officials sing thus of their consecrated olive grove:
In good hap, stranger, to these rural seats Thou comest, to this region's
blest retreats, Where white Colonos lifts his head, And glories in the
bounding steed. Where sadly sweet the frequent nightingale
Impassioned pours his evening song, And charms with varied notes
each verdant vale, The ivy's dark-green boughs among, Or sheltered
'neath the clustering vine Which, high above him forms a bower, Safe
from the sun or stormy shower, Where frolic Bacchus often roves, And
visits with his fostering nymphs the groves, Bathed in the dew of
heaven each morn, Fresh is the fair Narcissus born, Of those great gods
the crown of old; The crocus glitters, robed in gold. Here restless
fountains ever murmuring glide, And as their crisped streamlets play,
To feed, Cephisus, thine unfailing tide, Fresh verdure marks their
winding way. Here oft to raise the tuneful song The virgin band of
Muses deigns, And car-borne Aphrodite guides her golden reins.
Then they go on, this band of village elders, to praise the gods for their
special gifts to that small Athenian land. They praise Pallas Athene,
who gave their forefathers the olive; then Poseidon--Neptune, as the
Romans call him--who gave their forefathers the horse; and something
more--the ship--the horse of the sea, as they, like the old Norse Vikings
after them, delighted to call it

Our highest vaunt is this--Thy grace, Poseidon, we behold, The ruling
curb, embossed with gold, Controls the courser's managed pace,
Though loud, oh king, thy billows roar, Our strong hands grasp the
labouring oar, And while the Nereids round it play, Light cuts our
bounding bark its way.
What a combination of fine humanities! Dance and song, patriotism
and religion, so often parted among us, have flowed together into one
in these stately villagers; each a small farmer; each a trained soldier,
and probably a trained seaman also; each a self-governed citizen; and
each a cultured gentleman, if ever there were gentlemen on earth.
But what drama, doing, or action--for such is the meaning of the
word--is going on upon the stage, to be commented on by the
sympathising Chorus?
One drama, at least, was acted in Athens in that year--440 B.C.-- which
you, I doubt not, know well--"Antigone," that of Sophocles, which
Mendelssohn has resuscitated in our own generation, by setting it to
music, divine indeed, though very different from the music to which it
was set, probably by Sophocles himself, at its first, and for aught we
know, its only representation; for pieces had not then, as now, a run of
a hundred nights and more. The Athenian genius was so fertile, and the
Athenian audience so eager for novelty, that new pieces were
demanded,