Literary and General Lectures and Essays | Page 4

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, and were forthcoming, for each of the great festivals, and if a piece was represented a second time it was usually after an interval of some years. They did not, moreover, like the moderns, run every night to some theatre or other, as a part of the day's amusement. Tragedy, and even comedy, were