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Why leanest thou on idle spear?
Why is thy dreadful helmet bent Heavy upon thy breast, O virgin?
What sorrow is so great, O thought,
As to touch thee? Are there no more Of thunder-bearing enemies To yield thee trophies new? No pomp Athenian to guide thy s.h.i.+p
On to the sacred Rock? I see Some pain holds Pallas fixed upon A gravestone. Some great blow moves her:
Is it thy sacred city's loss, Or seest thou all Greece--alas-- Of now and yesterday entombed?
_1896._
THE HUNTRESS RELIEF
Whither so light of garb and swift of foot, O Huntress?
Is it the sacred gifts of pure Hippolytus That make thee leave Arcadia's forest land behind, O shelter of the pure, and slayer of the wild?
Wild lily of virginity raised on the fields Olympian, O mountain Queen of gleaming bow, I envy him who in a careless hour did face Thy beauty's lightning with thy heartless vengefulness.
And yet white like the morn, thou openest in secret Thy lips thrice fragrant with divine ambrosia And sayest: "Latona's deathless grace has moulded me
Under the sacred tree upon Ortygia; But now once more upon the n.o.ble stone, the new Maker has moulded me with a new deathlessness."
_1895._
A FATHER'S SONG
O first-born pride and joy of my own home, I still remember thy coming's sacred day: The early dawn was breaking as from pearls, Whitening the sky that spread star-spangled still;
Thou wert not like the fresh and budding rose In its green mother's clasp before it opens; Thou camest like a victim pitiful And feeble cast by a rude hand among us.
And as if thou wert seeking help, thy wail Rose sadder than the sound of a death knell; And thus the last of thy own mother's groans
Was mingled with thy first lament. Life's great Drama began. I watch it, and I feel Within me Fear's and Pity's mystic wail!
_1894._
TO THE POET L. MAVILES[20]
Thy soul is seeking tranquil paths Alone; thou hatest barking mouths; And yet thy country's love enflames thee, O maker of the n.o.ble sonnet.
In the white alabaster vase Filled with pure native earth, a flower Of dream that only few can see Trembles and scatters fragrances.
Thy verse, the vase; thy mind, the flower.
But a hand broke the vase, and now The azure beauty of the flower
Has found a mate in the powder's smoke Upon Crete's Isle, the blue sea's crown, Mother of bards and tyrant slayers.
_1896._
IMAGINATION
Time's spider lurks and lies in wait; And on its poisoned claws, the beast All watchful glides, a.s.sails, and grasps The ruin. O thrice-holy beauties!
In vain all props and wisdom's arts!
In vain a tribe of sages seek To save it! Time's remaining crumbs Are scattered far and melt like frost.
Then from the lofty land of Thought, Imagination came, a G.o.ddess Among the G.o.ds, and made again,
Even where until now the ruin Crumbled, what only its hands can make-- Deathless the first-born Parthenon.
_1896._
MAKARIA'S DEATH
_To die for these, my brothers, and myself; For by not loving my own life too much, I found the best of finds, a glorious death._
EURIPIDES, _Herakleidae_, 532-534.
On Athens' earth, Zeus of the Market place Sees Hercules's children kneeling down On his pure altar, strange, forlorn, thrice-orphan.
Fearful the Argive sweeps on; duty's hand
Is weak. The king of Athens pities them, But cruel oracles vex him with fear: "Lo, from thy blood, thrice-n.o.ble virgin, shall The conquerless new enemy be conquered."
None stirs, alas! Orphanhood is forsaken By all. Then, filled with pride of heroes, thou, Redeemer of a land and race, divine
Daughter thrice-worthy of the great Alcides, Plungest into thy breast the victim's sword And diest a thrice-free death, Makaria.
_1896._
