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Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burns

       I' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree,

       Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose, 210

       You shall find food, drink, odour, all at once;

       Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow,

       And, never much away, the nightingale.

       Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,

       Down to the verse that ends all, proverb-like.

       And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name!"

       But I cried "Brother Greek! better than so—

       Save us, and I have courage to recite

       The main of a whole play from first to last;

       That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his, 220

      Alkestis; which was taught, long years ago

       At Athens, in Glaukinos' archonship,

       But only this year reached our Isle o' the Rose.

       I saw it at Kameiros; played the same,

       They say, as for the right Lenean feast

       In Athens; and beside the perfect piece—

       Its beauty and the way it makes you weep—

       There is much honour done your own loved God

       Herakles, whom you house i' the city here

       Nobly, the Temple wide Greece talks about! 230

       I come a suppliant to your Herakles!

       Take me and put me on his temple-steps.

       To tell you his achievement as I may,

       And, that told, he shall bid you set us free!"

       Then, because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts,

       And poetry is power—they all outbroke

       In a great joyous laughter with much love:

       "Thank Herakles for the good holiday!

       Make for the harbour! Row, and let voice ring.

       'In we row, bringing more Euripides!' 240

       All the crowd, as they lined the harbour now,

       'More of Euripides!'—took up the cry.

       We landed; the whole city, soon astir,

       Came rushing out of gates in common joy

       To the suburb temple; there they stationed me

       O' the topmost step: and plain I told the play,

       Just as I saw it; what the actors said,

       And what I saw, or thought I saw the while,

       At our Kameiros theatre, clean-scooped

       Out of a hill-side, with the sky above 250

       And sea before our seats in marble row:

       Told it, and, two days more, repeated it,

       Until they sent us on our way again

       With good words and great wishes.

       Oh, for me—

       A wealthy Syracusan brought a whole

       Talent and bade me take it for myself;

       I left it on the tripod in the fane,

      —For had not Herakles a second time

       Wrestled with Death and saved devoted ones?—

       Thank-offering to the hero. And a band 260

       Of captives, whom their lords grew kinder to

       Because they called the poet countryman,

       Sent me a crown of wild-pomegranate-flower:

       So, I shall live and die Balaustion now.

       But one—one man—one youth—three days, each day,

       (If, ere I lifted up my voice to speak,

       I gave a downward glance by accident)

       Was found at foot o' the temple. When we sailed,

       There, in the ship too, was he found as well,

       Having a hunger to see Athens too. 270

       We reached Peiraieus; when I landed—lo,

       He was beside me. Anthesterion-month

       Is just commencing: when its moon rounds full,

       We are to marry. O Euripides!

       I saw the master: when we found ourselves

       (Because the young man needs must follow me)

       Firm on Peiraieus, I demanded first

       Whither to go and find him. Would you think?

       The story how he saved us made some smile:

       They wondered strangers were exorbitant 280

       In estimation of Euripides.

       He was not Aischulos nor Sophokles:

      —"Then, of our younger bards who boast the bay,

       Had I sought Agathon, or Iophon,

       Or, what now had it been Kephisophon?

       A man that never kept good company,

       The most unsociable of poet-kind,

       All beard that was not freckle in his face!"

       I soon was at the tragic house, and saw

       The master, held the sacred hand of him 290

       And laid it to my lips. Men love him not:

       How should they? Nor do they much love his friend

       Sokrates: but those two have fellowship:

       Sokrates often comes to hear him read,

       And never misses if he teach a piece.

       Both, being old, will soon have company,

       Sit with their peers above the talk. Meantime,

       He lives as should a statue in its niche;

       Cold walls enclose him, mostly darkness there,

       Alone, unless some foreigner uncouth 300

       Breaks in, sits, stares an hour, and so departs,

       Brain-stuffed with something to sustain his life,

       Dry to the marrow mid much merchandize.

       How should such know and love the man?

       Why, mark!

       Even when I told the play and got the praise,

       There spoke up a brisk little somebody,

       Critic and whippersnapper, in a rage

       To set things right: "The girl departs from truth!

       Pretends she saw what was not to be seen,

       Making the mask of the actor move, forsooth! 310

       'Then a fear flitted o'er the wife's white face,'—

       'Then frowned the father,'—'then the husband shook,'—

       'Then from the festal forehead slipt each spray,

       'And the heroic mouth's gay grace was gone;'—

       As she had seen each naked fleshly face.

       And not the merely-painted mask it wore!"

       Well, is the explanation difficult?

       What's poetry except a power that makes?

       And, speaking to one sense, inspires the rest,

       Pressing them all into its service; so 320

       That who sees painting, seems to

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