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I ‘O KING AMASIS, hail! | |
| News from thy friend, the King Polycrates! | |
| My oars have never rested on the seas | |
| From Samos, nor on land my horse’s hoofs, | |
| Till I might tell my tale.’ | 5 |
| Sais, the sacred city, bask’d her roofs | |
| And gardens whispering in the western light; | |
| Men throng’d abroad to taste the coming cool of night: | |
| Only the palace closed | |
| Unechoing courts, where by the lake reposed, | 10 |
| Wide-eyed, the enthronèd shapes of Memphian deities; | |
| And King Amasis in the cloister’d shade, | |
| That guards them, of a giant colonnade, | |
| Paced musing; there he ponder’d mysteries | |
| That are the veils of truth; | 15 |
| For mid those gods of grave, ignoring smile | |
| Large auguries he spell’d, | |
| Forgot the spears, the tumults of his youth, | |
| And strangled Apries, and the redden’d Nile. | |
| Now turning, he beheld, | 20 |
| Half in a golden shadow and half touch’d with flame, | |
| The white-robed stranger from the Grecian isle, | |
| And heard pronounced his name. | |
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II ‘Welcome from Samos, friend! | |
| Good news, I think, thou bearest in thy mien,’ | 25 |
| The king spoke welcoming with voice serene. | |
| ‘How is it with Polycrates, thy lord? | |
| Peace on his name attend! | |
| Would he were here in Egypt, and his sword | |
| Could sheathe, and we at god-like ease discourse | 30 |
| Of counsel no ignoble needs enforce, | |
| And take august regale | |
| Of wisdom from the Powers whose purpose cannot fail. | |
| I, too, O man of Samos, bred to war, | |
| Pass’d youth, pass’d manhood, in a life of blood; | 35 |
| But many victories bring the heart no certain good. | |
| Would that he too might tease his fate no more, | |
| And I might see his face | |
| In presence of my land’s ancestral Powers,— | |
| See, from their countenance, what a grandeur beams! | 40 |
| Thou know’st I love thy race; | |
| Bright wits ye have, skill in adventurous schemes; | |
| But deeper life is ours: | |
| Fed by these springs, your strength might bless the world. But lo! | |
| The light begins to fade from the high towers. | 45 |
| Thy errand let me know.’ | |
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III ‘Thus saith Polycrates: | |
| The counsel which thou wrotest me is well; | |
| For, seeing how full crops my granaries swell, | |
| How all winds waft me to prosperity, | 50 |
| How I gain all with ease, | |
| And my raised banner pledges victory, | |
| Thou didst advise me cast away what most | |
| Brought pleasure to my eyes and seem’d of rarest cost. | |
| And after heavy thought | 55 |
| I chose the ring which Theodorus wrought, | |
| My famous emerald, where young Phaëthon | |
| Shoots headlong with pale limbs through glowing air, | |
| While green waves from beneath toss white drops to his hair. | |
| A long time, very loth, I gazed thereon; | 60 |
| For this cause, thought I, men most envy me; | |
| I took a ship, and fifty beating oars | |
| Bore me far out to sea: | |
| I stood upon the poop—but wherefore tell | |
| What now is rumour’d round all Asian shores? | 65 |
| Say only I did well, | |
| Who the world’s envy treasured yet in deep waves drown’d. | |
| Homeward I came, and mourn’d within my doors | |
| Three days, nor solace found.’ | |
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IV Amasis without word | 70 |
| Listens, dark-brow’d: the Samian speaks anew: | |
| ‘Let not the king this thing so deeply rue; | |
| Truly the gem was of imperial price, | |
| Nay even, men averr’d, | |
| Coveted more than wealthy satrapies, | 75 |
| Nor twenty talents could its loss redeem: | |
| Yet hear! the Gods are more benignant than men dream. | |
| Thus saith my lord: The moon | |
| Not once had waned, when as I sat at noon | |
| Within my palace court above the Lydian bay, | 80 |
| They led before me with much wondering noise | |
| A fisherman; between two staggering boys | |
| Slung heavily a fish he brought, that day | |
| Caught in his bursting net, | |
| A royal fish for royal destiny! | 85 |
| I marvell’d; but amaze broke deeper yet | |
| To recognise Heaven’s hand, | |
| When from its cloven belly (surely high | |
| In that large grace I stand) | |
| Dazzled my eyes with light, my heart with joy, the ring | 90 |
| Restored!—Why rendest thou thy robe, and why | |
| Lamentest thou, O king?’ | |
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V ‘O lamentable news!’ | |
| Amasis cried; ‘now have the Gods indeed | |
| Doom on thy head, Polycrates, decreed! | 95 |
| I fear’d already, when I heard thy joy | |
| Must need stoop down to choose | |
| For sacrifice, loss of a shining toy, | |
| Searching the suburbs only of content, | |
| Not thy heart’s home: what God this blindness on thee sent? | 100 |
| Gone was thy ring; yet how | |
| Was thy soul clear’d, or thou more greatly thou? | |
| Were vain things vainer, or the dear more dear? | |
| Hast thou, bent gazing o’er thy child asleep, | |
| Thoughts springing, tender as new leaves? Deep, deep, | 105 |
| Deep as thy inmost hope, as thy most sacred fear, | |
| Thou shouldst have sought the pain | |
| That changes earth’s wide aspect in an hour, | |
| Heaved by abysmal throes! | |
| Ah, then our pleasant refuges are vain; | 110 |
| Yet, thrill’d, the soul assembles all her power, | |
| And clear’d by peril glows, | |
| Seeing immortal hosts array’d upon her side! | |
| Blind man, the scornful Gods thy offering slight: | |
| My fears are certified.’ | 115 |
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VI Swift are the thoughts of fear. | |
| But Fate at will rides swifter far; and lo! | |
| Even as Amasis bows to boded woe, | |
| Even as his robe, with a sad cry, he rends, | |
| The accomplishment is here. | 120 |
| The sun that from the Egyptian plain descends, | |
| Blessing with holier shade | |
| Those strange gods dreaming throned by the vast colonnade, | |
| Burns o’er the northern sea, | |
| Firing the peak of Asian Mycale, | 125 |
| Firing a cross raised on the mountain side! | |
| Polycrates the Fortunate hangs there: | |
| The false Oroetes hath him in a snare; | |
| Now with his quivering limbs his soul is crucified; | |
| And in his last hour first | 130 |
| He tastes the extremity of loss; he burns | |
| With ecstasy of thirst; | |
| Nought recks he even of his dearest now, | |
| Moaning for breath; no pity he discerns | |
| On the dark Persian’s brow. | 135 |
| Grave on his milk-white horse, in silks of Sidon shawl’d, | |
| The Satrap smiles, and on his finger turns | |
| The all-envied emerald. | |
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