Robert W. Sterling
SOPHOCLES, the grandson, speaks at the poet’s tomb.
GREEN hills that wave your olives to the sun,
Who but an hour ago did flaming rise
Over the tombs of hidden Marathon
And gave you back your shining jewelleries;
What meaning dear can the dull eyes of grief
Trace in your moving groves and wizard streams?—
Have ye a knowledge of our troubled quest,
The lamentation brief,
The grey road and the haunting twilight dreams,
And the lov’d burden laid this morn to rest?
Ah! surely there is wonder and strange stir
Amid Earth’s guardian gods, when the last goal
Hath gain’d the crown, and to Earth’s sepulchre
We bear the way-worn chariot of the soul!—
And surely here a memory shall last,
In hill and grove and torrent, of this day,
For bards to glean who can: and they shall sing
How the sweet singer pass’d
Forth to his rest with war about his way
And a dread mask of Ares menacing!
Alas! poor city, fate-enshadowèd,
How powerless all thy pride of piety
To give due service to thy poet dead-
Save by the favour of an enemy!-
A bitter hard-won favour; for folks say
Lord Dionysus twice in vision came,
Jealous and wroth, to school Lysander’s might,
That, where his fathers lay,
The darling prophet of the god’s own flame,
Cradled in calm, should sleep his endless night.
‘Twas thus, that, ere the arrows of the dawn
First shot the peaks of clear Pentelicus
With the day’s golden promise, we had drawn
Nigh to the house of death and girded us
With the dim livery of the funeral:-
A small, sad band whom love or blood allow’d
To tend the dead; while vexing the repose
Of stars, who listening all
Peer’d through a shifting curtain of frail cloud,
Like a wild song the women’s wailing rose.
Slowly we brought him forth-can 1 forget ?-
And soft adown the lantern-hemmèd street
Parted the throngs who paid their pious debt
Of patient watching and of reverence meet.
And there were sudden tears and murmurs faint
And floating cries upon the midnight air,-
Not that they grudg’d him death, nor would im-
portune
The gods in idle plaint :-
But oh! he went (their burthen of despair)—
Athens’ last light-in Athens’ darkest fortune
How lingeringly we reached the guarded gate
Of the dear city fate-enshadowed!-
As if reluctantly she bore the fate
That stole his presence. For of old (’twas said)
The palaces of Kings had sought in vain
To woo him from his Athens, and the long
Proof of the years had found him ever true :
So, like a lover, fain
Would she have held him from this shelter strong
Once hers, now-gift of a curs’d stranger crew!
But when we left the wakeful, following crowd
Within the walls, and passed the sentinels,
Pausing we turn’d: and lo! for us the shroud
Of silent night hid nothing. All the bells
Were set a-chiming in each memory,
And to fond eyes, that knew the outline clear
Of every tower and temple and the whole
Form of her majesty,
Athens the queenly city bade appear,
Rob’d in revealing shade, her wondrous soul.
Her wondrous soul, her wondrous, grieving soul
Captur’d and fill’d us.-O how fevrous then
(When we had forfeited the passing toll
Of tears, that Love itself exacts from men
On such an errand) did we take the road,
And by Cephisus’ “sleepless fountains” bore
On the dead singer of Colonus fair,
Yon kindly last abode
Of the royal Theban martyr, who of yore
Curs’d a false son and dying triumph’d there.
Ah! Fancy loves to weave at such an hour
A faery web of false resemblances.-
And who hath strength to curb her perilous power
Of blind divining? Many phantasies
Made riot in our thought and seem’d to bring
The living children of his poesy
Winging from out the night to claim a part
In all our sorrowing:
While the lorn gale out of the Northern sky
Sped its far, sullen mutterings to our heart.
And then that darkly-riding company!-
What rapid, iron question stabb’d the air?
Rude force in-bursting on our reverie
With insolence of arms and doubting stare!
But when the whisper flew that this was he,
Poet of all the nations, rare bequest
Of Hellas to the treasuries of Time,-
Forgot was enmity,
And, sons of Hellas all, we onward press’d
Hot with one fervour and one care sublime.
And last, the tomb.-One struck the dead man’s lyre
By Death long silenc’d, and our hearkening ears
Were open’d for one moment of desire
To the pure, perfect music of the spheres;
As if his Spirit had vouchsaf’d to us
A fragment of eternal harmony
From its new dwelling-place. The player ceas’d;
All dumb and tremulous
We smooth’d the coffin, cas’d in greenery
And with our own shorn tresses over-fleece’d.
And so we laid him: even so he lies
To be for aye the Muse’s pensioner:
Poets unborn shall sing him, centuries
Untold tell of his fealty to her.-
For oh! the service of his life will live
Deathlessly eloquent. But I-alas!
Left desolate within this teasing world-
What comfort can I give
My comrades ere again those walls we pass
Whose flag of hope for evermore is furl’d?
O multitudinous music of the day-
Bird-song and breeze and forest-minstrelsy—
You storm this heart and to your chorus gay
Marry its dirge of desolate misery:
Whence a faint song of musing hope is born,—
Hope for Earth’s children whom the Master lov’d
And for God’s justice that he witness’d e’er,
Hope for his Athens torn
By foe and feud :-So be my spirit prov’d
Not all unworthy him whose name 1 bear.
Ah! Master, when the blast uproots a tree,
Its form lies bedded-but a god beneath
Treasures its leaves and perish’d fragrancy
To pierce anew the pregnant soils of death:
So from thy poetry, thy spirit-tomb,
Shall burgeon wealth of tears and tenderness
And beauty, when forgotten is th
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is a moving elegy that captures the profound loss felt by Sophocles’ grandson as he mourns the great poet’s death. It is not only a lament for a beloved figure but also a reflection on the enduring legacy of art and the enduring spirit of a city burdened by turmoil.
The imagery in the poem oscillates between the personal grief of the speaker and the collective mourning of Athens. The olive-clad hills and the black river serve as metaphors for the blend of natural beauty and sorrow that defines the moment. The juxtaposition of Athens’ “darkest fortune” with its enduring “wondrous soul” underscores the city’s dual role as both a victim of fate and a beacon of resilience.
One of the poem’s central themes is the enduring power of art and poetry. The poet, even in death, is portrayed as transcending the struggles of his era. His work becomes a timeless force, offering hope and inspiration to future generations. This idea is encapsulated in the moment when the dead man’s lyre is struck, momentarily bringing forth the “perfect music of the spheres,” a symbol of the eternal harmony that art can reveal.
The poem also reflects on the universality of human connection through the shared grief of even those who were once enemies. The “darkly-riding company” of soldiers, initially threatening, becomes unified in reverence for the poet, illustrating the unifying power of cultural and artistic legacy.
Throughout the elegy, there is a deep sense of reverence for the deceased and an acknowledgment of his contributions to humanity’s spiritual and cultural wealth. His life and work are described as a service to the Muse and a testimony to the divine justice and love that he represented. The closing stanzas emphasize a hopeful message: that from the poet’s death will arise new beauty, just as a tree uprooted by a storm enriches the soil for future growth.
Ultimately, this poem is not just a tribute to Sophocles but also a meditation on loss, legacy, and the enduring power of art to connect humanity across time and space. It speaks to the resilience of the human spirit, the unyielding march of time, and the hope that, even amidst sorrow, beauty and justice will prevail.