The Scene represents the front of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi; great doors at the back lead to the inner shrine and the central Altar. The Pythian Prophetess is standing before the Doors.
Prophetess
First of all Gods I worship in this prayer
Earth, the primeval prophet; after her
Themis, the Wise, who on her mother’s throne—
So runs the tale—sat second; by whose own
Accepted will, with never strife nor stress,
Third reigned another earth-born Titaness,
Phoebe; from whom (for that he bears her name)
To Phoebus as a birthtide gift it came.
He left his isle, he left his Delian seas,
He passed Athena’s wave-worn promontories,
In haste this great Parnassus to possess
And Delphi, thronèd in the wilderness.
And with him came, to escort him and revere,
A folk born of Hephaistos, pioneer
Of God’s way, making sweet a bitter land.
And much this people and the King whose hand
Then steered them, Delphos, glorified his name,
Till Zeus into his heart put mystic flame
And prophet here enthroned him, fourth in use:
So Loxias’ lips reveal the thought of Zeus.
These gods be foremost in all prayers of mine,
Who have held the Throne. Next, She before the shrine,
Pallas, is praisèd, and the Nymphs who keep
Yon old Corycian bird-belovèd steep,
Deep-caverned, where things blessèd come and go.
And Bromios walks the mountain, well I know,
Since first he led his Maenad host on high
And doomed King Pentheus like a hare to die.
And Pleistos’ fountains and Poseidon’s power
I call, and Him who brings the Perfect Hour,
Zeus, the Most Highest. With which prayers I go
To seat me, priestess, on the Throne. And, oh,
May God send blessing on mine entrance, more
And deeper than He e’er hath sent of yore!
If there be present men of Greece but not
Of Delphi, let them enter as the lot
Ordains; I speak but as God leadeth me. She enters the Inner Shrine, and the stage is for a moment empty. Then she returns, grasping at the wall for support.
Ah! Horrors, horrors, dire to speak or see,
From Loxias’ chamber drive me reeling back.
My knees are weak beneath me, and I lack
The strength to fly. … O hands, drag me from here
If feet fail! … An old woman, and in fear,
A thing of naught, a babe in helplessness!
I made my way into the Holy Place,
And there, at the inmost Altar of the world,
A man abhorred of God, his body hurled
Earthward in desperate prayer; blood on his hand
Yet reeking, and a naked new-drawn brand
Wreathed in beseeching wool, a suppliant’s weed
Of snow-white fleece … so much mine eyes could read.
But out in front of him a rout unknown
Of women sleepeth, flung from throne to throne.
Women? Nay, never women! Gorgons more:
And yet not like the Gorgon shapes of yore. …
I saw a picture once of woman things
That ravished Phineus’ banquet. But no wings
Have these; all shadows, black, abominable.
The voices of their slumber rise and swell,
Back-beating, and their eyes drop gouts of gore.
Their garb, it is no garb to show before
God’s altar nor the hearths of human kind.
I cannot read what lineage lies behind
These shapes, nor what land, having born such breed,
Hath trembled not before and shall not bleed
Hereafter. Let Apollo great in power
Take to his care the peril of this hour:
Being Helper, Prophet, Seer of things unseen,
The stainèd hearth he knoweth to make clean. The Prophetess departs. The doors open and reveal the inner shrine, Orestes at the Altar, the Furies asleep about him, and Apollo standing over them.
Apollo
I fail thee not. For ever more I stay,
Or watching at thy side or far away,
Thy guard, and iron against thine enemies.
Even now my snares have closèd upon these,
The ragers sleep: the Virgins without love,
So grey, so old, whom never god above
Hath kissed, nor man, nor from the wilderness
One wild beast. They were born for wickedness
And sorrow; for in evil night they dwell,
And feed on the great darkness that is Hell,
Most hated by the Gods and human thought.
But none the less, fly thou and falter not.
For these shall hunt thee, ever on through earth
Unwandered, through the vast lands of the North,
The sea-ways and the cities ringed with sea.
But faint not. Clasp thy travail unto thee;
On till thou come to Pallas’ Rock, and fold
Thine arms in prayer about her image old.
In Athens there be hearts to judge, there be
Words that bring peace; and I shall set thee free
At last from all this woe.—If thou didst kill
Thy mother, was it not my word and will?
Orestes
Not to betray thou knowest. Oh, ponder yet
One other lesson, Lord—not to forget!
Thy strength in doing can be trusted well. Orestes departs.
Apollo
Remember! Let no fear thy spirit quell!
Do thou, O Hermes, brother of my blood,
Watch over him. Thou guide of man, make good
The name thou bearest, shepherding again
My suppliant. Him who pitieth suffering men
Zeus pitieth, and his ways are sweet on earth. Exit Apollo. Presently enter the Ghost of Clytemnestra. She watches the sleeping Furies.
Ghost
Ye sleep. O God, and what are sleepers worth?
’Tis you, have left me among all the dead
Dishonoured. Alway, for that blood I shed,
Rebuke and hissing cease not, and I go
Wandering in shame. Oh, hear! … For that old blow
I struck still I am hated, but for his
Who smote me, being of my blood, there is
No wrath in all the darkness: there is none
Cares for a mother murdered by her son.
Open thine heart to see this gash!—She shows the wound in her throat. In sleep
The heart hath many eyes and can see deep:
’Tis daylight makes man’s fate invisible.
Oft of my bounty ye have lapt your fill;
Oft the sad peace of wineless cups to earth
I have poured, and midmurk feastings on your hearth
Burned, when no other god draws near to eat.
And all these things ye have cast beneath your feet,
And he is fled, fled lightly like a fawn
Out of your nets! With mocking he is gone
And twisting of the lips. … I charge you, hark!
This is my life, my death. Oh, shake the dark
From off you, Children of the Deep. ’Tis I,
Your dream, I, Clytemnestra, stand and cry. Moaning among the Furies.
Moan on, but he is vanished and forgot.
So strong the prayers of them that love me not! Moaning.
Too sound ye sleep.—And have ye for the dead
No pity? … And my son, my murderer, fled! Groaning.
Ye groan; ye slumber. Wake! … What task have ye
To do on earth save to work misery? Groaning.
Can sleep and weariness so well conspire
To drain the fell she-dragon of her fire? Sharp repeated muttering: then words “At him! At him! Catch, catch, catch! Ah, beware!”
Ah, hunting in your dreams, and clamorous yet,
Tired bloodhounds that can sleep but not forget!
How now? Awake! Be strong! And faithful keep
Thy lust of pain through all the drugs of sleep.
Thou feelst my scorn? Aye, feel and agonize
Within; such words are scourges to the wise.
Thy blood-mist fold about him, like a doom.
Waste him with vapour from thy burning womb.
A second chase is death! … Pursue! Pursue! The Ghost vanishes as the Furies gradually wake.
Leader of the Furies
Awake! Quick, waken her as I wake you!
Thou sleepest? Rise; cast slumber from thy brain
And search. Is our first hunt so all in vain?
Furies
Speaking severally.
—O rage, rage and wrath! Friends, they have done me wrong!
—Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all!
—Evil and violent deeds, a shame that lingereth long
And bitter, bitter as gall!
—The beast is out of the toils, out of the toils and away!
—I slept, and I lost my prey.
—What art thou, O Child of Zeus? A thief and a cozener!
—Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all!
—Hast broken beneath thy wheels them that were holy and old?
—Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all!
—A godless man and an evil son, he but kneels in prayer,
And straight he is ta’en to thy fold.
—Thou hast chosen the man who spilt his mother’s blood!
—Are these things just, thou God?
—As a raging charioteer mid-grippeth his goad to bite
Beneath the belly, beneath the flank, where the smart is hot,
There riseth out of my dreams Derision with hands to smite;
As a wretch at the block is scourged when the scourger hateth aright,
And the shuddering pain dies not.
—These be the deeds ye do, ye Gods of the younger race:
Ye break the Law at your will; your high throne drips with gore,
The foot is wet and the head. There is blood in the Holy Place!
The Heart of Earth uplifteth its foulness in all men’s face,
Clean nevermore, nevermore!
—Blood, thou holy Seer, there is blood on thy burning hearth.
Thine inmost place is defiled, and thine was the will and the word.
Thou hast broken the Law of Heaven, exalted the things of Earth;
The hallowed Portions of old thine hand hath blurred.
—Thou knowest to hurt my soul; yea, but shalt save not him.
The earth may open and hide, but never shall he be freed.
Defiling all he goes, there where in exile dim
Many defilers more wait and bleed.
Enter Apollo.
Apollo
Avaunt, I charge you! Get ye from my door!
Darken this visionary dome no more!
Quick, lest ye meet that snake of bitter wing
That leaps a-sudden from my golden string,
And in your agony spue forth again
The black froth ye have sucked from tortured men!
This floor shall be no harbour to your feet.
Are there not realms where Law upon her seat
Smites living head from trunk? Where prisoners bleed
From gougèd eyes? Children with manhood’s seed
Blasted are there; maimed foot and severed hand,
And stoning, and a moan through all the land
Of men impaled to die. There is the board
Whereat ye feast, and, feasting, are abhorred
Of heaven.—But all the shapes of you declare
Your souls within. Some reeking lion’s lair
Were your fit dwelling, not this cloistered Hall
Of Mercy, which your foulness chokes withal.
Out, ye wild goats unherded! Out, ye drove
Accursed, that god nor devil dares to love! During this speech the Furies fly confusedly from the Temple down into the Orchestra. The Leader turns.
Leader
Phoebus Apollo, in thy turn give heed!
I hold thee not a partner in this deed;
Thou hast wrought it all. The guilt is thine alone.
Apollo
What sayst thou there?—One word, and then begone.
Leader
Thou spakest and this man his mother slew.
Apollo
I spoke, and he avenged his father. True.
Leader
Thou stoodest by, to accept the new-shed gore.
Apollo
I bade him turn for cleansing to my door.
Leader
Ha! And revilest us who guide his feet?
Apollo
Ye be not clean to approach this Mercy Seat.
Leader
We be by Law eternal what we be.
Apollo
And what is that? Reveal thy dignity.
Leader
We hunt from home his mother’s murderer.
Apollo
A husband-murdering woman, what of her?
Leader
’Twas not one blood in slayer and in slain.
Apollo
How? Would ye count as a light thing and vain
The perfect bond of Hera and high Zeus?
Yea, and thy word dishonoured too the use
Of Cypris, whence love groweth to his best.
The fate-ordainèd meeting, breast to breast,
Of man and woman is a tie more sure
Than oath or pact, if Justice guards it pure.
If them so joined ye heed not when they slay,
Nor rise in wrath, nor smite them on their way,
Unrighteous is thine hunting of this man,
Orestes. Why on him is all thy ban
Unloosed? The other never broke thy rest …
But Pallas, child of Zeus, shall judge this quest.
Leader
I cleave to him. I leave him never more.
Apollo
Oh, hunt thy fill! Make sorrow doubly sore.
Leader
Abridge not thou the Portions of my lot.
Apollo
Keep thou thy portions. I will touch them not.
Leader
Thou hast thy greatness by the throne of God;
I … But the scent draws of that mother’s blood.
I come! I come! I hunt him to the grave. … The Furies go out on the track of Orestes.
Apollo
’Tis mine then to bring succour, and to save
My suppliant. Earth and Heaven are both afraid
For God’s wrath, if one helpless is betrayed. Apollo returns behind the shrine, and the doors close. When they open again, they reveal, in place of Apollo’s Central Altar, the Statue of Athena Parthenos: the scene now represents the Temple of Athena in Athens.
Enter Orestes, worn with travel and suffering.
Orestes
Pallas Athena, from Apollo’s wing
I come; receive in peace this hunted thing
My sin no more polluteth, nor with hand
Unpurified before thy throne I stand.
A blunted edge, grief-worn and sanctified
By pain, where’er men traffic or abide,
On, on, o’er land and sea I have made my way,
True-purposed Loxias’ bidding to obey.
At last I have found thy House; thine image I
Clasp, and here wait thy judgement till I die. He throws himself down at the feet of the Statue, but no answer comes. Presently enter the Furies, following him.
Leader
Ha! Here he has passed. Spot reeketh upon spot.
Blood is a spy that points and babbles not.
Like hounds that follow some sore-wounded fawn,
We smell the way that blood and tears are gone,
And follow.—Oh, my belly gaspeth sore
With toils man-wasting; I can chase no more.
Through all the ways of the world I have shepherded
My lost sheep, and above the salt sea sped,
Wingless pursuing, swift as any sail.
And now ’tis here, meseemeth, he doth quail
And cower.—Aye, surely it is here; the smell
Of man’s blood laughs to meet me. All is well.
Furies
Searching.
Ha, search, search again!
Seek for him far and wide.
Shall this man fly or hide
And the unatonèd stain
Of his mother’s blood be vain?
Haha! Lo where he lies!
And comfort is in his eyes!
He hath made his arms a wreath
For the knees of the Deathless One,
And her judgement challengeth
On the deed his hands have done.
In vain! All in vain!
When blood on the earth is shed,
Blood of a mother dead,
Ye shall gather it not again.
’Tis wet, ’tis vanishèd,
Down in the dust like rain.
Thyself shalt yield instead,
Living, from every vein,
Thine own blood, rich and red,
For our parchèd mouths to drain,
Till my righteous heart be fed
With thy blood and thy bitter pain;
Till I waste thee like the dead,
And cast thee among the slain,
Till her wrong be comforted
And her wound no longer stain.
The Law thou then shalt see;
That whoso of men hath trod
In sin against these three,
Parent or Guest or God,
That sin is unforgot,
And the payment faileth not.
There liveth, for every man,
Below, in the realm of Night,
A judge who straighteneth
The crooked; his name is Death.
All life his eye doth scan
And recordeth right.
Orestes
I have known much evil, and have learnt therein
What divers roads man goes to purge his sin,
And when to speak and when be dumb; and eke
In this thing a wise master bids me speak.
The blood upon this hand is fallen asleep
And fades. And though a sin be ne’er so deep
’Twill age with the aging years. When this of mine
Was fresh, on Phoebus’ hearth with blood of swine
’Twas washed and blurred. ’Twere a long tale since then,
To tell how I have spoke with many men
In scatheless parle. And now, with lips of grace,
Once more I pray the Lady of this place,
Athena, to mine aid. Let her but come;
Myself, mine Argive people and my home
Shall without war be hers, hers true of heart
And changeless. Therefore, wheresoe’er thou art,
In some far wilderness of Libyan earth,
By those Tritonid waters of thy birth;
Upgirt for deeds or veilèd on thy throne;
Or is it Phlegra’s field thou brood’st upon,
Guiding the storm, like some bold Lord of War,
Oh, hear! A goddess heareth though afar:
Bring me deliverance in this mine hour! He waits expectant, but there is no answer.
Leader
Not Lord Apollo’s, not Athena’s power
Shall reach thee any more. Forgot, forgot,
Thou reelest back to darkness, knowing not
Where in man’s heart joy dwelleth; without blood,
A shadow, flung to devils for their food!
Wilt answer not my word? Wilt spurn thereat,
Thou that art mine, born, doomed, and consecrate
My living feast, at no high altar slain?
Hark thou this song to bind thee like a chain!
Furies
As they move into position for the Dance.
Up, let us tread the dance, and wind—
The hour is come!—our shuddering spell.
Show how this Band apportions well
Their fated burdens to mankind.
Behold, we are righteous utterly.
The man whose hand is clean, no wrath
From us shall follow: down his path
He goeth from all evil free.
But whoso slays and hides withal
His red hand, swift before his eyes
True witness for the dead we rise:
We are with him to the end of all. Being now in position they begin the Binding Song.
Some Furies
Mother, who didst bear a being
Dread to the eyeless and the seeing,
Night, my Mother!
Leto’s Child would wrong me, tear
From my clutch this trembling hare,
My doomèd prey: he bore to slay,
And shall he not the cleansing bear,
He, none other?
Chorus
But our sacrifice to bind,
Lo, the music that we wind,
How it dazeth and amazeth
And the will it maketh blind,
As it moves without a lyre
To the throb of my desire;
’Tis a chain about the brain,
’Tis a wasting of mankind.
Other Furies
Thus hath Fate, through weal and woe,
For our Portion as we go
Spun the thread:
Whenso mortal man in sin
’Brueth hand against his kin,
Mine till death He wandereth,
And freedom never more shall win,
Not when dead.
Chorus
But our sacrifice to bind,
Lo, the music that we wind,
How it dazeth and amazeth
And the will it maketh blind,
As it moves without a lyre
To the throb of my desire;
’Tis a chain about the brain,
’Tis a wasting of mankind.
Some Furies
Since the hour we were begot
Of this rite am I the priest;
Other gods may share it not;
Nor is any man nor beast
That dare eat the food we eat
Nor among us take his seat;
For no part have I nor lot
In the white robe and the feast.
Chorus
For the tale I make mine own
Is of houses overthrown,
When the Foe within the Dwelling
Slays a brother and is flown:
Up and after him, Io!
While the blood is still a-flow,
Though his strength be full and swelling,
We shall waste him, flesh from bone!
Other Furies
Would they take thee from the care
We have guarded thee withal?
Would the Gods disown our prayer
Till no Law be left at all?
Yea, because of blood that drips
As aforetime from our lips,
And the world’s hate that we bear,
God hath cast us from His hall!
Chorus
I am on them as they fly,
With a voice out of the sky,
And my armèd heel is o’er them
To fall crashing from on high.
There be fliers far and fast,
But I trip them at the last,
And my arms are there before them,
And shall crush them ere they die!
Divers Furies
—The glories of Man that were proud where the sunlight came,
Below in the dark are wasted and cast to shame;
For he trembles at the hearing
Of the Black Garments nearing,
And the beating of the feet, like flame
—He falls and knows not; the blow hath made blind his eyes;
And above hangs Sin, as a darkening of the skies,
And a great voice swelling
Like a mist about his dwelling,
And sobbing in the mist and cries.
—For so it abideth: subtle are we to plan,
Sure to fulfil, and forget not any Sin;
And Venerable they call us, but none can win
Our pardon for child of man.
Unhonoured and undesired though our kingdom be,
Where the sun is dead and no god in all the skies,
Great crags and trackless, alike for them that see,
And them of the wasted eyes;
—What mortal man but quaketh before my power,
And boweth in worship to hear my rule of doom,
God-given of old, fate-woven on the ageless loom
And ripe to the perfect hour?
To the end of all abideth mine ancient Right,
Whose word shall be never broke nor its deed undone,
Though my seat is below the Grave, in the place where sight
Fails and there is no Sun.
Enter Athena.
Athena
Far off I heard the calling of my name,
Beside Scamander, where I took in claim
The new land which the Achaean lords and kings,
In royal spoil for many warfarings,
Gave, root and fruit for ever, as mine own
Exempted prize, to Theseus’ sons alone.
Thence came I speeding, while behind me rolled
My wingless aegis, floating fold on fold.
But these strange visitants … I tremble not
Beholding, yet I marvel. Who and what
Are ye? I speak to all. And who is he
Who round mine image clings so desperately?
But ye are like no earth-seed ever sown,
No goddess-shape that Heaven hath looked upon,
Nor any semblance borne of human kind …
Howbeit, ye have not wronged me. I were blind
To right and custom did I speak you ill.
Leader
Virgin of God most high, have all thy will.
Still-weeping Night knows us the brood she bears;
The wronged ones in the darkness call us Prayers.
Athena
I know your lineage and the names ye hold.
Leader
Our office and our lot can soon be told.
Athena
Make clear thy word, that all be understood.
Leader
We hunt from home the shedder of man’s blood.
Athena
What end appoint ye to that flight of his?
Leader
A land where none remembereth what joy is.
Athena
And such a chase on this man thou wilt cry?
Leader
Who dared to be his mother’s murderer, aye,
Athena
What goaded him? Some fear, some unseen wrath?
Leader
What goad could drive a man on such a path?
Athena
Looking at Orestes.
Why speaketh one alone, when two are there?
Leader
He will not swear, nor challenge me to swear.
Athena
Which wouldst thou, to seem righteous, or to be?
Leader
What meanst thou there? Speak out thy subtlety.
Athena
Let no bare oath the deeper right subdue.
Leader
Try thou the cause, then, and give judgement true.
Athena
Ye trust me this whole issue to decide?
Leader
Who would not trust thee? True thou art and tried.
Athena
Turning to Orestes.
Strange man, and what in turn hast thou to advance?
Thy land and lineage, and thy long mischance
Show first, then make thine answer to their laws.
If truly in the justice of thy cause
Trusting, thou clingest here in need so dire
To mine own shape, hard by my deathless fire,
In fearful prayer, as lost Ixion prayed,
Make to all these thine answer unafraid.
Orestes
Most high Athena, let me from the last
Of these thy questionings one fear outcast.
Pollution is not in me, nor with hand
Blood-reeking cleave I to thine altar-strand;
In sign whereof, behold, I have cast away
That silence which the man of blood alway
Observeth, till some hand, that hath the power
To cleanse the sins of man, new blood shall shower
Of swine upon him, drowning the old stain.
I have been cleansed again and yet again
In others’ dwellings, both by blood that fell
And running rivers that have washed me well.
Be that care then forgot. My name and birth
Are quickly told. I am sprung of Argive earth;
My father’s name was known upon thy lips,
Agamemnon, marshal of a thousand ships,
With whom thou madest Troy, that city of pride,
No more a city. He returning died,
Not kingly. ’Twas my mother black of heart
Met him and murdered, snaring him with art
Of spangled webs. … Alas, that robe of wrath,
That cried to heaven the blood-stain of the bath!
Then came long exile; then, returning, I
Struck dead my mother. Nought will I deny;
So, for my sire belovèd, death met death.
And Loxias in these doings meriteth
His portion, who foretold strange agonies
To spur me if I left unsmitten these
That slew him. … Take me thou, and judge if ill
I wrought or righteously. I will be still
And praise thy judgement, whatsoe’er betide.
Athena
This is a mystery graver to decide
Than mortal dreameth. Nor for me ’twere good
To sift the passionate punishments of blood.
Since thou hast cast thee on my altar stair
Perfect by suffering, from thy stains that were
Made clean and harmless, suppliant at my knee,
I, in my City’s name, must pity thee
And chide not. Yet these too, I may not slight:
They have their portion in the Orb of Right
Eternal. If they are baffled of their will,
The wrath of undone Justice shall distil
Through all the air a poison; yea, a pall
Intolerable about the land shall fall
And groaning sickness. Doubtful thus it lies:
To cast them out or keep them in mine eyes
Were equal peril, and I must ponder sore.
Yet, seeing fate lays this matter at my door,
Myself not judging, I will judges find
In mine own City, who will make no blind
Oath-challenge to pursuer and pursued,
But follow this new rule, by me indued
As law for ever. Proofs and witnesses
Call ye on either side, and set to these
Your oaths. Such oath helps Justice in her need.
I will go choose the noblest of the breed
Of Athens, and here bring them to decide
This bloody judgement even as truth is tried,
And then, their oath accomplished, to depart,
Right done, and no transgression in their heart. Exit Athena. The Shrine is closed, Orestes remaining inside at the foot of the Image.
Other Furies
—This day there is a new Order born.
If this long coil of judging and of strife
Shall uplift the mother-murderer to life,
Shall the World not mark it, and in scorn
Go forth to do evil with a smile?
Yea, for parents hereafter there is guile
That waiteth, and great anguish; by a knife
In a child’s hand their bosom shall be torn.
—No wrath shall be stirred by any deed,
No doom from the Dark Watchers any more.
Lo, to all death I cast wide the door!
And men, while they whisper of the need
Of their neighbour, shall pray tremblingly within
For some rest and diminishing of sin.
They will praise the old medicine that of yore
Brought comfort, and marvel as they bleed.
—Vainly will they make their moan?
Vainly cry in sore despite,
“Help, ye Watchers on your throne,
Help, O Right!”
Many a father so shall cry,
Many a mother, new in pain;
Their vain sobbing floateth by:
“The great House is fallen again!
Law shall die!”
—Times there be when Fear is good,
And the Watcher in the breast
Needs must reign in masterhood.
Aye, ’tis best
Through much straitening to be wise.
Who that hath no fear at all
In the sunlight of his eyes,
Man or City, but shall fall
From Right somewise?
—The life that walketh without rule,
The life that is a tyrant’s fool,
Thou shalt not praise.
O’er all man’s striving variously
God looketh, but, where’er it be,
Gives to the Mean his victory.
And therefore know I and confess,
The doomèd child of Godlessness
Is Pride of Man, and Pride’s excess;
Only from health of heart shall spring
What men desire, what poets sing,
Stormless days.
—Whate’er befall, the Throne of Right
Fear thou, and let no lucre bright
Seen suddenly,
To spurn that Altar make thee blind;
For chastisement is hid behind,
And the End waiteth, and shall bind.
Wherefore I charge thee, through all stress
Thy mother and thy father bless:
Herein, O Man, lies holiness.
And next, of all within thy fold,
The stranger and the friendless hold
In sanctity.
—He that is righteous uncompelled and free
His life’s way taketh
Not without happiness; and utterly
Cast to destruction shall he never be.
But he who laugheth and is bold in sin,
From every port great gain he gathers in,
Rejoicing; but methinks shall cast away
All, with much haste and trembling, on the day
When sails are stript by the edge of wind and sea
And yard-arm breaketh.
He yearns, he strives, amid the whirling sea,
But none shall hear;
And loud his Daemon laughs, saying “This is he
Who vaunted him these things should never be!”
Who now is weeping, weak in the endless foam,
And sees the foreland where beyond is home,
But shall not pass it: on the rocks of Right
Wrecked is his life’s long glory; and the night
Falls, and there lives from all his agony
No word nor tear.