Classic Poem

Laïs the fair, Laïs the tender-eyed
Whom half the men of Athens madly love
Is false as hell! to me her tongue hath lied
A thousand times; and thus my words i prove.

Thou knowest, creon, where her villa rears
Its marble front upon agea's shore:
'Twas given her by protus in those years
When sorrow claimed him not and grief forebore.

To touch the man whose slave all Athens was.
But when the red day came that protus fell,
The end to him was twice calamitous—
For losing Greece, he lost fair Laïs as well.

And welcomed death! Thus, even protus lost!
And thus, I say, even all mankind fares
With her; aye, even he at whose great cost
She now makes merry while his doom prepares.

'Twas there, then, in her villa by the blue
And sunlit sea we dwelt, apart from care;
Living our lives as Gods are wont to do,
With roses, roses, roses, roses, everywhere,

And samian wines to make our pulses leap,
And soft sea winds to make them cool again;
And bring to wearied limbs the languorous sleep
That soothes so gently after love's sweet pain.

When yon full moon was crescent in the sky
We sat within her bower, dew-empearled,
And watched great argosies go sailing by,
Bound for far distant ports across the world.

Unheeded then, the days swept swift along,
Lost in the eddies of time's turgid stream,
And life became but as some self-sung song,
Set to the mystic music of a dream.

(Ah, love! the memory of those perfect nights
Shall light my way along the weary years
When age walks with me, and youth's lost delights
Are phantoms, flitting through a mist of tears.)

My Laïs seemed to love me much—at times.
And then, again, with Nymphlike Coquetry
She'd flout me sorely—till my pleading rhymes
And fervid songs would woo her back to me.

Whenas I first gazed in her witching eyes,
And felt the tumult of her soft warm breast,
And saw her hair bedrape her, mantle-wise
As if to hide the beauties it caressed;

Whenas the flutelike music of her voice
First murmuringly fell upon my ear,
Bethink you, friend, my right was to rejoice?
Aye, by the Gods. But all I felt was fear!

Aye, creon, fear! despite love's whispering,
I looked beneath her mask, and found there lay
A spell like lamia's, whom poets sing,
A spell to charm, and as it charmed, to slay!

For this is what I learned in that first night—
(Dazed as I was from having gained love's goal)—
Through the thick rapture of newfound delight
I searched—and saw that Laïs had no soul!

She had no soul, I say; and in her heart—
Black as the pit and hot as hell's own flame—
Dwelt every wile and every hideous art
To drag men down to their eternal shame.

Clothed all about in beauty she appeared,
And worth and graciousness; but, even so,
Her beauty was a beauty to be feared,
Her worth, unworthiness that bringeth woe!

So passed the days until dun autumn came,
When far and near, the word, like wildfire spread,
That haughty Athens was in loud acclaim
To welcome home the conquering diomed.

From persian wars he came, a warrior clad
In glory; on his brow, deep-dyed in blood,
Fame's chaplet hung. Like to a race gone mad
Greece bowed before him as before some God.

Fed on these rumors, Laïs restless grew—
She must straightway to Athens, to behold
This diomed, and prove herself how true
Were all the wondrous tales she had been told.

So came we here. when his conquering eye
First lighted on fair Laïs radiant face,
I knew the ending of my dream was nigh,
And diomed would lord it in my place.

He tricked the fancy of the fickle jade
By his great deeds, and then, aflame to please,
He wooed her hotly, and brought to his aid
Rich gifts of gold-wrought things, from overseas.

Think on it, creon! throughout all my days
My pride shall not again know such a fall—
To hear Greece ringing with a butcher's praise,
While I, her poet, stood unmarked by all!

Aye, even by Laïs! The stories of
The daring deeds of our victorious Greek
Had touched her fancy and had won her love
Ere she had seen him, or had heard him speak!

And noting this I silently withdrew
And let them have their way. 'Twas better so;
Besides, forsooth, there was naught else to do—
For love grown cold is cold as unsunned snow.

Then I, too, had grown tired. Nay do not smile!
To doubt my word would do me grievous wrong.
The hottest fire dies in a little while,
And one grows weary of the sweetest song.

So thus I left her with her latest love—
This diomed—a rude, bloodthirsty knave.
Who little recks she holds him but to prove
How Athen's hero can be made her slave.

Jealous of diomed, thou sayest? not so—
Thou'rt wrong, Good friend,—that sigh was not for her
But for dead love. Creon, I'd have you know
I am both poet and Philosopher.

If she hath joy of her sinewy mate—
If in good truth, she hath found happiness—
Then let her hold it fast. An unkind fate
Hath doomed poor mortals to so much distress

That I begrudge not her, not anyone,
The crumbs of joy that they may snatch from life.
The dearest love can never quite atone
For its own pain; no more than peace for strife.

Around the corner lurketh now, old age,
And at his elbow standeth death, the king.
They wait for Laïs. And no man can guage,
In years to come, her depth of suffering!

Behind those eyes, now lit with youth's bright light,
Is set, in mockery, a grinning skull;
Her body, glorious in all men's sight,
Is but a banquet for foul worms to mull!

So age avengeth all. There's not a day
That youth may filch from mortal misery
But time, the usurer, shall get his pay
With tenfold interest in dule and dree.

With dian's figure, Aphrodite's face,
Dainty as hebe, and as pallas learned,
She should be set in beauty's sacred place,
And by her always should lovelights be burned.

But there let tribute end! scorn cannot bring
Dispraise to beauty. Diomed, beware.
She is a wanton and an evil thing
Whose heart is blacker than her face is fair.

(My love, my Laïs, can my soul's appeal
Not win thee back? Ah, thou knowest too well
I would forego elysian bliss to feel
Thy kisses sting my famished lips in hell!)