Classic Poem

. . . In years of old
There lived the boy whom this tale is told,
Fair-haired Eudiades, upon the hill
Which bears the sacred name of Athens still.
Nurtured he was in all the ancient ways
Of nobleness which brought his fathers praise,
What time at Marathon they stained the sea
And broad corn-land with Persian butchery.
He from his couch at earliest break of day
Arising, prayer and orison would pay
To Phoebus and to Hermes, and with pure
Cold baths would brace his beauty to endure
Rough winds and scorching suns, and on his bloom
Flung the broad chlamys: then he left his room,
And with grave earnest eyes and glistening face
Joined his school-fellows in the open place.
...

Then while yet the maiden morn
Shook dewdrops from her tresses, that bright band
Of playfellows, the fairest in the land,
Ran to the wrestling-ground; and off they threw
Their mantles, and their white flesh in the new
Light of the morning shone like ivory,
Which the skilled workman hath wrought daintily
With rosy hues or golden; and their hair
Floating upon their shoulders, like the rare
Curls of the crested hyacinth, made sport
For winds, that wandering through porch and court
Spread summer coolness.
Now the games began:
Here through the long straight course their races ran
Phaedrus and Phaedon and Agathocles;
Here, rubbed with oil and sand, Eudiades
Wrestled with sturdy Pheidias. Long they strove
In the dry dust beneath the olive grove,
And from the farthest peristyles a throng
Of athletes, like young gods, stately and strong,
Gazed on the goodly pair matched equally
With even issue struggling, arm and knee
Close locked; until Eudiades, by sleight
Of cunning and quick nimbleness, like light
Flickering on vexed waves, while stout Pheidias bowed
His knitted thews in vain, thrice from the crowd
Won swift applause; then panting stood and took
The firm hand of his conquered friend, and shook
The fine dust from his limbs; and laughing they
Inarmed went slowly to the bath away.
Nor, though the eyes of many lovers burned
Upon them, from their forward course they turned:
But modestly, with calm clear brows, whereon
The light of innocence and honour shone,
Sunbright, they passed; then in the water wan
From their pure stainless forms the trace of toil
Purging, they rubbed their breasts with fragrant oil,
And on their forehead wreathed the flowering rush,
Sweet to the scent, whose faint fair petals blush
Like bloom of maidens.
...

Leave we awhile of these fair friends to tell,
And turn to one on whom the miracle
Of boyhood in Eudiades had brought
The wonder of a swift change passion-wrought
From loveless life to love's uncertain good.
For while the striplings strove, Melanthias stood —
Himself of athletes mightiest — and saw,
With unaccustomed eyes and wildering awe,
The form of Beauty, visible and bright,
An effluence of ineffable sunlight,
In the boy's flawless lineaments. The sweat
Rose on his brow, his knees quaked, and his great
Man's bosom throbbed with heart-aches, and his eyes
Swam in a sudden painful sweet surprise.
Nor could he rest from thought; but in the boy
His soul lay sphered; nor was there any joy
Prized hitherto wherein he had delight.
But through the day he pined; and when the night
Came with her dew-drops and live stars and smell
Of strengthened flowers, on the thin grass he fell
Limb-length, where he had seen Eudiades
Lie at noontide beneath the sacred trees.
For there, so fancy feigned or dreamed the man,
Some trace still lingered on crushed herbs and wan
Leaves of pressed asphodel, of each dear limb
Which with its radiance had enraptured him.
The broken flowers he kissed, the grass, the boughs
Brushed by the passing boy, and on his brows,
Hot with quick thoughts, he bound those cool bruised leaves,
And in the twilight that the full moon weaves
Of olive branches, lay drinking the bowl
Of new-born longing, till his languid soul
Sank drowsed with sweetness, and beneath the tree
Endymion-like he slumbered tranquilly.

Fair and full-formed he was, like Hermes, in
The first free dawn of manhood; for his chin
Was woolly as the peach, and bright as bloom
Of hillset galingale, whose pure perfume
Scarce matched his breath. Above his level brow,
Wherein great deep blue eyes were set, the snow
Was overshadowed by crisp curls of brown,
Brightening to golden; and the wavy down
That on his smooth white thighs and perfect breast
Lay soft as sleep was coloured like the west
At sunset, when the silver star shines through
Pale amber spaces spread beneath the blue.
Sweet as spring flowers and blossoming with the fresh
Hues of young health unsullied was his flesh:
Wide shoulders, knitted arms, and narrow waist
Between the broad reins and the massive chest;
Firm feet, and ankles like the winged heels
Of Jove's own messenger, who lightly steals
From cloud to cloud, from mountain peak to peak
On the king's errand. Slow he was to speak,
Yet swift to do; nor of his words had lack
If aught of speech were needed, nor was slack
In jest or song, or when the cups were filled
For merry-making guests; but nothing skilled
In grave discourse or staid philosophy,
Of sage and priest he lived unheedingly.
Such was the youth, Melanthias, the first
Of Attic athletes, on whose soul had burst
The sunrise of Eudiades, the spring
Of sudden love's unlooked-for blossoming.


This passion was so new, so terrible;
He tried, but tried in vain the strife to quell
Of his o'erburdened bosom. The good thing
Which he had longed for with such sorrowing,
How all untried, immeasurable, full
It was of wild pain and joy wonderful!
Nor could he guess why love like flame could dart
Through the man's marble limbs, or why his heart
Throbbed with the ravening furnace-breath of fire,
His flesh quaked with the fierce tongues of desire.
It was enough for him, the boy, to dream
Of coming days, in fancy down the stream
Of life to glide or rest among its flowers
And rushes on the bank through slumbrous hours
With that unrealized and vague delight
He called his lover. Then the thought of night
Oppressed him, and he cried:
" What shall be done?
I have heard strange tales told! 'Twere well to shun
The sweetness that brings shame! "
And yet again
Thrilled in his soul that swift delicious pain
Of love's anticipation.
Thus all day
He parleyed with his spirit, till the grey
Shadows of evening fell, and on his bed,
Tired out with tears and smiles, he laid his head,
And slumbered. It was scarce the noon of night
When to his window in the pale starlight
Melanthias came, and pushed aside the boughs
Of blossoming rose, and, careful not to rouse
The sleeping boy, doffed cloak and shoes, and hid
His light of limbs beneath the coverlid.
Then the boy stirring in his dream was ware
Of that loved presence, feeling round his bare
Smooth ivory breast the warm arms laid; yet he
Feigned in his guile and wise simplicity
To sleep, and watched with fear what should befall.
But nought befell; nor was he moved at all
Save with new longing, for the lover kissed
His forehead with pure lips and gently pressed
The little swelling softness of his breast.
Then turned Eudiades, and laughed, and cried:
" Didst think me sleeping? " and to the man's side
Nestled, and lay there dreaming, half awake,
While wakeful birds of June sweet sounds did make
Among the cypresses. But at daybreak
Uprose Melanthias, and the boy could see
His beauty naked in the mystery
Of morning; and thenceforth, I ween, no dread
Stayed in his soul where love was harboured:
But day by day living with him he learned
New sweetness, and the fire divine that burned
In the man's heart was mirrored in the boy's,
So that he thirsted for the self same joys,
And knew what passion was, nor could abide
To be one moment severed from the side
Of him in whom whatever maketh sweet
The life of man was centred and complete.
Yea, but the joy that grew between them wove
Their very bodies in a web of love,
So that they seemed to breathe one air and drew
The same delights dropping like honeydew
From all glad things — from scent of summer skies,
From sleep and toil and whispered melodies
Of music.

It was in still September nights that this
Shadow of change o'erlaid their happiness:
For when Eudiades had learned to long,
When in his soul the fire of amorous song
Quivered with swift unrest, and love began
To mould the calm boy to a passionate man;
Then by his side, Melanthias, grown bold
Through weeks of joy, mourned that their love was cold,
Nursing the fever of a hidden want,
Till in his wish he waxed extravagant —
Why from the fruits should they their hands withold
Which strewed the paths of loving men with gold?
Nor spake thereof, but often sighed and turned
Wrestling with thoughts that in his bosom burned,
And from his side sometimes the sleeping boy was spurned.
But he, with young desire intoxicate,
Deeming no gift, no sacrifice, too great
For him he worshipped; yea, much pondering
To prove his service by some painful thing,
Offered the pleasure none may touch and live
Thenceforth unshamed:
" Lo, lover, I will give, "
Said he, " joy is mine. Nay, take
And drink my soul! from my life's fountain slake
Thy thirsty lips! fear not to shed my blood;
For I will die to do thee any good,
Or in my body bear thy mark of shame
To all men visible, cherish the blame
That falls on me for blessings! Only say
That I have gladdened thee! this word will pay
For grief or anguish in all years to come. "

So spake he; and the mighty man was dumb,
Marvelling at innocence wherein the fire
Flamed of immaculate white-winged desire,
Till love became a momentary bliss
Of tears and rapture and forgetfulness.
Then from the still depths of his soul there soared
A mist most wonderful, and spread, and poured
Her passion of pure raindrops through his eyes:
And, as before the painful sweet surprise
Of sudden beauty's vision had o'erborne
All thoughts within his soul, so now a scorn
Of baseness, god-begotten, bright with awe,
Subdued his spirit to the perfect law.
Once more he sank and trembled, and the sweat
Rose on his forehead — yea, once more his great
Man's bosom throbbed with heartaches. Then he stood
Self-conquered, slave thenceforth to only good,
In the wide eyes of young Eudiades
Threefold transfigured.
Lo! if men like these
Peopled this world with selfless deeds and gave
Their longings for a sacrifice to save
Bright honour, we should little need to dream
Of fabled heaven, but earth herself would gleam
With all that souls of mortal man can guess
Of love divine and God's great blessedness.