Tower to the view, and the glades come out, and the glorious heaven
Stretches itself to its widest, and sparkle the stars multitudinous,
Gladdening the heart of the toil-wearied shepherd—even as countless,
’Twixt the black ships and the river of Xanthus, glittered the watch-fires
Built by the horse-taming Trojans at Ilium…. Meanwhile the war-wearied horses, champing spelt and white barley,
Close by their chariots,waited the coming of gold-throned dawn.
(VIII, end.)
2. “DAVID” I name “the Psalmist” next. Who he was we do not know, except that he was not David. David was a fascinating brigand who made himself rich with robbery, usurped the throne of Saul, stole other men’s wives, broke every commandment, and is honored by posterity as the pious author of the Psalms. But these “Songs of Praise” were composed by many hands, and any hand but David’s; they were accumulated through centuries by the priests of the Temple at Jerusalem; and they were brought together only 150 years before Christ, nearly a millennium after David had ceased to be.
No matter who wrote them, or when; there they are, the profoundest lyrics in literature, so vivid with ecstasy that even those who doubt all dogmas feel in the blood a strange response to their music still. It is true that they complain too much; that they echo or anticipate Job’s wonder why the just should suffer so while the ruthless prosper; that they conceive the deity in a narrow and nationalistic sense; that they beg too pugnaciously for the punishment of enemies; that they coax Jehovah with fulsome praise, reproach him for negligence (X, 1; XLIV), and in general picture the God of the Jews and the Pilgrims as a Commander-in-Chief mighty and terrible in war (XII, 3; XVIII, 8, 34, 40; LXIV, 7 ).
And yet, amid these songs of battle, what tender lyrics of humility and sorrow:
As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower in the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.
Never was religious feeling so powerfully or so beautifully expressed; with language that remains, in English, a model of simplicity, clarity, and strength, and in Hebrew rings out in full organ tones of majesty; with phrases that are part of the currency of our speech (“out of the mouth of babes and sucklings,” “the apple of my eye,” “put not your trust in princes”); with passion and imagery as rich as even the Orient can give (the rising sun “is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race”). These are the finest songs ever written, and immeasurably the most influential; for two thousand years men have been moved by them as never even by songs of love; no wonder they were a solace to the Jews in suffering, and to the pioneers who made America. How like a mother’s lullaby, full of assurance and repose, is the most famous psalm of alclass="underline"
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my souclass="underline" he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no eviclass="underline" for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they shall comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil;my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life;
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
3. EURIPIDES And now we are back in Greece, seated in the Theater of Dionysius, ready for Euripides. Row upon row of seats in stone semicircles, rising in widening sweep up the hill that bears on its peak the Parthenon. Restless on them sit thirty thousand Athenians; loose-togaed, passionate, talkative men, alive with feelings and ideas; the keenest audience that ever heard a poet or saw a play. Down toward the front, in chairs of carved and ornamented marble, are the officials of the city, and the priests of the tragic god. At the foot of the great amphitheater is a small slab-paved stage; behind it the actor’s booth, the skene or “scene.” Above it all, nothing but the sky and the unfailing sun. Far down, at the base of the hill, the blue Aegean smiles.
It is the year 415 B.C. Athens is deep in the Peloponnesian War, a war of Greek with Greek, shot through with all the ferocity of relatives. The reckless dramatist has chosen for his theme another war, the siege of Troy, and his friends (among whom is Socrates, who goes only to Euripides’ plays) have whispered that it will reverse Homer, and show the Trojan War from the viewpoint of the defeated and destroyed. Suddenly all is quiet: from the actor’s booth a figure appears, representing the God of the Sea, Poseidon; he stands uplifted by high shoes, speaks through a resounding mask, and intones the keynote of the play:
How are ye blind,
Ye treaders down of cities, ye that cast
Temples to desolation, and lay waste
Tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where lie
The ancient dead; yourselves so soon to die.
(Was it this prologue that Socrates, as story goes, applauded so long that the actor consented to repeat it?)
The Greeks have killed Hector, and taken Troy; and Talthy-bius comes to take Hector’s wife Andromache, his sister the proud prophetess Cassandra, and his mother Hecuba, the white-haired Queen, to serve as slaves and mistresses to the Greeks. Hecuba beats her head in grief, and mourns:
Beat, beat the crownless head,
Rend the cheek till the tears run red!
A lying man and a pitiless
Shall be lord of me….
Oh, I will think of things gone long ago,
And weave them to a song….
O thou whose wound was deepest,
Thou that my children keepest,
Priam, Priam, O age-worn king,
Gather me where thou sleepest.
(TRANSLATION OF GILBERT MURRAY.)
Andromache tries to comfort her with the thought of suicide:
O mother, having ears, hear thou this word
Fear-conquering, till thy heart as mine be stirred
Without joy.To die is only not to be….
And I—long since I drew my bow
Straight at the heart of good fame; and I know
My shaft hit; and for that I am the more
Fallen from peace.All that men praise us for,
I loved for Hector’s sake, and sought to win,
I knew that always, be there hurt therein
Or utter innocence, to roam abroad
Hath ill report for women; so I trod
Down the desire thereof, and walked my way
In my own garden.And light words and gay
Parley of women never passed my door.