Part 5

He trilled, Pæonius, a theme like this: What we _do_ lives, though after all the bliss Of our own living, must our bodies pass! Hast ever caught the perfume of sweet grass Dying beneath the sickle? Our breath goes Thus to the gods indifferent, ’mid the snows High on Parnassos’ or Kiona’s crest, Where mountain after mountain heaves a breast, Black, billow-deep, sky-ranging, in a chain Tumultuously, serene around the plain. But what we make of beauty keeps its power Down the long years, from the conception’s hour. For mark ye, lad, I never sensed my work, But did it all unconscious; now in murk, In prison black, I see it flying forth, The strong wings of my friezes! All the worth Of Laurion silver in Colossi paid And proud Athena, ivory o’er laid. Gold-sandalled, springing, mellow-marble feet, Olive-crowned heads in pensive bending, sweet Backs, limbs, and bosoms! Noble eye and tress, Caught in the dream of their own loveliness-- I see it all, so calm! “Nothing too much,” Tunics in solemn folds, majesty such As comes with purity; things strong and free; White to the sky and naked to the sea. Women and men that move adown the days Out of the forest deep, through shimmering maize, In fructifying suns, in cooling dews,-- All tranquil, noble, filled with God, or Muse Of deathless Greece.--Yea, all my strife, My will, my soul, was this portrayal--Life!

(_Moved by what he has written, the Sculptor gets to his feet and paces feverishly his narrow cell. He goes on writing as he walks and reading aloud._)

I now see by prophetic cricket-voice That Life is deathless, that my works rejoice For all rejoicing. Brother mine We carve for worlds to come. Beyond the line Of horizons, untravelled, rise the lands Hungry of spirit, waiting at our hands Bread of True Vision. Yea, where rusty wars, Hot blood of nation-struggle, stain these shores, Women and men shall bleed with sacrifice To a dead god, called Progress, and the Vice Of chance-worship, on sickly, pampered knees And counting gold in languors of disease. Can’st picture these, coming to look upon My glorious horsemen of the Parthenon? Seeing your Nikes tread triumphant air? Our marble dreams forever beauty-clean And dark heroic bronzes stained with green, By fire and sword and water all unspoiled, Their perfect limbs’ clear candor unassoiled? Mark ye, those stranger eyes shall take and take, Still the thirst grow and still the joy to slake From Old-World beauty. Till we sculptors stand Supreme World-life within our pulseless hand! Think, lad, when father’s little ones shall tell How Greeks saw, felt, and struggled, conquered, fell! Fear not, Pæonius, our spirits win Out of this age to call all ages kin.

(PHIDIAS, _sighing as one relieved of a burden, pauses awhile, then writes a few more lines_.)

Smile not upon this, friend--All fancy--Yea! But, by the Etruscans, gone but yesterday To Italy, and now established there; By Dorians, building temples by the fair Purple Tyrennian, so I think Greek soul o’erflows, as over fountain-brink, And that we circle out and out, our creed Begetting world-dream for an unborn breed, Ardent posterities!--Thus do I then Bid now farewell to my own race of men! And for a future permanence, new clime, Lift statues in the peristyles of Time And trust my message, where that message seeks Its own fulfillment. Hail to the happy Greeks Hail to that Race; keen, wistful, passionate, That shall know Greece, Athens, the gods, the State!

(_The paper hangs listlessly in the hand of_ PHIDIAS, _who sits in revery, lost to all around him_.)

JAILER (_entering_). Rise! thou infamous sculptor! A decree! Follow! Thy haughty judges have demanded thee!

(PHIDIAS _wearily rising, stares stupidly at him, then looks up to the little window where the_ CRICKET _perched and makes a slight gesture of salute and farewell_.)

PHIDIAS. “So be it.” (_Hastily aside._) See this coin? Of all good fees The best, with head of high Themistocles-- Thine--if thy hand this simple scroll wilt bear To the great sculptor at Olympia. To give to him my farewell words and tears, (_The Sculptor pauses, looking unseeingly at the_ JAILER _and adding softly_.) As I pass outward--down the faithful years!

EPILOGUE

As children keep Some spiraled shell or crystal crusted stone For wonder and for solace, when alone They fall asleep,

So do I soft caress And guard through days of World-dark such a charm And cherish from indifference and harm One loveliness.

And every Grecian vase And sculptured fragment to my eyes doth mean Life, calm and balanced, simple, and serene, Transcending Race!

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation errors and omissions have been corrected.

Page 37: “grim Thermoyplæ” changed to “grim Thermopylæ”

Page 108: “the rythm is feebler” changed to “the rhythm is feebler”