Complete Works of William Morris, page 528
These turned, half scornful, yet half longing still
For something more their empty lives to fill.
On toiled the sons of the exiles up the steep,
And early that same night were laid to sleep
Far down the southern slope; then with the day
Rose up and gazed adown, and there it lay,
The land that bred their tyrants; homestead fair,
Pasture and wood and cornland gathered there
About the hid Eurotas: orderly
And rich seemed all, and these were young to die,
Yet young to think of dying or of fear
Or what the slow revenge of time might bear.
So downward did they pass, till the slopes grew
Wooded and tilled, and here and there a few
Of early-stirring folk they met, who fled
As though Arcadian hill-thieves they did dread;
But none made question to them, till at noon,
They passed an oak-wood heavy with the June,
And came upon a great man’s house, whereby
There stood the shrine of some divinity:
Plenteous the place was, orchard, garden-close
Rick-yard and barn spread round, & high o’er those
The pillared house, through whose court gates flung wide
Came sound of folk at meal in hot noontide.
Great looked the place and lordly, the young men
Gazed each on each, and certainly by then
The morn’s vague rashness had grown somewhat dull;
Poor seemed they in a place so plentiful,
Beardless and light-limbed by the ponderous gate.
But in their leader did the heart wax great,
Fair visions passed before him, as he said,
Like one who knew their thoughts:
“Let nought be weighed
But all be dared today! – time later on
When with the Gods’ help great things we have won
will we be wise. – not hard now to be brave,
For in each Spartan house good friends we have,
If not our kin, yet foes of our kin’s foes;
And this shall be no woeful day to those;
Men torn from home and fair life, having nought
Save the one hope to vengeance to be brought.
No words, but follow swift unto the hall!”
Into the court they passed then; down did fall
The brazen jar from off a maiden’s head,
And flashed in the hot sun; a boy who led
A horse from hall to stable stopped and stared,
And durst not flee, while restless unafeared,
The lustred doves before their swift feet brushed,
The peacock twixt the close-set yew-stems pushed;
Nought looked like war, as all doors round about
The band beset; but tumult and great doubt
Rose in the hall, when in the doorway there
Stood Aristomenes, his golden hair
Bright with the sun, and through the locks of it
Might men behold the noonday sunbeams flit
From spear to spear behind; great fear fell then
Upon those half-armed, and unwary men;
Till over all his loud clear voice was heard.
“Men in this hall, be ye no more afeard
Than if the Gods, who sent us here, were come!
Behold we have a will to get us home
Unto Messenia; from the Arcadian land
We come last bearing little wealth in hand,
For ye Laconian folk our stewards are made
This many a year: so when ye down have laid
The increase of our own store, harmless we
Will go our ways; who yet this side the sea,
Yea in our fathers’ fields, have mind to dwell;
Moreover on this day methinks ‘twere well
If here abide perchance folk of our kin,
Or strangers, who have found it hard to win
From out this house, that with this company
They now should wend more fields of Greece to see.
– Nay let your weapons be! – we are enough
To slay all here, if once the play wax rough;
Take life, and meet us on another day!
And whoso goeth to Sparta, let him say
That Aristomenes his eyes have seen,
Wending his way to what of old hath been
A happy land, that either he may live
Some joy to folk down-trodden there to give,
Or at the least die not without good fame!
– Now, master of this house, speak forth thy name,
And once more, if here be Messenian folk
Or strangers bowed down neath the Spartan yoke
Now let them come with us, either to die
As the Gods meant them, or live happily!”
A sullen hush, mid scowl of angry brows
And clenching of hard hands, and then uprose
Glad clamour from the many bondmen there,
midst whom no stroke the Spartans nought might dare
Then spake the master of the house
“O youth,
Beardless unknown thou art; and yet in sooth
One good day hast thou won in thy life-days,
While I, Cleombrotus must lose the praise
That once I had, of being victorious –
– But you, scourged slaves, get forth from this my house
Where no more meat ye gorge from this day forth,
Dogs bought with money! beasts of little worth,
Dragged from our fee-farm of Messenia, go,
Lest ye tomorn the stocks and whip cord know!
– Take them, bold youth, and blame thyself, when they
From the first clash of steel shall flee away.
But for my wealth, if thou indeed take all
Thou takest not more than the Gods one day shall;
Lo thou, my daughter! wilt thou take her then?
One day I deem she shall bear warlike men
To fail at last, and come to misery!”
And as he spake he drew forth from his knee
A growing maiden, some twelve winters old
Who with great eyes the stranger did behold,
Trembling, and clinging to her father s knees,
Who smiled upon her. Aristomenes
Would fain have spoken, and a threatening sound
Rose from the slaves who gathered close around;
But the lord cried;
“Thou hast begun a war
Knowing but little who thy foemen are;
And if thou thinkest thou hast gained great things
This day from me, the seed and friend of kings,
Yet shalt thou think ere thou hast gained the end
How many joys thou from the world didst send,
– My joy the first, and thine perchance the last.”
Therewith back to the wall behind he cast
His right hand suddenly, and caught adown
A hunting knife, thin bladed sharp & brown,
And to his own heart thrust it with sure stroke,
And fell down, dead and silent: from the folk
A mingled murmur rose, and pale & wan
The little one stood gazing on the man
Greater than was the greatest man she knew.
But Aristomenes unto him drew,
Smiling, but pale, and somewhat sick at heart,
And said;
“In brave wise has he played his part,
Yet better had he lived to hinder ours!
But go ye freed Messenians to the bowers
Where arms are stored, and raiment & good grain,
And gather from the home-fields the best gain
Of neat and sheep and horses, nor delay
Our setting forth three hours; because this day
I fain would tread on the Messenian soil.
But here shall sit these Spartans free from toil
Till we are on our way.”
So here and there
Ransacked the slaves just freed, of whom there were
Some thirty men, but the Messenians stayed
Guarding the sullen home-folk: the young maid
Stood by her mother and some women, late
Come from their chambers in most sad estate,
And she wept too; but mid her sobs, no less
Gazed on the strange and new-born stateliness
Of the rough-clad Messenian, as he passed
To and fro through the hall.
And so at last
In the very hottest of that day of June,
While the great brazen trumpet’s clattering tune,
And clash of arms broke through the drowsy hum
Of scarce seen things of summer, did they come
Into the courtyard, armed now gloriously,
All save their leader; therewith could they see
Out in the highway waggons tilted o’er
The victuals and the goodly things that bore
And further on steeds sheep & lowing neat;
Forth went they joyous; yet with lingering feet
Out of the hall passed Aristomenes
Half sad at heart the very last of these,
And as he passed the sun-scorched threshold o’er
Still were the maiden’s eyes upon the door,
And she forgat to weep till he was gone.
Bright on the temple now the hot sun shone
As through the gates the little army went,
And Aristomenes with fresh intent
Cried out to halt, and asked one of the stead
Who dwelt therein; who with a glad face said
It was the God of War; then did they take
A black bull for the hopeful omen’s sake
And as they might they sacrificed him there.
Well dight the pillared shrine was, and most fair,
And just before the image of the God
There hung upon a fair wrought brazen rod
A goodly helm bedight with silver wings,
A mail-coat wrought as for the best of kings,
And a great shield, thereon an eagle made
Whose wings outspread the golden ground did shade.
Then told a homeman how these arms were won
At Stenyclerus in the days agone;
In that last fight when the Messenians broke
And fled away a feeble hopeless folk:
So therewithal cried Aristomenes;
“O thou great God, if thou wilt give me these
Somewhat I deem I yet may give to thee;
Yet will I wear them not, until I see
My foemen’s backs, when sevenfold more than mine
I count them.”
Either the June sun did shine
Brighter than erst, or else the altar fire
Red flickering in the white sun shot up higher,
Or Ares’ face gleamed, answering the face
Of Aristomenes, who from its place
Took down that gear, and bore it to a wain
And cast it in. Then sang the horn again,
Men leaped to saddle creaked the wain-wheels, lowed
The sullen herd, and from the thirsty road
Into the green trees rolled the cloud of dust
As westward went that handful, in fair trust
Of Aristomenes, new breathed upon
By that old spirit that great fields had won –
– And he in trust that Fate would make no end
Till oer the world some tale his name should send.
How They Came To Messenia
So rose the little cloud like a man’s hand
Upon Laconia, spreading, till the land
Was wet with drenching of that evil shower.
Down sank the great sun now from hour to hour
As steadily they went unto the west,
Showing no force ‘gainst any for the rest,
Nor seeming aught if any drew anear
But Spartans by their riding and their gear:
Good speed they made, for they had some who knew
How best to pierce the tangled valleys through
And so before the ending of the day
They gat them through a certain narrow way
Betwixt the hills, and, coming out of it,
Beheld the kites sweep and the swallows flit
Against the grey cliffs with the sun still bright,
And down below a land of all delight
Green with June not yet weary: then the guide,
Who ever went by the young leader’s side,
Turned to his smooth fresh face his care worn eyes,
And said,
“O godlike youth, the Gods are wise
To dull our memory, since they will that we
Should live on still: so has it fared with me
That mid my daily pain and daily fear,
I had forgotten what we gaze on there,
The sweet land of Messenia.”
Then that word
Said low in the soft eve their hearts so stirred,
That sounds without a meaning and strange tears
Broke from them, amid thoughts of all the years
Wherein alternate hope and fear had played
With their dead fathers, and the deeds now made
Songs for the Spartan children: there a space
They lingered, gazing on the pleasant place
From the grey pass; till Aristomenes
Cast up his sword into the evening breeze,
And caught it falling, and cried;
“Praise to you,
O Gods that ye have given me deeds to do,
And days to do them in, and for an end
No dream of vain things whatso fate may send!”
Then all cried out for joy, and down they went
Unto the lower land, till neath a bent
They saw where lay a homestead grey-roofed long;
Thither they turned, and still the herdsman’s song
Going to fold at day’s end, or the voice
Of youths and maids who ever must rejoice
With the mere joy of living, sank and died
As, turning, they beheld these fellows ride
In Spartan wargear; close shrank child & maid
Unto the grey stone well-shaft as afraid,
When nigher still they drew, by the garth gate
The unarmed doorwards scowled with helpless hate,
And as their spears the trim wall overtopped
The piper mid the light-limbed dancers stopped
His pipe as pleasant as the morning bees
Within the limes: but Aristomenes
Smiled as if glad and much they wondered then
To see the rough lad leading steel-clad men
With such proud mien, and some folk murmured low
‘What mumming will the cursed thieves make now
To grind us lower yet?’ but on he rode
And smote upon the door of that abode;
That opened almost even ere his blow,
And there an old man stood, with hair of snow
Flushed face and wrathful eyes who cried:
Why then
Come ye to shear the shorn, O Spartan men?
These are your own fields that we dwell upon,
When all is wasted then is your wealth gone
As well as our poor lives.”
The youth leapt down
Unto the earth, and neath the Elder’s frown
Smiled joyously, and scarce for joy could cry:
“Help for Messenia, father ere thou die! –
Come now and tell me what young men are here
Who with stout heart may carry sword or spear
Nor faint when foes are many!”
The old man
Stood there with open mouth & cheeks grown wan
And stared at him a while, then stammering said
What is thy name then? Come ye from the dead
That ye must name Messenia as a thing
To help or fight for? as of a great king
Thy voice is and thine eyes, despite thy gear;
Mock not an old man in his last ill year!”
“Well, like a mock it seems that I should strive
Een with this handful happy days to give
Unto the beat-down land,” he said, “yet sooth
So dying shall I crown a happy youth
With no ill end – yea, but I will prevail
Beseems it not a god-helped man to fail;
And such as ye behold me in this place
I spring from AEpitus of ancient days.”
Then mid the ring of spears the old man cried;
“Ah is it so that my dream hath not lied?
Now may the rest come after – Come ye in,
And if your cheer tonight be poor and thin
Yet may we look to mend it on a tide
When neath us lies the Spartan country-side:
Since of your tidings somewhat do I guess.”
Then through the door in did the young men press,
The home folk gathered round much wondering,
While still the old man cried for many a thing,
To spread the boards, to fold the new-come neat,
To bring the strangers water for their feet
And garlands for their heads, and so at last
Into the hall both guests & home-folk passed
And feasted as they might with plenteous glee,
Though small wealth there indeed there was to see
Of aught but roughest things; but maidens eyes
Made the bright blood to many a cheek arise
Mid the new comers, sweet it seemed to give
New hope of life, new hope for love to live
To such as these; like very Gods they felt
As though to a great world weal and woe they dealt.
But now the good man did for silence cry,
And Aristomenes spoke out on high
And told the hope and good hap of that morn,
Saying moreover;
“Lo, into the corn
The hook is thrust, but further than our eyes
May see the unshorn field before us lies.
Surely I think that we shall one day rest
And look behind, those who have not been blest
With death before the victory; yet meanwhile
With no soft words will I your hearts beguile,
Hard are the years wherein we have to deal
With a proud folk, an unbowed commonweal;
Ye who draw swords now, for no holiday
I lead you forth, nor for a while to play
That ye may sleep the sounder, that your loves
May kiss you sweeter in the olive groves.
Nay amid ruin a God must each be come
