The Shipwreck of Idomeneus

SWEPT from his fleet upon that fatal nightWhen great Poseidon’s sudden-veering wrathScattered the happy homeward-floating GreeksLike foam-flakes off the waves, the King of CreteHeld lofty commune with the dark Sea-god.His brows were crowned with victory, his cheeksWere flushed with triumph, but the mighty joyOf Troy’s destruction and his own great deedsPassed, for the thoughts of home were dearer now,And sweet the memory of wife and child,And weary now the ten long, foreign years,And terrible the doubt of short delay—More terrible, O Gods! he cried, but stopped;Then raised his voice upon the storm and prayed.O thou, if injured, injured not by me,Poseidon! whom sea-deities obeyAnd mortals worship, hear me! for indeedIt was our oath to aid the cause of Greece,Not unespoused by Gods, and most of allBy thee, if gentle currents, havens calm,Fair winds and prosperous voyage, and the ShapeImpersonate in many a perilous hour,Both in the stately councils of the Kings,And when the husky battle murmured thick,May testify of services performed!But now the seas are haggard with thy wrath,Thy breath is tempest! never at the shoresOf hostile Ilium did thy stormful browsBetray such fierce magnificence! not evenOn that wild day when, mad with torch and glare,The frantic crowds with eyes like starving wolvesBurst from their ports impregnable, a streamOf headlong fury toward the hissing deep;Where then full-armed I stood in guard, compactBeside thee, and alone, with brand and spear,We held at bay the swarming brood, and pouredBlood of choice warriors on the foot-ploughed sands!Thou, meantime, dark with conflict, as a cloudThat thickens in the bosom of the WestOver quenched sunset, circled round with flame,Huge as a billow running from the windsLong distances, till with black shipwreck swoln,It flings its angry mane about the sky.And like that billow heaving ere it burst;And like that cloud urged by impulsive stormWith charge of thunder, lightning, and the drenchOf torrents, thou in all thy majestyOf mightiness didst fall upon the war!Remember that great moment! Nor forgetThe aid I gave thee; how my ready spearFlew swiftly seconding thy mortal stroke,Where’er the press was hottest; never slackedMy arm its duty, nor mine eye its aim,Though terribly they compassed us, and stoodThick as an Autumn forest, whose brown hair,Lustrous with sunlight, by the still increaseOf heat to glowing heat conceives like zealOf radiance, till at the pitch of noon’Tis seized with conflagration and distendsHorridly over leagues of doom’d domain;Mingling the screams of birds, the cries of brutes,The wail of creatures in the covert pent,Howls, yells, and shrieks of agony, the hissOf seething sap, and crash of falling boughsTogether in its dull voracious roar.So closely and so fearfully they throng’d,Savage with phantasies of victory,A sea of dusky shapes; for day had passedAnd night fell on their darkened faces, redWith fight and torchflare; shrill the resonant airWith eager shouts, and hoarse with angry groans;While over all the dense and sullen boom,The din and murmur of the myriads,Rolled with its awful intervals, as thoughThe battle breathed, or as against the shoreWaves gather back to heave themselves anew.That night sleep dropped not from the dreary skies,Nor could the prowess of our chiefs opposeThat sea of raging men. But what were they?Or what is man opposed to thee? Its hopesAre wrecks, himself the drowning, drifting weedThat wanders on thy waters; such as IWho see the scattered remnants of my fleet,Remembering the day when first we sailed,Each glad ship shining like the morning starWith promise for the world. Oh! such as IThus darkly drifting on the drowning waves.O God of waters! ’tis a dreadful thingTo suffer for an evil unrevealed;Dreadful it is to hear the perishing cryOf those we love; the silence that succeedsHow dreadful! Still my trust is fixed on theeFor those that still remain and for myself.And if I hear thy swift foam-snorting steedsDrawing thy dusky chariot, as inThe pauses of the wind I seem to hear,Deaf thou art not to my entreating prayer!Haste then to give us help, for closely nowCrete whispers in my ears, and all my bloodRuns keen and warm for home, and I have yearning,Such yearning as I never felt before,To see again my wife, my little son,My Queen, my pretty nursling of five years,The darling of my hopes, our dearest pledgeOf marriage, and our brightest prize of love,Whose parting cry rings clearest in my heart.O lay this horror, much-offended God!And making all as fair and firm as whenWe trusted to thy mighty depths of old,—I vow to sacrifice the first whom ZeusShall prompt to hail us from the white seashoreAnd welcome our return to royal Crete,An offering, Poseidon, unto thee!

Amid the din of elemental strife,No voice may pierce but Deity supreme:And Deity supreme alone can hear,Above the hurricane’s discordant shrieks,The cry of agonized humanity.

Not unappeased was He who smites the waves,When to his stormy ears the warrior’s vowEntered, and from his foamy pinnacleTumultuous he beheld the prostrate form,And knew the mighty heart. Awhile he gazed,As doubtful of his purpose, and the storm,Conscious of that divine debate, withheldIts fierce emotion, in the luminous gloomOf those so dark irradiating eyes!Beneath whose wavering lustre shone revealedThe tumult of the purpling deeps, and allThe throbbing of the tempest, as it paused,Slowly subsiding, seeming to awaitThe sudden signal, as a faithful houndPants with the forepaws stretched before its nose,Athwart the greensward, after an eager chase;Its hot tongue thrust to cool, its foamy jawsOpen to let the swift breath come and go,Its quick interrogating eyes fixed keenUpon the huntsman’s countenance, and everLashing its sharp impatient tail with haste:Prompt at the slightest sign to scour away,And hang itself afresh by the bleeding fangs,Upon the neck of some death-singled stag,Whose royal antlers, eyes, and stumbling kneesWill supplicate the Gods in mute despair.This time not mute, nor yet in vain this time!For still the burden of the earnest voiceAnd all the vivid glories it revokedSank in the God, with that absorbed suspenseFelt only by the Olympians, whose mindsUnbounded like our mortal brain, perceiveAll things complete, the end, the aim of all;To whom the crown and consequence of deedsAre ever present with the deed itself.

And now the pouring surges, vast and smooth,Grew weary of restraint, and heaved themselvesHeadlong beneath him, breaking at his feetWith wild importunate cries and angry wail;Like crowds that shout for bread and hunger more.And now the surface of their rolling backsWas ridged with foam-topt furrows, rising highAnd dashing wildly, like to fiery steeds,Fresh from the Thracian or Thessalian plains,High-blooded mares just tempering to the bit,Whose manes at full-speed stream upon the winds,And in whose delicate nostrils when the gustBreathes of their native plains, they ramp and rear,Frothing the curb, and bounding from the earth,As though the Sun-god’s chariot aloneWere fit to follow in their flashing track.Anon with gathering stature to the heightOf those colossal giants, doomed long sinceTo torturous grief and penance, that assailedThe sky-throned courts of Zeus, and climbing, daredFor once in a world the Olympic wrath, and bravedThe electric spirit which from his clenching handPierces the dark-veined earth, and with a touchIs death to mortals, fearfully they grew!And with like purpose of audacityThreatened Titanic fury to the God.Such was the agitation of the seaBeneath Poseidon’s thought-revolving brows,Storming for signal. But no signal came.And as when men, who congregate to hearSome proclamation from the regal fount,With eager questioning and anxious phraseBetray the expectation of their hearts,Till after many hours of fretful sloth,Weary with much delay, they hold discourseIn sullen groups and cloudy masses, stirredWith rage irresolute and whispering plot,Known more by indication than by word,And understood alone by those whose mindsParticipate;—even so the restless wavesBegan to lose all sense of servitude,And worked with rebel passions, bursting, nowTo right, and now to left, but evermoreSubdued with influence, and controlled with dreadOf that inviolate Authority.Then, swiftly as he mused, the impetuous GodSeized on the pausing reins, his coursers plunged,His brows resumed the grandeur of their ire;Throughout his vast divinity the deepsConcurrent thrilled with action, and away,As sweeps a thunder-cloud across the skyIn harvest-time, preluded by dull blasts;Or some black-visaged whirlwind, whose wide foldsRush, wrestling on with all ’twixt heaven and earth,Darkling he hurried, and his distant voice,Not softened by delay, was heard in tonesDistinctly terrible, still following upIts rapid utterance of tremendous wrathWith hoarse reverberations; like the roarOf lions when they hunger, and awakeThe sullen echoes from their forest sleep,To speed the ravenous noise from hill to hillAnd startle victims; but more awful, He,Scudding across the hills that rise and sink,With foam, and splash, and cataracts of spray,Clothed in majestic splendour; girt aboutWith Sea-gods and swift creatures of the sea;Their briny eyes blind with the showering drops;Their stormy locks, salt tongues, and scaly backs,Quivering in harmony with the tempest, fierceAnd eager with tempestuous delight;—He like a moving rock above them allSolemnly towering while fitful gleamsBrake from his dense black forehead, which display’dThe enduring chiefs as their distracted fleetsTossed, toiling with the waters, climbing high,And plunging downward with determined beaks,In lurid anguish; but the Cretan kingAnd all his crew were ’ware of under-tides,That for the groaning vessel made a path,On which the impending and precipitous wavesFell not, nor suck’d to their abysmal gorge.

O, happy they to feel the mighty God,Without his whelming presence near: to feelSafety and sweet relief from such despair,And gushing of their weary hopes once moreWithin their fond warm hearts, tired limbs, and eyesHeavy with much fatigue and want of sleep!Prayers did not lack; like mountain springs they came,After the earth has drunk the drenching rains,And throws her fresh-born jets into the sunWith joyous sparkles;—for there needed notEvidence more serene of instant grace,Immortal mercy! and the sense which followsDivine interposition, when the shockOf danger hath been thwarted by the Gods,Visibly, and through supplication deep,—Rose in them, chiefly in the royal mindOf him whose interceding vow had saved.Tears from that great heroic soul sprang up;Not painful as in grief, nor smarting keenWith shame of weeping; but calm, fresh, and sweet;Such as in lofty spirits rise, and wedThe nature of the woman to the man;A sight most lovely to the Gods! They fellLike showers of starlight from his steadfast eyes,As ever towards the prow he gazed, nor movedOne muscle, with firm lips and level lids,Motionless; while the winds sang in his ears,And took the length of his brown hair in streamsBehind him. Thus the hours passed, and the oarsPlied without pause, and nothing but the soundOf the dull rowlocks and still watery sough,Far off, the carnage of the storm, was heard.For nothing spake the mariners in their toil,And all the captains of the war were dumb:Too much oppressed with wonder, too much thrilledBy their great chieftain’s silence, to disturbSuch meditation with poor human speech.Meantime the moon through slips of driving cloudCame forth, and glanced athwart the seas a pathOf dusky splendour, like the Hadean brows,When with Elysian passion they beholdPersephone’s complacent hueless cheeks.Soon gathering strength and lustre, as a shipThat swims into some blue and open bayWith bright full-bosomed sails, the radiant carOf Artemis advanced, and on the wavesSparkled like arrows from her silver bowThe keenness of her pure and tender gaze.

Then, slowly, one by one the chiefs sought rest;The watches being set, and men to relieveThe rowers at midseason. Fair it wasTo see them as they lay! Some up the prow,Some round the helm, in open-handed sleep;With casques unloosed, and bucklers put aside;The ten years’ tale of war upon their cheeks,Where clung the salt wet locks, and on their breastsBeards, the thick growth of many a proud campaign;And on their brows the bright invisible crownVictory sheds from her own radiant form,As o’er her favourites’ heads she sings and soars.But dreams came not so calmly; as aroundTurbulent shores wild waves and swamping surfPrevail, while seaward, on the tranquil deeps,Reign placid surfaces and solemn peace,So, from the troubled strands of memory, theyLaunched and were tossed, long ere they found the tidesThat lead to the gentle bosoms of pure rest.And like to one who from a ghostly watchIn a lone house where murder hath been done,And secret violations, pale with stealthEmerges, staggering on the first chill gustWherewith the morning greets him, feeling notIts balmy freshness on his bloodless cheek,—But swift to hide his midnight face afar,’Mongst the old woods and timid-glancing flowersHastens, till on the fresh reviving breastsOf tender Dryads folded he forgetsThe pallid witness of those nameless things,In renovated senses lapt, and joinsThe full, keen joyance of the day, so theyFrom sights and sounds of battle smeared with blood,And shrieking souls on Acheron’s bleak tides,And wail of execrating kindred, slidInto oblivious slumber and a senseOf satiate deliciousness complete.

Leave them, O Muse, in that so happy sleep!Leave them to reap the harvest of their toil,While fast in moonlight the glad vessel glides,As if instinctive to its forest home.O Muse, that in all sorrows and all joys,Rapturous bliss and suffering divine,Dwellest with equal fervour, in the calmOf thy serene philosophy, albeitThy gentle nature is of joy alone,And loves the pipings of the happy fields,Better than all the great parade and pompWhich forms the train of heroes and of kings,And sows, too frequently, the tragic seedsThat choke with sobs thy singing,—turn awayThy lustrous eyes back to the oath-bound man!For as a shepherd stands above his flock,The lofty figure of the king is seen,Standing above his warriors as they sleep:And still as from a rock grey waters gush,While still the rock is passionless and dark,Nor moves one feature of its giant face,The tears fall from his eyes, and he stirs not.

And O, bright Muse! forget not thou to foldIn thy prophetic sympathy the thoughtOf him whose destiny has heard its doom:The Sacrifice thro’ whom the ship is saved.Haply that Sacrifice is sleeping now,And dreams of glad tomorrows. Haply now,His hopes are keenest, and his fervent bloodRichest with youth, and love, and fond regard!Round him the circle of affections blooms,And in some happy nest of home he lives,One name oft uttering in delighted ears,Mother! at which the heart of men are kinWith reverence and yearning. Haply, too,That other name, twin holy, twin revered,He whispers often to the passing windsThat blow toward the Asiatic coasts;For Crete has sent her bravest to the war,And multitudes pressed forward to that rank,Men with sad weeping wives and little ones.That other name—O Father! who art thou,Thus doomed to lose the star of thy last days?It may be the sole flower of thy life,And that of all who now look up to thee!O Father, Father! unto thee even nowFate cries; the future with imploring voiceCries ‘Save me,’ ‘Save me,’ though thou hearest not.And O thou Sacrifice, foredoomed by Zeus;Even now the dark inexorable deedIs dealing its relentless stroke, and vainAre prayers, and tears, and struggles, and despair!The mother’s tears, the nation’s stormful grief,The people’s indignation and revenge!Vain the last childlike pleading voice for life,The quick resolve, the young heroic brow,So like, so like, and vainly beautiful!Oh! whosoe’er ye are the Muse says not,And sees not, but the Gods look down on both.