_ By
teaching
thee to save thyself, and not
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all
The rage of the worst war--the war of brethren.
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all
The rage of the worst war--the war of brethren.
Byron
_ The very first
Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 510
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quenched by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.
_Sar. _ My eloquent Ionian! thou speak'st music:
The very chorus of the tragic song
I have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime
Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not--calm thee.
_Myr. _ I weep not. --But I pray thee, do not speak 520
About my fathers or their land.
_Sar. _ Yet oft
Thou speakest of them.
_Myr. _ True--true: constant thought
Will overflow in words unconsciously;
But when another speaks of Greeks, it wounds me.
_Sar. _ Well, then, how wouldst thou _save_ me, as thou saidst?
_Myr.
_ By teaching thee to save thyself, and not
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all
The rage of the worst war--the war of brethren.
_Sar. _ Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors;
I live in peace and pleasure: what can man 530
Do more?
_Myr. _ Alas! my Lord, with common men
There needs too oft the show of war to keep
The substance of sweet peace; and, for a king,
'Tis sometimes better to be feared than loved.
_Sar. _ And I have never sought but for the last.
_Myr. _ And now art neither.
_Sar. _ Dost _thou_ say so, Myrrha?
_Myr. _ I speak of civic popular love, _self_-love,
Which means that men are kept in awe and law,
Yet not oppressed--at least they must not think so,
Or, if they think so, deem it necessary, 540
To ward off worse oppression, their own passions.
A King of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel,
And love, and mirth, was never King of Glory.
_Sar.
Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 510
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quenched by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.
_Sar. _ My eloquent Ionian! thou speak'st music:
The very chorus of the tragic song
I have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime
Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not--calm thee.
_Myr. _ I weep not. --But I pray thee, do not speak 520
About my fathers or their land.
_Sar. _ Yet oft
Thou speakest of them.
_Myr. _ True--true: constant thought
Will overflow in words unconsciously;
But when another speaks of Greeks, it wounds me.
_Sar. _ Well, then, how wouldst thou _save_ me, as thou saidst?
_Myr.
_ By teaching thee to save thyself, and not
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all
The rage of the worst war--the war of brethren.
_Sar. _ Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors;
I live in peace and pleasure: what can man 530
Do more?
_Myr. _ Alas! my Lord, with common men
There needs too oft the show of war to keep
The substance of sweet peace; and, for a king,
'Tis sometimes better to be feared than loved.
_Sar. _ And I have never sought but for the last.
_Myr. _ And now art neither.
_Sar. _ Dost _thou_ say so, Myrrha?
_Myr. _ I speak of civic popular love, _self_-love,
Which means that men are kept in awe and law,
Yet not oppressed--at least they must not think so,
Or, if they think so, deem it necessary, 540
To ward off worse oppression, their own passions.
A King of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel,
And love, and mirth, was never King of Glory.
_Sar.
