and affrights us with his shouting.—
Our efforts are the efforts of the Trojans.
We imagine that with resolve and daring
we will reverse the animosity of fortune,
and so we take our stand outside, to fight.
But whenever the crucial moment comes,
our boldness and our daring disappear;
our spirit is shattered, comes unstrung;
and we scramble all around the walls
seeking in our flight to save ourselves.
And yet our fall is certain. Up above,
on the walls, already the lament has begun.
They mourn the memory, the sensibility, of our days.
Bitterly Priam and Hecuba mourn for us.
[1900; 1905]
King Demetrius
Not like a king, but like an actor, he exchanged his showy robe of state for a dark cloak, and in secret stole away.
—PLUTARCH, Life of Demetrius
When the Macedonians deserted him,
and made it clear that it was Pyrrhus they preferred
King Demetrius (who had a noble
soul) did not—so they said—
behave at all like a king. He went
and cast off his golden clothes,
and flung off his shoes
of richest purple. In simple clothes
he dressed himself quickly and left:
doing just as an actor does
who, when the performance is over,
changes his attire and departs.
[1900; 1906]
The Glory of the Ptolemies
I’m the Lagid, a king. The possessor absolute
(with my power and my riches) of pleasure.
There’s no Macedonian, no Eastern foreigner
who’s my equal, who even comes close. What
a joke, that Seleucid with his vulgar luxe.
But if there’s something more you seek, then simply look:
the City is our teacher, the acme of what is Greek,
of every discipline, of every art the peak.
[1896; 1911; 1911]
The Retinue of Dionysus
Damon the artisan (none as fine
as he in the Peloponnese) is
fashioning the Retinue of Dionysus
in Parian marble. The god in his divine
glory leads, with vigor in his stride.
Intemperance behind. Beside
Intemperance, Intoxication pours the Satyrs wine
from an amphora that they’ve garlanded with vines.
Near them delicate Sweetwine, his eyes
half-closed, mesmerizes.
And further down there come the singers,
Song and Melody, and Festival
who never allows the hallowed processional
torch that he holds to go out. Then, most modest, Ritual.—
That’s what Damon is making. Along with all
of that, from time to time he gets to pondering
the fee he’ll be receiving from the king
of Syracuse, three talents, quite a lot.
When that’s added to the money that he’s got,
he’ll be well-to-do, will lead a life of leisure,
can get involved in politics—what pleasure!—
he too in the Council, he too in the Agora.
[1903; 1907]
The Battle of Magnesia
He’s lost his former dash, his pluck.
His wearied body, very nearly sick,
will henceforth be his chief concern. The days
that he has left, he’ll spend without a care. Or so says
Philip, at least. Tonight he’ll play at dice.
He has an urge to enjoy himself. Do place
lots of roses on the table. And what if
Antiochus at Magnesia came to grief?
They say his glorious army lies mostly ruined.
Perhaps they’ve overstated: it can’t all be true.
Let’s hope not. For though they were the enemy, they were kin to us.
Still, one “let’s hope not” is enough. Perhaps too much.
Philip, of course, won’t postpone the celebration.
However much his life has become one great exhaustion
a boon remains: he hasn’t lost a single memory.
He remembers how they mourned in Syria, the agony
they felt, when Macedonia their motherland was smashed to bits.—
Let the feast begin. Slaves: the music,
