Lays and Legends (Second Series)

APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ

(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)

"What be these messengers who come fleet-footed
Between the images that guard our roadway,
Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels —
Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?"

"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo —
The men of Cymé he has counselled often —
Ask of the god an answer to our question,
Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ.

"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,
Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;
The Persian bids us yield – our hearts bid shield him,
What does Apollo bid his servants do?"

The Oracle replied – and straight returning
To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,
Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:
"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".

So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,
They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,
But Aristodicus, loved of the city,
Withstood their will, – and thus to them spake he.

"Your messengers have lied – they have made merry
In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;
The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselled
That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.

"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,
Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,
I would not yield the man who trusted Cymé —
What – is the god of baser stuff than I?"

So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,
A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,
A second time beneath the purple shadows
Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.

Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé
Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia —
And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,
Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.

"Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,
The foe is strong, and our defences slender;
Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render
Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."

So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:
"Yield ye your suppliant – yield him to the Persians".
Then Aristodicus bethought him further,
And in this fashion craftily he wrought.

All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies
Of carven work made by man's love and labour,
In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,
The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.

And all day long their floating wings made beauty
About the temple and the whispering laurels,
And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur,
Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.

Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,
Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,
And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.
The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.

Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,
And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,
And, in the heart of every man beholding,
The anger of the immortal gods made night.

Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple
Came forth a voice more beautiful than music,
More terrible than thunder and wild waters,
And more to be desired than summer sun.

"O thou most impious of all impious mortals,
Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,
And torn away the homes of those who trust me,
Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"

Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:
"Lord, is it thus thy suppliants are succoured,
What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé
To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"

Then on the hush of awful expectation
Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals,
Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodious
With all the song and sorrow of the world: —

"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning
Against the gods ye may the sooner perish —
And come no more to question at my temple
Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"