Classic Poem

It is a sweet tradition, with a soul
Of tenderest pathos! Hearken, love! — for all
The sacred undercurrents of the heart
Thrill to its cordial music:
Once, a chief,
Philantus, king of Sparta, left the stern
And bleak defiles of his unfruitful land —
Girt by a band of eager colonists —
To seek new homes on fair Italian plains.
Apollo's oracle had darkly spoken:
" Where'er from cloudless skies a plenteous shower
Outpours, the Fates decree that ye should pause
And rear your household Deities! " Racked by doubt
Philantus traversed with his faithful band
Full many a bounteous realm; but still defeat
Darkened his banners, and the strong-walled towns
His desperate sieges grimly laughed to scorn!
Weighed down by anxious thoughts, one sultry eve
The warrior — his rude helmet cast aside —
Rested his weary head upon the lap
Of his fair wife, who loved him tenderly;
And there he drank a generous draught of sleep.
She, gazing on his brow all worn with toil
And his dark locks, which pain had silvered over
With glistening touches of a frosty rime,
Wept on the sudden bitterly; her tears
Fell on his face, and, wondering, he awoke.
" O blest art thou, my Aithra, my clear sky , "
He cried exultant, " from whose pitying blue
A heart-rain falls to fertilize my fate:
Lo! the deep riddle's solved — the gods spake truth! "

So the next night he stormed Tarentum, took
The enemy's host at vantage, and o'erthrew
His mightiest captains. Thence with kindly sway
He ruled those pleasant regions he had won, —
But dearer ever than his rich demesnes
The love of her whose gentle tears unlocked
The close-shut mystery of the Oracle!