Drunken Heracles
Did he steal away from the great Omphale for a night — —
from female garb and perchance from the leer of Hermaphroditus?
Or is he rid of Omphale forever?
Perchance he has just finished cleaning the Augean stables,
having begun his labor with a pardonable deep draught, to end with one too many.
Perchance he has been back home, in old Thebes, after an absence of many years,
and there has met with half forgotten friends,
companionable failures capable of devotion
that only men possess and many drinks make words of.
Perchance he imbibed for a reason all his own — —
a reason poisonous as the philtre of Nessus.
But surely he is drunk.
Good. But alone? A hero drunk and alone?
Should there not be a crowd of Thebans following him beyond the gates?
Should there not be at least two friends to steady the reeling hero?
Or two pretty flute girls playing silly tunes, — —
treading warily just behind the big bare man,
and pausing now and then for a titter, though losing a note or two?
Surely there should be old Chiron to accompany, with a train of fauns and timbrelplayers — —
as no doubt there really is, to the mind of the tipsy man himself — —
a straggling train of fauns, timbrelplayers, slaves with amphorae running over,
voluptuous bacchantes fuddled and flushed, satyrs drooling,
all exultant,
all worshipful — —
now of Dionysus,
now of Heracles.
All are there.
No drunken man is ever alone.
Step as high as you will, Heracles, and wherever you may.
Whoop, bellow, brag, to the sound of timbrel and flute, the praise of men, the giggle of gods.
My countrymen would say that you disgrace yourself, as a national hero, even to the point of disqualification,
and surely would squirm at the sight of your august bareness, — —
for almost all my countrymen are sexual sceptics, atheists even, who do not trust in their maker, — —
but I should like to see our own big man, our Washington,
returning to us from old Alexandria, in exactly your condition,
followed by a pair of pretty flappers playing ukeleles
and tittering with the orthodox among us.
But beware, Heracles. No drunken man is ever alone.
Do not forget that of all companions, none is quite so insidious, vicious, dangerous,
as memory.
Beware of it, — —
for long ago you strangled two great snakes.
from female garb and perchance from the leer of Hermaphroditus?
Or is he rid of Omphale forever?
Perchance he has just finished cleaning the Augean stables,
having begun his labor with a pardonable deep draught, to end with one too many.
Perchance he has been back home, in old Thebes, after an absence of many years,
and there has met with half forgotten friends,
companionable failures capable of devotion
that only men possess and many drinks make words of.
Perchance he imbibed for a reason all his own — —
a reason poisonous as the philtre of Nessus.
But surely he is drunk.
Good. But alone? A hero drunk and alone?
Should there not be a crowd of Thebans following him beyond the gates?
Should there not be at least two friends to steady the reeling hero?
Or two pretty flute girls playing silly tunes, — —
treading warily just behind the big bare man,
and pausing now and then for a titter, though losing a note or two?
Surely there should be old Chiron to accompany, with a train of fauns and timbrelplayers — —
as no doubt there really is, to the mind of the tipsy man himself — —
a straggling train of fauns, timbrelplayers, slaves with amphorae running over,
voluptuous bacchantes fuddled and flushed, satyrs drooling,
all exultant,
all worshipful — —
now of Dionysus,
now of Heracles.
All are there.
No drunken man is ever alone.
Step as high as you will, Heracles, and wherever you may.
Whoop, bellow, brag, to the sound of timbrel and flute, the praise of men, the giggle of gods.
My countrymen would say that you disgrace yourself, as a national hero, even to the point of disqualification,
and surely would squirm at the sight of your august bareness, — —
for almost all my countrymen are sexual sceptics, atheists even, who do not trust in their maker, — —
but I should like to see our own big man, our Washington,
returning to us from old Alexandria, in exactly your condition,
followed by a pair of pretty flappers playing ukeleles
and tittering with the orthodox among us.
But beware, Heracles. No drunken man is ever alone.
Do not forget that of all companions, none is quite so insidious, vicious, dangerous,
as memory.
Beware of it, — —
for long ago you strangled two great snakes.
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