Classic Poem

You say, Plato, that Alcibiades
Hath likened to the satyr Marsyas
Your Socrates; declares him petulant
And scornful, yet with words so piping sweet
That all perforce must listen and forget
Their ills. It warms the winter of my heart
To know that one so great—and he is great,
Hath he not led our arms victoriously?—
Should match my fame with Marsyas
Who taught Olympus music.

Is it well
That I should monish him more soberly
To speak? I think my Alcibiades
This once was far less drunk than was his wont,
But not less generous. Mostly he's both.
This, Plato, even thou canst not deny,
And yet, by Zeus, he owes me this and more.
I taught him virtue in his youth. This much
Was my just debt to him. I paid the debt
That virtue always owes to innocence,
Wisdom to ignorance, and age to youth.
I gave to him the mystic wand of truth,
So met all claim of Alcibiades.

Then he became a debtor to the truth
To make his deeds both wise and virtuous.
This hath he failed to do, as all men know.
In consequence, they say of Socrates:
“Behold this scorner of the gods doth lead
Young noblemen astray, for this is proved
In Alcibiades,” conveniently
Forgetting Plato, Glaucus and the rest.

I saved his life one day at Delium,
Gave him a chance to be what he is not,
A better man. My life in turn he saved;
So I cry quits on this checkmate of death,
And let the debt of reputation stand
For what 'tis worth, his being bad indeed,
And mine no better for that very cause.
Let Alcibiades be beautiful
As is Apollo, clever as the maid
Oracular whom Delphic fumes make wise,
Yet, lacking virtue, he is poor indeed.
The soul is what it is. What would'st thou think
If some deft stroke of Alcibiades
Some sudden prick of prejudice or wit,
Disturbed my poise, destroyed my lofty peace?
Would'st thou not rightly say that Socrates
Lacks steadfastness and doubts his present course?

Or if a friend sincere and wise should hint
To such a soul—say Alcibiades
To Socrates—“Thou lackest this or that,”
And he should pout, put finger-tip in mouth
And say: “Thou art no more my friend,”
What would'st thou think of Socrates?
Or if an enemy disturbed his dream
With words of hate, would he not even yet
Say to his soul: “Lo, now thine enemy
Hath surely found the place that weakest is
In those strong walls that rampart 'round thy life;
Thou ow'st him much, see thou repaír the breach.”
Be Alcibiades my friend or foe,
Or merely what he is, whate'er it be,
Some service hath he done, however small;
I thank him for it heartily, and hope
To profit by his words, and thus his debt
To me diminish at the very least,
Or quite annul.

Have we not done the right
By feeling no resentment in this case?
What say you, Plato? Aye? And Glaucus, too?
All are agreed. Ourselves, none else can hurt.
To find the truth is to receive a crown.