Wine of Cyprus. Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861). Asia Minor: Cyprus, the Island. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. 1876-79. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes. Asia: Vols. XXI-XXIII

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.

Asia Minor: Cyprus, the Island

Wine of Cyprus

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

Given to Me by H. S. Boyd, Author of “Select Passages from the Greek Fathers,” etc., to Whom These Stanzas Are Addressed

IF old Bacchus were the speaker
He would tell you with a sigh,
Of the Cyprus in this beaker
I am sipping like a fly,—
Like a fly or gnat on Ida	5
At the hour of goblet-pledge,
By queen Juno brushed aside, a
Full white arm-sweep, from the edge.

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler,
When the drink is so divine;	10
And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler
Would become your Cyprus wine!
Cyclop’s mouth might plunge aright in,
While his one eye over-leered,—
Nor too large were mouth of Titan,	15
Drinking rivers down his beard.

Pan might dip his head so deep in
That his ears alone pricked out,
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping,
Each one pointing to his throat:	20
While the Naiads like Bacchantes,
Wild, with urns thrown out to waste,
Cry, “O earth, that thou wouldst grant us
Springs to keep, of such a taste!”

But for me, I am not worthy	25
After gods and Greeks to drink;
And my lips are pale and earthy
To go bathing from this brink.
Since you heard them speak the last time,
They have faded from their blooms,	30
And the laughter of my pastime
Has learnt silence at the tombs.

Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers
Crowned the cup, and crowned the brow.
Can I answer the old thinkers	35
In the forms they thought of, now?
Who will fetch from garden-closes
Some new garlands while I speak,
That the forehead, crowned with roses,
May strike scarlet down the cheek?	40

Do not mock me! with my mortal,
Suits no wreath again, indeed!
I am sad-voiced as the turtle
Which Anacreon used to feed;
Yet as that same bird demurely	45
Wet her beak in cup of his,—
So, without a garland, surely
I may touch the brim of this.

Go!—let others praise the Chian!—
This is soft as Muses’ string,—	50
This is tawny as Rhea’s lion,
This is rapid as its spring,—
Bright as Paphia’s eyes e’er met us,
Light as ever trod her feet!
And the brown bees of Hymettus	55
Make their honey not so sweet.

Very copious are my praises,
Though I sip it like a fly!—
Ah—but, sipping,—times and places
Change before me suddenly—	60
As Ulysses’ old libation
Drew the ghosts from every part,
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian,
Stirs the Hades of my heart.

And I think of those long mornings	65
Which my thought goes far to seek,
When, betwixt the folio’s turnings,
Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek.
Past the pane, the mountain spreading,
Swept the sheep-bell’s tinkling noise,	70
While a girlish voice was reading,—
Somewhat low for αι’s and οι’s.

Then what golden hours were for us!—
While we sate together there,
While the white vests of the chorus	75
Seemed to wave up a live air!
How the cothurns trod majestic
Down the deep iambic lines;
And the rolling anapæstic
Curled like vapor over shrines!	80

O, our Æschylus, the thunderous!
How he drove the bolted breath
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous
In the gnarled oak beneath.
O, our Sophocles, the royal,	85
Who was born to monarch’s place,—
And who made the whole world loyal,
Less by kingly power than grace.

Our Euripides, the human—
With his droppings of warm tears;	90
And his touches of things common,
Till they rose to touch the spheres!
Our Theocritus, our Bion,
And our Pindar’s shining goals!—
These were cup-bearers undying	95
Of the wine that ’s meant for souls.

And my Plato, the divine one,—
If men know the gods aright
By their motions as they shine on
With a glorious trail of light!—	100
And your noble Christian bishops,
Who mouthed grandly the last Greek:
Though the sponges on their hyssops
Were distent with wine—too weak.

Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him,	105
With his liberal mouth of gold;
And your Basil, you upraised him
To the height of speakers old:
And we both praised Heliodorus
For his secret of pure lies;	110
Who forged first his linked stories
In the heat of lady’s eyes.

And we both praised your Synesius
For the fire shot up his odes,
Though the Church was scarce propitious	115
As he whistled dogs and gods.—
And we both praised Nazianzen
For the fervid heart and speech;
Only I eschewed his glancing
At the lyre hung out of reach.	120

Do you mind that deed of Até
Which you bound me to so fast,—
Reading “De Virginitate,”
From the first line to the last?
How I said at ending, solemn,	125
As I turned and looked at you,
That St. Simeon on the column
Had had somewhat less to do?

For we sometimes gently wrangled;
Very gently, be it said,—	130
Since our thoughts were disentangled
By no breaking of the thread!
And I charged you with extortions
On the nobler fames of old,—
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons	135
Stained the purple they would fold.

For the rest,—a mystic moaning,
Kept Cassandra at the gate,
With wild eyes the vision shone in,—
And wide nostrils scenting fate.	140
And Prometheus, bound in passion
By brute Force to the blind stone,
Showed us looks of invocation
Turned to ocean and the sun.

And Medea we saw burning	145
At her nature’s planted stake;
And proud Œdipus fate-scorning
While the cloud came on to break—
While the cloud came on slow—slower,
Till he stood discrowned, resigned!—	150
But the reader’s voice dropped lower
When the poet called him blind!

Ah, my gossip! you were older,
And more learned, and a man!—
Yet that shadow—the enfolder	155
Of your quiet eyelids—ran
Both our spirits to one level,
And I turned from hill and lea
And the summer-sun’s green revel,—
To your eyes that could not see.	160

Now Christ bless you with the one light
Which goes shining night and day!
May the flowers which grow in sunlight
Shed their fragrance in your way!
Is it not right to remember	165
All your kindness, friend of mine,
When we two sate in the chamber,
And the poets poured us wine?

So, to come back to the drinking
Of this Cyprus,—it is well,	170
But those memories, to my thinking,
Make a better œnomel;
And whoever be the speaker,
None can murmur with a sigh—
That, in drinking from that beaker,	175
I am sipping like a fly.

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