скачать книгу бесплатно
to have a look at Cleopatra’s children:
Caesarion, and also his little brothers,
Alexander and Ptolemy, who for the first
time were being taken to the Gymnasium,
that they might proclaim them kings
before the brilliant ranks of soldiers.
Alexander: they declared him king
of Armenia, of Media, of the Parthians.
Ptolemy: they declared him king
of Cilicia, of Syria, of Phoenicia.
Caesarion was standing well in front,
attired in rose-colored silk,
on his chest a garland of hyacinths,
his belt a double row of sapphires and amethysts,
his shoes laced up with white
ribbons embroidered with pink-skinned pearls.
Him they declared greater than the boys:
him they declared King of Kings.
The Alexandrians were certainly aware
that these were merely words, a bit of theatre.
But the day was warm and poetic, the sky pale blue,
the Alexandrian Gymnasium
a triumphant artistic achievement,
the courtiers’ elegance exceptional,
Caesarion all grace and beauty
(Cleopatra’s son, of Lagid blood):
and the Alexandrians rushed to the festival,
filled with excitement, and shouted acclaim
in Greek, and in Egyptian, and some in Hebrew,
enchanted by the lovely spectacle—
though of course they knew what they were worth,
what empty words these kingdoms were.
[1912; 1912]
Philhellene
Take care the engraving’s artistically done.
Expression grave and majestic.
The diadem better rather narrow;
I don’t care for those wide ones, the Parthian kind.
The inscription, as usual, in Greek:
nothing excessive, nothing grandiose—
the proconsul mustn’t get the wrong idea,
he sniffs out everything and reports it back to Rome—
but of course it should still do me credit.
Something really choice on the other side:
some lovely discus-thrower lad.
Above all, I urge you, see to it
(Sithaspes, by the god, don’t let them forget)
that after the “King” and the “Savior”
the engraving should read, in elegant letters, “Philhellene.”
Now don’t start in on me with your quips,
your “Where are the Greeks?” and “What’s Greek
here, behind the Zágros, beyond Phráata?”
Many, many others, more oriental than ourselves,
write it, and so we’ll write it too.
And after all, don’t forget that now and then
sophists come to us from Syria,
and versifiers, and other devotees of puffery.
Hence unhellenised we are not, I rather think.
[1906; 1912]
The Steps
On an ebony bed that is adorned
with eagles made of coral, Nero sleeps
deeply—heedless, calm, and happy;
flush in the prime of the flesh,
and in the beautiful vigor of youth.
But in the alabaster hall that holds
the ancient shrine of the Ahenobarbi
how uneasy are his Lares!
The little household gods are trembling,
trying to hide their slight bodies.
For they’ve heard a ghastly sound,
a fatal sound mounting the stairs,
footsteps of iron that rattle the steps.
And, faint with fear now, the pathetic Lares,
wriggle their way to the back of the shrine;
each jostles the other and stumbles
each little god falls over the other
because they’ve understood what kind of sound it is,
have come to know by now the Erinyes’ footsteps.
[1893; 1897; 1903; 1909]
Herodes Atticus
Ah, Herodes Atticus, what glory is his!
Alexander of Seleucia, one of our better sophists,
on arriving in Athens to lecture,
finds the city deserted, since Herodes was
away in the country. And all of the young people
followed him out there to hear him.
So Alexander the sophist
writes Herodes a letter
requesting that he send back the Greeks.
And smooth Herodes swiftly responds,
“I too am coming, along with the Greeks.”
How many lads in Alexandria now,
in Antioch, or in Beirut
(tomorrow’s orators, trained by Greek culture)
when they gather at choice dinner parties
where sometimes the talk is of fine intellectual points,
and sometimes about their exquisite amours,
suddenly, abstracted, fall silent.
They leave their glasses untouched at their sides,
