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,