Syra (A TRANSMITTED REMINISCENCE)

Fleeing from Scio's smouldering vines

(Where when the sword its work had done

The Turk applied the torch) the Greek

Came here, a fugitive stript of goods,

Here to an all but tenantless isle,

Nor here in footing gained at first,

Felt safe. Still from the turbaned foe

Dreading the doom of shipwrecked men

Whom feline seas permit to land

Then pounce upon and drag them back,

For height they made, and prudent won

A cone-shaped fastness on whose flanks

With pains they pitched their eyrie camp,

Stone huts, whereto they wary clung;

But, reassured in end, come down —

Multiplied through compatriots now,

Refugees like themselves forlorn —

And building along the water's verge

Begin to thrive; and thriving more

When Greece at last flung off the Turk,

Make of the haven mere a mart.

I saw it in its earlier day —

Primitive, such an isled resort

As hearthless Homer might have known

Wandering about the Ægean here.

Sheds ribbed with wreck-stuff faced the sea

Where goods in transit shelter found;

And here and there a shanty-shop

Where Fez-caps, swords, tobacco, shawls

Pistols, and orient finery, Eve's —

(The spangles dimmed by hands profane)

Like plunder on a pirate's deck

Lay orderless in such loose way

As to suggest things ravished or gone astray.

Above a tented inn with fluttering flag

A sunburnt board announced Greek wine

In self-same text Anacreon knew,

Dispensed by one named " Pericles. "

Got up as for the opera's scene,

Armed strangers, various, lounged or lazed,

Lithe fellows tall, with gold-shot eyes.

Sunning themselves as leopards may.

Off-shore lay xebecs trim and light,

And some but dubious in repute.

But on the strand, for docks were none,

What busy bees! no testy fry;

Frolickers, picturesquely odd,

With bales and oil-jars lading boats,

Lighters that served an anchored craft,

Each in his tasseled Phrygian cap,

Blue Eastern drawers and braided vest;

And some with features cleanly cut

As Proserpine's upon the coin.

Such chatterers all! like children gay

Who make believe to work, but play.

I saw, and how help musing too.

Here traffic's immature as yet:

Forever this juvenile fun hold out

And these light hearts? Their garb, their glee,

Alike profuse in flowing measure,

Alike inapt for serious work,

Blab of grandfather Saturn's prime.

When trade was not, nor toil, nor stress,

But life was leisure, merriment, peace,

And lucre none and love was righteousness.

Herman Melville